“When can you guys interview the wife?” Martha asks.
“We’re waiting for the local police to confirm that. It will probably be tomorrow morning now though,” Charlie replies.
“Guess we’ll have to see what she’s got to say about all this then.” Martha plumps up a cushion on the sofa. “In the meantime I found out there are no obvious irregularities on Garrison’s bank account. Business as usual. Consultancy money going in, bills being paid. Nothing exciting. Not on the joint current account anyway. He does, however, have a bank account in just his name and that’s more interesting. There have been some very large payments out of that account. There doesn’t appear to be a pattern to them though. Sometimes there are several a month and other times maybe only one.”
“Could be payment for anything,” Charlie offers, resting his feet on the coffee table.
“They all appear to be to the same place but without further investigation it’s not clear where. There are a couple of things though which make me think things are definitely amiss with Garrison.”
“Such as?” I say and Martha gets up to fetch a folder of paperwork from the desk in the corner of the room.
With Martha’s back turned I risk a glance at Charlie and he meets my eyes and winks.
Martha comes back and sits on the edge of the sofa, spreading various pieces of paper over the coffee table. Charlie moves his feet and sits forward to check through the documents.
“Firstly,” Martha continues, “some of the amounts being paid into his account are surely too large to be coming from just regular consultancy work.”
Charlie lets out a low whistle as he reads a bank print out. “I see what you mean. Though some high profile consultancy stuff does pay close to these kind of figures and Garrison’s work and reputation were definitely high profile, largely thanks to him being famous. Plus he’s been doing the TV presenting stuff too.”
“You think he might have been receiving payment for extra work from somebody else?” I ask.
“Could be,” Martha nods.
He hands the papers to me and I almost choke on my wine when I see the kind of sums being deposited into Garrison’s account.
“Most likely something illegal,” Charlie adds.
“Secondly, I can’t find any record of any company or organisation in the name shown as being the receiver of some of these large payments he’s making from his account.”
“Aspall Linton,” I read. “Could be the name of a person rather than a company,” I suggest. “OK, a bit of a weird name but it could be.”
“True,” Charlie agrees. “The name certainly doesn’t ring any bells with me but we can do more digging and see if anything turns up.”
“I’m thinking this money has to be suspicious,” Martha says as she gathers the papers together and slips them back into the folder. “Especially with him turning up dead the way he did.”
Later that evening, fresh from a relaxing soak in the bath, I head back into the living room but stop on the hall side of the partly open door as I hear Charlie and Martha talking in hushed voices. I hold my breath in the hope that it will help me hear their words more clearly but it doesn’t. I do hear my name mentioned by Martha but that’s about all. I stay where I am for a few moments more but the conversation has stopped so I paste on a smile, push the door open and wander into the living area.
Charlie looks up from reading a book and smiles. “Feeling OK?” he asks. “It’s been a long day. We’ve a lot to get done tomorrow as well. Why don’t you get an early night?”
I glance at Martha in the kitchen, sending a text from her high-tech phone. Doesn’t look as though she’s going to have an early night does it? And sadly, I don’t think the early night suggestion means he’s going to join me. I know. I know. I said we were to be on best behaviour while Martha’s around. Separate bedrooms for Charlie and me. Maybe it wasn’t the best decision in retrospect. Though my reasons are still valid.
“Maybe,” I say, feeling a bit put out. I can’t help wondering what they were just talking about. Why did she say my name? Do they want some alone time together so are packing me off to bed? Or is it my overactive imagination getting carried away with itself?
Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.
“I’m just finishing up this book then I’ll be heading to bed too,” he says.
“OK.” I shrug.
Martha is still in the kitchen sending her lengthy text.
It feels wrong to not get a goodnight kiss from Charlie but I can hardly walk over and snog him can I? Not under the new rules. Best behaviour, remember?
“Sleep tight,” Charlie says as he picks his book up again.
I climb into bed feeling disgruntled. Switching off the light I snuggle into the duvet and try to ignore the fierce wind rattling the gate outside.
Later, half asleep, I think I’m dreaming when I feel lips brush softly against my cheek and hear words whispered close to my ear. I’ll miss you tonight.
Pulling the duvet more tightly around myself, feeling cool without Charlie’s warm body next to mine to cuddle up to, I’m jolted out of my dream state by the sound of my bedroom door clicking closed. A smile creeps across my lips as, more awake now, I realise what just happened. Looks like I got my goodnight kiss after all.
“Night, Charlie,” I whisper, wishing I’d never mentioned about us having separate rooms. Sometimes I really should just keep my mouth shut or at least think things through properly before I say them.
Chapter Five
“Pretty impressive, eh?”
We’re sitting in the car taking in the view before us of the Big House. Occupying a commanding position down a half mile track it’s actually more castle than house. The blue and white of the Scottish flag flutters in the strong breeze on top of one of the four stone turrets the house sports.
The front door, set back inside a portico, opens and a women walks towards us. Charlie and I clamber from the car. Thankfully our investigations today are Martha–less again. She’s doing more digging on the financial side of the case. The drive over to the Big House took us a little longer than envisioned but that might partly be due to getting lost (the road signs around here leave a lot to be desired) and partly due to Charlie and I finding a quiet layby to park in for a little while as we enjoyed a good morning kiss or three. I’d thanked him for sneaking into my bedroom for a goodnight kiss. He’d said he’d been discreet about it. I think there’s probably a bit of truth in that but at the same time there’s the equally strong likelihood he said it just to appease me.
“Can I help you?” the woman from the Big House asks, as she approaches our rental car.
We walk over and shake her hand, explaining who we are and why we’re here.
“You’d best come inside,” she says, gesturing for us to follow her.
The kitchen of the house is equipped with a giant-size range and the substantial heat it is dispersing through the vast room is blissfully welcoming. Sitting either side of the oak kitchen table we gratefully accept the offered mugs of coffee and slabs of cherry cake.
“So we wondered if you might remember Mr Garrison staying in one of the cottages here?” I say. “I know it was a long time ago but, with him being famous, well, we thought you might be able to recall something about the woman who visited him regularly during his stays.”
Rhona McQuire nods. “I can remember him all right. When Rory, that’s the current laird here on Farra, this is his house, told me we were having a pop star to stay in Field Cottage on the estate I wasn’t very happy. I pictured someone drunk and carousing all the time. I thought the cottage would get damaged and we’d only just had it painted at the time.”
“What happened?” I ask, with a glance towards Charlie who has a mouth full of cherry cake.
“It just goes to show you shouldn’t pre-judge people. He was nice as can be. Very pleasant young man. I can remember him telling me he’d fallen in love. He said this place was magical and he felt so
at home here. He vowed he’d make Farra his home one day soon. He loved it here so much.”
Charlie, cake now eaten, asks, “And what about the woman who visited him here? Did you ever see her? Can you remember anything about her? Anything at all?”
Rhona sits back in her chair, coffee mug nursed in her hands. “Let me think for a moment.”
I let my eyes wander around the room. I bet this kitchen could tell some stories. It’s a mix of old and new. Shiny modern kitchen gadgets sit alongside traditional-looking pudding bowls.
“Field Cottage is the nearest property to the main house, just back down the drive a little bit. You’ll have driven past it on the way here but you still can’t easily see the comings and goings there. My quarters are in the main house, at the back, so no, I’m afraid I didn’t see his mystery female guest. There was something once though, I seem to recall. He often booked at the last minute and on that particular occasion Field Cottage, his preferred place to stay, was already taken so he stayed in one of the bed and breakfast rooms in the main house instead. When he checked in he said he might be joined by a friend and he paid for two people to stay. He was alone at breakfast the next morning but one of the local girls who does waitressing and cleaning here said she’d been asked to deliver a bottle of champagne and two glasses to his room late the previous evening.”
“Did she see who was with him? Would we be able to talk to her?” Charlie quizzes.
“No, sorry, dearie. Catherine no longer lives on Farra. She left to go off to university in Glasgow. We pride ourselves on providing our guests with a peaceful haven, privacy guaranteed and naturally don’t encourage gossip about guests but no, I don’t think she did see who was with him. Poor girl was beside herself at him staying here. She was a big fan of his band and quite smitten with him. When she knocked on the door though she was asked to leave the tray on the floor outside the bedroom. She never did get to see him or the person he was sharing the champagne with. I remember because she was so bitterly disappointed.”
“Rhona would you be able to…”
We all turn around to see a man striding into the kitchen, a folder under his right arm and a boisterous yellow Labrador dog dancing around his feet. “I’m so sorry, Rhona I didn’t realise you had company.”
Charlie gets to his feet and offers a hand to shake, explaining once again who we are and why we’re here.
“I see.” He nods for us to sit down again. “Terrible business all this goings on with Mr Garrison. We’re all so sorry to hear of his death. He was a good customer of ours until he bought his own house. If there’s anything we can do to help you must just say. I’m Rory McDonald, the laird of the island.”
Rory isn’t what I’d expect of a laird. Not that I’ve met a laird before but I just had a picture of some stuffy guy in his seventies. I’d guess Rory as being not much more than ten years older than Charlie and me, so around the forty years old mark. He has curly brown hair and a warm smile.
“Thanks,” I say. “For now though, we’d best get going. We’re due at the police station for an interview.”
“You must join us for the ceilidh at the weekend. It’s a proper traditional one. It’s a popular part of the local calendar otherwise we wouldn’t be going ahead with it, you know, in the circumstances, with Mr Garrison’s death. We wouldn’t have wanted to seem disrespectful. Anyway, we hold it in October each year to celebrate the summer long gone and cheer ourselves up about the prospect of the long winter ahead.”
Correctly interpreting our puzzled expressions Rhona explains, “A ceilidh is a traditional Scottish gathering for the locals. Plentiful food and drink as well as the chance to get those dancing shoes on.”
“It sounds great and thanks for the invitation but we don’t have any suitable clothes for a party,” I reply with a glimmer of regret.
“We can lend you some things,” Rory says. “No problem at all. We’re used to kitting out guests for the various occasions we have here.”
He turns to me. “We have some lovely full length gowns which I’m sure would fit you.” Then he looks at Charlie. “Plenty of men’s formalwear too. Ever worn a kilt?”
Charlie looks panic-stricken and I manage to stifle a snigger. But only just. Then I decide the idea of Charlie in a kilt is a very nice one. He obviously isn’t keen though.
“I’m not sure we’ll still be here at the weekend,” he blusters.
“I think we will be,” I add. “It’s only a few days away. And thank you, Rory, we’d love to attend the party.”
Rory beams at me. “Excellent. Have you done any Scottish dancing before?” he enquires.
“No, never but I love dancing so I’m keen to learn.”
“Then I would be delighted to help teach you,” he says smoothly. “Am I right in thinking there are three of you on the island working on this case? The invitation extends to your colleague too of course.”
Great. He had to go and ruin it all didn’t he?
“We’ll be sure to pass on the invite,” Charlie says with a sideways glance at me.
“Let me know when you want to come by again and try on some outfits,” Rhona shouts as she waves us off.
Charlie rests a hand on my thigh. “Don’t worry, I doubt Scottish dances are Martha’s cup of tea.”
“Hopefully,” I reply, fingers crossed. It would be lovely to have a night with Charlie at the dance without Martha’s beady eyes on us all the time.
“To be honest, it’s not really my thing either,” he edges. “Perhaps we shouldn’t go.”
“Don’t even think of trying to get out of this,” I warn him, laughing. “We’re going and I’m already looking forward to seeing you in a kilt!”
Charlie shakes his head but laughs as well.
By the time we reach the police station everyone else is already there and Constable McKenna invites us through to join him in the interview room where Mrs Garrison is now sitting, looking pale and tired.
We take our seats and McKenna opens a folder and shuffles some paperwork.
“So, Mrs Garrison,” he begins. “Your husband stayed on the island frequently. Did you often accompany him on his trips here?”
She looks momentarily stunned at the question. “Why on earth would I do that?” she asks, fidgeting in her chair.
“I just thought you might sometimes join your husband on his travels.”
“I’m a very busy woman. I have commitments. My husband may have chosen to step away from the spotlight but I did not. I have worked hard to cultivate contacts and interest. To keep our names in the right social and media circles. I have interviews, photo shoots, charity lunches to attend. Sadly Flynn made some mistakes with Dynamo Monsoon when it came to contracts and legal matters. Did you know he wrote or co-wrote most of the band’s songs? Unfortunately when he first signed his contracts he didn’t get decent legal advice which meant when he left the band he was no longer eligible for his cut of any future royalties. They are still playing music he wrote and making money from it and we get nothing. My media persona is generating income for us while he shut himself away up here.”
McKenna shuffles his papers again. “I see. Were you aware where he was when he went off on his frequent trips?”
She nods. “Of course. When he announced he wanted to do this geology research work he said he had contacts up here and would be doing consultancy work for a commercial geology institute connected to a university in Edinburgh. He made me come up to Edinburgh to meet the people he would be working for. He went to great pains to point out it was well-paid work and on a project close to his heart too. I suppose the money wasn’t bad but compared to what he used to earn it was nothing. He was getting decent money from his TV presenting work but he told me he wasn’t going to renew his contract with them. Even appearing on pre-recorded TV shows was becoming too much. He didn’t want the publicity he said.”
“What happened to all the money he made at the height of his fame?” McKenna asks.
She lifts h
er shoulders in a gesture of dismissal. “Gone.”
“All of it?” he checks.
She fidgets and pushes a hand through her hair. “We have an expensive lifestyle to maintain.”
“Were you aware your husband had purchased a house on Farra?”
“Of course. Property is ridiculously cheap here. He said because of the amount of time he’d end up spending here it made more sense to buy a place than rent or pay for hotels. The house was only about twenty thousand pounds. At the time it was peanuts to us. I have spent more than that on handbags before.”
I can’t help thinking there’s an edge of bitterness in her voice.
McKenna nods, an understanding look on his face. I glance across at Charlie. Truth be told I feel rather uncomfortable sitting here witnessing a widow being interviewed about her life, her husband. Charlie’s eyes are fixed on the table where Mrs Garrison and the constable are talking. He seems to be taking in every detail of her body language, the tone of her voice. I remind myself that’s what I should be doing too, rather than reading and re-reading the various warning posters on the walls of the room and feeling like some kind of eavesdropper.
I’m surprised to see Charlie scribble something down on the notepad in his lap. He tears off the page, folds it once and gets up, handing it to McKenna. We agreed it would be the constable conducting the interview to save swamping or intimidating Mrs Garrison with several people firing questions at her. I presume the paper contains a question Charlie wants McKenna to ask.
McKenna checks the piece of paper and then scribbles some notes on his own pad. “Does the name Aspall Linton mean anything to you, Mrs Garrison?”
She shakes her head. “No. Not at all. What is it? A person or a company?”
“We aren’t sure at the moment.”
“Well, I don’t recognise the name at all. Why do you ask? What relevance has it on Flynn’s murder?”
“Again, sorry, we don’t know yet,” McKenna replies.
Something tells me Flynn Garrison wasn’t completely honest with his wife about their finances. Especially his separate account with the large payments in and out of it.
Precious: A Humorous Romantic Cozy Mystery (Amber Reed Celebrity Crimes Investigation Agency Mystery Book 2) Page 4
