When Murder Comes Home

by Shana Frost

  That was if she had any new customers in the future. However depressing the thought was, it was true. How many cancellations had poured in since the first murder?

  Aileen shook herself. All it meant was that she’d just have to work harder with Callan to get to the bottom of this.

  Callan drove them to the police station and parked hastily.

  Aileen left him to work on her computer at the inn, muttering about belts.

  Fuelling up with a cup of coffee, Callan checked his email and found the reports.

  He sat —the coffee going cold at his elbow— reading the autopsy and toxicology report of Susan Knight.

  There was no doubt she’d died from the lack of oxygen supply.

  Ah, here was the twist...

  The killer —based on what the report read— had to have been at least as tall as Susan, if not more. That meant Beaulieu was out of the question. Callan remembered, the short Frenchman had barely reached up to Susan’s eyes when they’d all stood in the library after Dave Smith’s murder.

  But what Callan found interesting was the blood he’d seen dripping from Susan’s forehead to the ground below.

  They were just a few drops, but one of the diamonds in the belt had pricked her neck, drawing some blood.

  Callan stroked his chin.

  But again there were no other marks on the body. She’d scraped at her throat but put up no real fight.

  Another dose of that darned sleeping drug.

  The tox report confirmed she had injected Zopiclone in her system. But, Callan mused, not as much as Dave.

  So the killer led her into that room and Susan went willingly.

  But what was she doing when the killer wrapped that belt around her neck? Perhaps she was too incapacitated to react, already too drowsy to know...

  It would definitely have been risky, given that the door wasn’t locked. And John could’ve gone to the library to meet with his partner.

  The killer would need to be careful. He’d have to have dosed Susan at least an hour before he’d killed her. But how could he have administered the drug? Some sort of ruse... but what?

  He needed to talk to John Cook again.

  Nodding to himself, Callan stood. Another visit to Dachaigh was in order, home to two murder scenes. And he wanted some answers...

  AS CALLAN RACED THROUGH the peaceful Highlands, his email chimed. It was an email from the other detective – the one from the next town he’d asked to help with the admin side of things. He’d been looking into the missing ring.

  Once at Dachaigh, Callan quickly pulled open the email and frowned. It was a detailed financial synopsis on Susan Knight’s bank account.

  Perhaps they’d find some connection to Dave Smith in there

  Oh well, Callan was at the inn, perhaps he could ask Aileen to interpret the records for him.

  HE FOUND AILEEN AT work frowning at the laptop screen she’d set up in her kitchen.

  ‘Susan’s financial records. What can you tell me?’

  Pursing her lips, Aileen gave him a stern look. Wordlessly, she scanned the numbers.

  After a moment, Aileen said, ‘That she was brilliant at her work and got paid for it...Susan wasn’t wanting for money.’

  Callan watched Aileen bite her lips, something she’d never done before...He cleared his throat.

  ‘Anything else that could tell us why she was murdered?’

  Aileen shook her head, ‘I’ll need some time to get through this. At first glance, I can tell her financial records are separate from that of John’s. It’s not usual nor is it unheard off.’

  ‘Could they have a separate joint account?’

  Aileen nodded slowly, ‘It’s quiet possible. You can ask John about it or I can find it out for you. If they had a joint account, she would have withdrawn or deposited cash in there.’

  Slipping hands in his pocket, Callan said, ‘Right. As soon as you find out, let me know.’

  Aileen was already hacking away at the numbers. She didn’t respond.

  JOHN COOK WASN’T HAPPY to see him.

  ‘I had some questions.’

  ‘Just find whoever did this. Just...’ John rubbed his tired eyes.

  ‘Did you have a bank account together with Ms Knight?’

  John cast a withering look. ‘Money! You think I did that to her for her money?’

  ‘It’s just a question Mr Cook. I’m not implying anything. Did you have a joint bank account?’

  Cook shook his head. ‘Go away.’

  Callan pushed through. ‘Did she drink water before bed the night she... died?’

  ‘Water? I...’ John waved his hands in a vague gesture. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Ye don’t know her night routine? Most women have a routine they follow diligently every night.’ At John’s confused look Callan added, ‘So my sister tells me.’

  ‘You aren’t making sense, Detective... Susan would often read at night. I usually fell asleep before her.’

  ‘But you didn’t the night Dave Smith was killed.’

  That got him. John stood, showing signs of agitation. He pointed a finger at Callan and spoke between clenched teeth, ‘Look here! I loved her and now she’s gone. Someone killed her! Susan, who always stood for the truth!’

  He shuddered out a breath.

  ‘She was tired that night. There was a presentation she was working on; she’d barely slept the last few nights. This was supposed to be a trip for us to unwind. We both have busy schedules.’

  John paused and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Had. It’s all in the past now.’

  ‘Did she consume water the night she died?’ Callan asked again.

  John shook his head. ‘Not when I was there, but she went to the library for an hour or so – said she wanted to finish her book. Susan never likes it when— um, liked it when someone disturbed her. She’d be too engrossed in her book, but I should’ve checked up on her. I should’ve checked.’ John sank into a chair.

  Callan left the grieving widower alone and returned to the station, where he found Aileen pacing his office.

  ‘What-’

  She didn’t give him a chance to speak. ‘I needed to access some files so I hitched a ride into town. Rory helped-’

  Taking a breath, Callan sat at his desk.

  Aileen said, ‘So, I looked into the belt again but I’m just running into walls. We need another angle. What did the autopsy say?’

  She almost vibrated — ruffled, restless. The first thing Callan knew when it came to murder was that it needed patience: committing one as well as solving one. So he brewed her a cup of coffee, settled her in his uncomfortable visitor’s chair and led her through the report he’d received. To save time, he entered the new details onto his murder board as he went.

  ‘She was strangled with the belt – had to be in that same room; too suspicious otherwise – but dosed with Zopiclone before she was called to the room. That’s the unclear part – how the Zopiclone got in her system. Knight never suspected it, and she was too drowsy to fight back. So there was no real tussle or any cry for help to alert anyone.’

  ‘Yes, I agree – it had to be in that room.’

  ‘And the medicine would have had to be working, placing it about an hour after it was administered, otherwise the guests in the neighbouring rooms would’ve heard.’

  Callan and Aileen exchanged a glance, then Aileen shivered. He didn’t blame her. Cold-blooded murder where the victims didn’t even realise their end had come was a cold, cold thing.

  He wondered if it was personal vengeance or if it was impersonal? Purely professional?

  Aileen squared her shoulders then. ‘Susan had a very complex looking bank account. There are several deposits, large sums too. However I’m looking into Percy Winston and Jean Beaulieu for now.’

  She proceeded to tell him about seeing them together at Barbara’s tea shop. Callan paced while he listened.

  ‘Beaulieu’s married to a jeweller and knows enough about the business. Ma
ybe you need to dig into his deals to find that belt.’

  Aileen huffed. ‘I ran a full check on him as well as Louis Legrand. As far as I can see, they haven’t made such a deal before.’

  ‘Check again. As well as Susan’s finances.’

  Aileen simply stood up and walked out.

  BACK IN THE OTHER ROOM, she plopped on the chair opposite to the computer and reran her search, going through all their past deals, but she came up empty-handed... again.

  Perhaps she ought to look at what they were up to currently.

  Aileen began to leaf through data, some hidden in the dark and some out in the light.

  It was only when the closet-like room began to get on her nerves that she resurfaced. Another fifteen minutes and her reddened eyes would pop out of their sockets.

  Besides, she’d dug very deep. If only she could pin Percy Winston’s name to a lucrative deal for the diamond belt, Callan could have a strong case against the man.

  Aileen stepped out of the police station and breathed in the fresh Highland air. It had drizzled while she’d been cooped up inside. The road was wet, and the air smelled of damp earth, though weak yet hopeful rays of sun splashed mirth on her face.

  Aileen stood there for a while, soaking in the sun’s welcoming warmth. It was so peaceful here – no brutal engine noise shattering nature’s song or unnecessary honking that splintered human ears. Nor were there too many people crowding you out.

  The town centre around the corner might be the busiest place in Loch Fuar but the street that the police station stood on was quiet.

  One old couple walked towards the market square with a trolley tagging behind them. The wheels rattled on the uneven footpath.

  A handful of cars were parked on the opposite side of the road. This side was reserved for police vehicles. Though thinking about the three-person team of the Loch Fuar police, it was a wonder they had a police vehicle at all.

  The door behind her pushed open and Rory Macdonald walked out.

  ‘Lovely day.’

  ‘Aye,’ Aileen agreed as they both stood taking in their surroundings.

  Rory stuffed his hands in his pockets and stood with his legs shoulder-width apart. ‘Thought about leaving this behind once for the big city. I was a lad looking for big things in life.’

  ‘Oh?’ Aileen had learned by now that when someone started talking about themselves in this town, it was the listener’s duty to urge them on.

  The old man nodded. ‘A week was enough for me to realise I was a small-town lad at heart and always will be. I missed joking with the old grandfathers who’d gather in the pub to share a hearty laugh over whisky.’

  He compressed his lips together. ‘Best decision I ever made.’ Rory nodded at Aileen. ‘On that note, I’ll go join the crowd, considering I’m a grandpa myself now.’

  ‘Congratulations!’

  Rory simply waved his hands. ‘Grandwean number three is on her way soon. I’ve got to entertain the other two tonight.’

  And with a happy smile he walked away.

  Aileen’s face had also turned into an involuntary smile. Coming to Loch Fuar had been a good choice for her too, as long as the murderer was caught.

  On that note, she turned like a soldier during a drill and paraded inside. It was time to renew her efforts.

  CALLAN WAS LOOKING into the diamond ring. What was its significance?

  He paced as he looked at his board and pondered. If the killer was after the ring, he or she surely would’ve attacked Aileen, not the other two. Why kill if the murderer already had the ring?

  It didn’t add up; the ring and the murders. Were they unrelated? Just a bad coincidence?

  His feet clomped as he walked back and forth in a rhythm that would have irritated another person.

  Bugger! It just didn’t add up.

  The old case files on the diamonds were obscure as well. The detective working on them had been nowhere close to the real thieves. There was no trail that led to either Siobhan or Edward Mackinnon. And there was no mention of the diamonds they’d managed to sell either.

  Callan’s gut told him the ring was still in the inn. There had been little opportunity to smuggle it out, and Robert Davis had had an eye out for anyone leaving Loch Fuar or anyone new coming in.

  He thought about the sleeping drug. The killer clearly knew about it, and how to administer it. And he or she had access to it. But then the information on Zopiclone was easy enough to find online.

  His stomach let out a rebellious growl. Callan muttered a curse and glanced at his wristwatch. He had forgotten about lunch!

  Armed with two huge sandwiches and warm cappuccinos Callan walked into the small room Aileen sat in.

  Was she dozing off?

  No, he realised, that was just how she worked – her shoulders slouched in front of the computer screen, her normally neat hair disturbed by her restless hands and her fingers drumming a tune of their own on the desk.

  Callan smirked, tiptoed to the desk and with more force than necessary dropped the bag bursting with their lunch sandwiches beside her.

  Aileen yelped at the sudden movement and put a hand on her heart, as if to hold it in place, before she turned to him. Despite her clear efforts to put on a poker face, her mortification shone through.

  Callan gave her a mocking smirk, but before she could lose her temper at him, he placed a steaming coffee cup in her hand.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ He raised his own cup in a toast. ‘Have you found anything?’

  Aileen set her cup down and rubbed her tired eyes.

  ‘I looked at Jean Beaulieu again. I focused on the deals he’s currently handling for their company.’

  She turned to the computer and pulled open a file.

  ‘I did some hacking.’

  Callan raised a surprised eyebrow. It definitely took some guts to hack into another computer while sitting in a police station.

  Aileen tilted her head. ‘It took me some time to get into their files. I must say: the killer could also have used this data to steal the belt. He or she would know they had it in their possession. Careful as Legrand and Beaulieu are, they’ve their files on the cloud. And they connected their gadgets to my Wi-Fi.’

  Based on her smirk, Callan thought it was best not to know how exactly she’d got into those files.

  Pointing a finger to his badge, he said, ‘Not the best thing to divulge to an officer of the law.’

  She shrugged as if she didn’t care.

  These Mackinnon women were something else, Callan mused; one hustled diamonds and the other was a part-time hacker!

  ‘It’s basic and all for a good cause. No need for you to write it up in your report.’

  ‘And how would I get the evidence for court?’

  ‘An anonymous tip perhaps. Or if you’re any good at interrogation, they’ll tell you.’

  ‘I’m good at those,’ Callan muttered indignantly.

  Aileen smirked at him looking entirely too pleased with herself. ‘Or you could simply ask Charles Wyatt about the belt.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  She pointed at something on the screen. ‘Legrand and Beaulieu aren’t here on a vacation. And that’s perhaps why they’ve kept everyone out of their room for so many days. They’re here to do business with a man called Charles Wyatt.’

  Aileen continued, ‘According to your records, he lives on the Isle of Skye and owns a cottage a few miles from here.’

  Callan didn’t ask her how she’d accessed police records. Thinking about it now, he didn’t want to know how she’d found most of the information about the dagger either.

  He nodded at Aileen. ‘That’s good information; since the belt’s got nothing to do with Percy Winston, aka Richard Grant, I’m bringing him in for interrogation. At least I’ll find out about the dagger.’

  Callan turned and walked towards the door, only to stop when Aileen cleared her throat.

  ‘You shouldn’t raise suspicion. If Beaulieu catches
your scent, he might destroy evidence.’

  Callan squinted at her, stroking his chin.

  ‘It’s just a follow-up interview. No need for anyone to know about the fingerprint I lifted.’

  With that, Callan left for Dachaigh.

  It was a cake walk to get Richard Grant into interview. Either he thought he could play Callan or he assumed the police weren’t smart enough to get to the bottom of things.

  Callan had walked into the inn’s drawing room to find him sitting by the window, looking out.

  John Cook sat in the other chair, deep in thought.

  ‘Mr Grant,’ he began. ‘I have some questions regarding...’ Callan cleared his throat and looked at John.

  Richard nodded and stood. Callan walked out to his car and Richard followed.

  ‘You were in the next room, so I have a few questions. But they’re a little sensitive and I’d hate for anyone to overhear. Would you mind coming into the police station?’

  ‘Am I under suspicion, Detective?’

  ‘Have you done anything I should be suspicious of?’ Callan laughed a friendly sort of laugh. He was good at play-acting. ‘It’ll help me solve the murders quicker.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘Anything that’ll help us see the back of this unpleasant business.’

  So just like that Callan got Richard Grant into an interview room.

  ‘So, the night of the first murder, did you hear anything unusual?’

  ‘No, we were jet-lagged.’ Richard rolled his Rs, speaking in a Canadian accent.

  ‘Right.’ Callan nodded. ‘And the second murder?’

  ‘I was feeling a bit under the weather. Sam brought a tray upstairs for me; I ate it and retired to bed.’

  ‘So you heard nothing?’

  ‘Not until you banged on our door.’

  Callan changed the topic. ‘What is it that you do for a living?’

  ‘We have a gallery. It has some space for temporary exhibitions.’

  ‘Ever seen a dagger like this one?’ Callan showed him the picture of the murder weapon used to kill Dave Smith.

  Cynical eyes appraised him. ‘I organise exhibitions, not museum pieces, Detective.’