"Skye agreed to meet me," he said.
Angela snapped out of her trance.
"Let me go get her." The lass patted the stranger's hand. "I'll be right back," she said over her shoulder as she headed towards the kitchen.
She found the innkeeper's daughter furiously pounding a cut of meat with a small, square-shaped spiked hammer. Thick with flour, the air appeared white, similar to fog.
"I'm busy," Skye barked upon her entry.
"I can see that. I think whatever that is, it's tender enough by now," she said, waving her hand before her face in an attempt to get some undiluted oxygen.
"Sorry, it's jist that we're short on help, dae ye ken?"
"Hmm. You seemed fine before that handsome fellow came in."
She stopped swinging the meat tenderizer and drew herself up, turning to face Angela.
"I want nothing to do with that–that man!"
"He said you agreed to meet with him, and by the looks of him, I don't think he's one to give up easily."
"That toad. Jist because he got Millicent Cranberry to turn the thumbscrews on me, dinnae mean I have to spend time with him!" she growled, unfastening her apron. She tossed the frock on a counter and stomped towards the pub, snarling, "Stupid man and stupid changes. I'd like to punch him right in the dimple!"
Shocked, Angela waited a moment, unsure whether Skye purposely mispronounced the council woman's name or if her senses had momentarily departed. Then, she ventured down the hall before ducking into the doorway of a utility closet just outside the inn's restaurant. She turned an ear towards the bar, straining to overhear what went on.
"When I told Millicent I'd serve on the children's committee, I had no idea it would mean working directly with you," Skye said in a matter-of-fact tone.
She couldn't hear the man's response, but his low tone resonated with warmth, amusement even.
"I don't think that's a good idea," her friend continued, sounding more shrill.
Angela recognized that Skye would soon lose control of herself. She didn't know what this man had done to cross the usually agreeable girl, but it must have been bad. She decided to intervene.
"Hello again," she said, popping from the hall. "They need you in the kitchen," she added, staring point-blank at Skye.
For a moment, she appeared not to understand. Then, she nodded, turned and headed away from the bar, squeezing Angela's forearm as she left.
"That went well," Redmond mumbled to himself. Looking a bit shell shocked, he turned to resume his pint.
Just as she began to say something to try and smooth things over, Donald and Duncan entered from the lobby. She leaned to get a good peek at her fiancée's hands, which looked as though he'd scrubbed them raw. His shirt appeared wet where he'd attempted to remove the mud left by Mr. Lincoln's paws.
"Angela! Me chef's prepared something special jist fir ye, Lass," the innkeeper said, catching sight of the girl. In high spirits, he added, "I hear ye're warming to the cottage—oh, and I see ye've met our new vicar."
Chapter 15
Confrontations
"She hates him because he's changing everything that the old vicar instituted. Skye loved Reverend Ferguson like a grandfather, and she resents this Redmond fellow, according to Donald."
Angela glanced out the windscreen at a star-filled sky as the Jaguar accelerated into the overtaking lane in order to go around a juggernaut. No lights graced this section of the A827, but the constellations provided a smidge of comfort against the dark, spooky surroundings. It aggravated her that he couldn't just patiently drive behind the lorry. Trees and bushes loomed like animals on the side of the road, and more than once, she caught herself about to yell a warning when she realized what she thought of as a leaping stag was, in fact, just a shrub. She felt relief when they turned onto the wider A9 motorway.
"He seemed nice enough to me. Handsome fellow, too," she said absentmindedly.
"His first mistake was assuming she would accompany him on piano when he sang at some function." Duncan chuckled. "Apparently, he asked her all kinds of questions when they first met, you know, checking to see if she was good wife material for a vicar. Have ye taught Sunday school? Do ye sing? What ministry experience have ye had? etcetera. That didn't go over well. She's an independent lass."
"She should show him some grace."
"Well, she knew the old vicar her entire life. It makes sense she wouldn't want to see everything he'd accomplished in the community wiped out overnight."
"That's not what he's doing," she replied, her tone terse.
Duncan glanced across the seat at his fiancée, guessing her own grief fueled this interest in Taye's local color. He decided to change the subject.
"When will you be back in Edinburgh? Wednesday?"
"I don't know," she snapped, then softened her tone with, "maybe. It depends on how my meeting with Hadley goes."
"Shall I take you to the airport Monday?"
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. I changed my flight to Sunday. I leave tomorrow morning, early, and I've already arranged for a driver. Dr. Brightly felt like I should spend more time on my own before I speak with my boss."
* * * * *
He tried to concentrate on the task before him. William Ainsley had been transferred earlier that week to Saughton Prison in Edinburgh, presumably for his own safety. A more secure, albeit dangerous prison, Saughton led the country in violent incidents.
His thoughts kept returning to Angela and how she'd left earlier that week. She'd been annoyed at best. He'd driven to his mum's to say goodbye, thinking she'd be happy to see him. She looked beautiful in a soft periwinkle suit that brought out the unusual purple flecks in her blue eyes. The good weather held, and without a coat, she appeared like a lovely spring flower to Duncan.
"I told you I had a driver. You didn’t need to come," she'd clipped.
He was glad his mum and dad weren't awake to witness their goodbye. The hug seemed awkward, and he didn't even attempt a kiss. Over the course of a few days, she seemed to be pulling away from him. He hoped she'd return to Scotland as she'd promised, but he feared she might prefer to stay in London. Still, he sensed he should give her some space. Surely she'd come around in her own time. She'd been through a lot the last few weeks.
Harold had been an easier matter. His brother had turned over all the electronic correspondence between him and Caroline Menzies. The investigator hoped his plan would work. Police Scotland believed it might.
His first glimpse of Saughton sent a shiver up his spine. The brick compound appeared cold and foreboding from a distance, positioned upon a high point with uniform slits for windows and a white, ugly square tower at one corner. As he drove closer and his view changed to a different angle, part of the jail resembled the grain silos he'd seen in America as a child.
He had been instructed to enter at the old gates, and he found the area devoid of people, with the exception of a manned station near the entrance, at the end of a lane which dead-ended at the prison. Beyond the fence, the building's façade resembled Dutch architecture, complete with a clock, a ball finial atop a peaked roof, and a large arched window. It spoke to a different era. He gave his name to the guard, who checked it against a list and made a phone call, then rummaged through his briefcase. A man in a dark suit approached from the inside as tall, metal doors in the fence swung open.
"No contraband?"
"None."
"Park to the left and walk through. The assistant warden's here to meet you," the guard said, gesturing towards the man within the prison's perimeter.
Duncan did as he was told, looking askance at the rolled barbed wire atop the fence as he approached the gate. The official stretched his arm out to greet him.
Shaking hands, he said, "I'm Assistant Warden Jack Verdon. Pleased to meet you."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, warden."
"I'll show you to where you'll meet with Ainsley," he said, gesturing with his hand in the direction he planned to go.
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They passed through a set of doors, buzzed open by some unseen staff person, and proceeded past the prison yard. Separated from the population by what appeared to be an ordinary chain link fence, he watched as armed guards roamed back and forth on top of a two and a half meter rock wall, protected by the height of their location and their weapons. The prisoners milled about in charcoal pants and over shirts while a few wore pink shirts in lieu of the depressing grey. In spite of the walls, an icy wind cut through Duncan. The entire place felt oppressive.
They continued along the edge of the exercise yard, finally getting buzzed into a building through another set of doors. Progressing down a long, sterile hall, he wondered where the doors lining the walls led—perhaps to interrogation rooms or those places where prisoners met with loved ones. A strong odor of disinfectant permeated the interior.
Eventually, the warden paused, and raising his palm, indicated they would turn right. He opened a door and directed Duncan into a brightly lit room, devoid of furnishings except for a long table with a chair on either side. The walls, ceiling, and floors all glowed a sickening yellow due to the fluorescent overhead lighting. For a split second, he actually felt the urge to bolt, to escape this stifling place where nothing good seemed to exist.
"Please, have a seat. Prisoner Ainsley will be here shortly. Don't worry. We'll be watching and listening," Verdon said before leaving.
He glanced around, wondering where the hidden microphone and cameras were. He saw no two-way mirror, speaker, or any other means of monitoring the situation. Duncan took a deep breath and waited. His eyes scanned the fake wood grain on the laminated table and the long fluorescent bulbs above. He felt the bars along the rear of the uncomfortable metal chair dig into his back.
"I've got nothing to say to em," Ainsley growled upon entering.
The investigator was immediately taken back to the first time they met. The young constable had glared at him in the police station in Tyne. His voice sounded the same, but little else remained recognizable. William's upper body had ballooned into an unnatural mass of oversized muscles, visible beneath his grey prison uniform. Bruises disfigured one side of his once handsome face, while swelling and a beard hid the rest. His former fiery eyes now burned dull.
"Ye'll do jist fine," a guard said, shoving the prisoner into the room and closing the door behind him.
"What happened to you?" Duncan asked, repulsed at the sight.
He knew Ainsley had been responsible for some heinous acts, but he still believed he'd been a tool, manipulated and used by someone else as a means to an end. He hoped to prove that now. The beautiful Caroline Menzies desired to be out of her abusive marriage, but she didn’t want to give up her position in society. She also wanted the life insurance proceeds her husband's death would produce, leaving her a wealthy woman. The scheme had gotten out of hand when drug addict Peter, nephew of the victim, became involved.
Investigating for L and G, Duncan used his fault tree analysis, and along with good forensics, helped to solve the matter. In a way, he'd been a victim of Caroline too. His feelings for the widow clouding his judgment, he'd refused to recognize her superior intellect at work in the crime. She'd used him and ruined his career in the process. She never got the insurance money, but she escaped scot-free, no pun intended, to America since William refused to talk.
"Don't act like you care," Ainsley snarled, turning his chair around and slamming himself into the seat, clutching its back with both hands.
Duncan stared at the man's knuckles, which turned white.
"I don't. I'd just prefer to look at something not quite so ugly," he said in a monotone, shifting his gaze to the prisoner's face.
Ainsley threw his head back and laughed from one side of his mouth, producing a terrible grimace.
When he stopped, Duncan said, "You won't last another month in here. Everyone thinks you were transferred for protection. They think you ratted someone out at Greenock. I can't imagine a former policeman would be very popular here at Saughton," he added, nodding towards the prisoner's marred face.
"I didn't have anything to do with the loon hanging himself."
Duncan reached down and eased his briefcase onto the table, then clicked its latches open.
"Someone roughed him up."
"His mouth got him in trouble, not me, and I have no idea who beat the minger."
"I believe you. But, as it stands, it only matters what the others believe," he said, slowly retrieving his laptop and flipping it open. "I think you should see these," he added, turning the device so Ainsley could view the emails sent by Caroline to Harold.
He angled the screen so he could scroll down, showing the prisoner every message. Duncan had doctored a few without tampering with the distinctive style of her writing.
He continued, "She's been in close contact with my brother since she left. She hasn't given you another thought."
He watched as Ainsley's eyes scanned the screen, and he noticed him flinch. When the prisoner slipped his hands from the chair to the table, his breathing became quicker. He gripped the laminate now, grinding his teeth.
He's close to breaking.
"She's not waiting for you, William," he said in a low tone.
A drop of sweat trickled down the inmate's temple. The room felt hot, and Duncan wondered if the warden had turned the thermostat up. Hadn't Chief Inspector John Wallace once admitted to that tactic? He claimed it made suspects confess quicker. Minutes seemed to pass. An image of Caroline popped in his mind, appearing as she had at the ceilidh, dressed like an angel in a cream ensemble, her blonde curls bobbing around her beautiful face as she danced and giggled.
"What's in it for me?"
The prisoner's voice jolted him from his thoughts. It sounded strange, weaselly and conniving, unlike the Ainsley he knew. This, he hadn't prepared for, and it took a moment to respond.
"A chance to plea out. Maybe get transferred back to Greenock while you await a hearing."
"That boat sailed."
"There's a special magistrate in the High Court who's willing to make an exception, if you act today."
Ainsley leaned back in his chair, once again gripping its metal cross bar but now in a casual manner. He actually appeared relaxed.
"The plan," he said, tilting forward and looking both ways as if confiding a secret to a friend. "It was all her. I was only the muscle."
"Whose plan was it, William?"
He smirked, "Caroline Menzies. That . . ." The inmate finished with a string of expletives the likes of which he had never heard, at least not out of one mouth.
Several officials burst into the room, which gave Duncan a start but didn't seem to surprise Ainsley. He just grinned and stood.
"Not so fast," a large man in a cheap suit declared. He continued, "We want the entire story from beginning to end."
Assistant Warden Verdon escorted Duncan from the room. Before the door slammed behind him, he heard the prisoner chiming, "What's in it for me?" again.
"Thank you, Mr. Dewar. I'll show you to your car."
As the two walked down the long corridor, Verdon answered the questions running through his mind.
"The men who entered the room were court officials, a sheriff, guards, and a barrister-at-law who will represent William Ainsley. He'll get a reduced sentence if what he says holds true."
They continued in silence past the now empty exercise yard. When they reached the gates, he felt a weight lift from his chest as he stepped beyond the enclosure. The assistant warden stopped just inside the fence and reached for his hand, proffering a hearty shake.
"Thank you again. I'm sure that wasn't easy."
Duncan nodded and walked to the automobile, his mind reeling from the experience. He opened the door of his Jaguar, then turned to face the official, who stood watching from inside the confines of the prison.
"Warden?"
"Yes, Mr. Dewar?"
"How did you know when to enter? I mean, I didn't see any microphones
or two-way mirrors."
Jack Verdon smiled for the first time since Duncan arrived.
"Trade secrets, Mr. Dewar. Trade secrets."
Chapter 16
A Recipe for Murder
Duncan sat in Cocina Gaélico, savoring the best burger he'd ever eaten. The aroma of an unknown sizzling meat had stimulated his appetite and tantalized his taste buds. He'd had no choice but to agree to be Mondo's guinea pig and try a new recipe the chef and his mum concocted that very morning. He wasn't sure what ground protein they'd used, but he found the succulent texture and spicy taste hard to resist, not to mention how the cheddar and streaky bacon on top beckoned to his hunger. The small pile of shredded barbecued meat just under the bread roll added a delicious smoky accent. His eyes turned heavenward as he relished each bite.
"It's wonderful," he said with a full mouth when Armondo approached with Margaret.
The two gave each other knowing smiles.
"What's in it?" he added after swallowing and setting the remaining half of the burger on his plate with great care.
"Should we serve it with chips?" his mum asked, disregarding his question.
"Mondo thinks rice would be best," the chef interrupted before he could answer.
"I think a salad would be good. The burger is so rich that chips might be too much. What's it made of?"
"Duncan's correct, Mondo. We should at least offer field greens as an option," Margaret happily chirped, ignoring her son's inquiry.
"Mondo does not wish to argue with his partner," the chef said, referring to himself in the third person as he usually did. "The burger, it is genius, no?"
"Yes, but what's in it?" he asked for the third time, looking from his mum to Armondo.
"Pork!" his mum and the chef answered in unison before returning to the kitchen for a huddle on what to name their latest creation.
The Siamese Suicides: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 6) Page 14
