by EJ Lamprey
‘Yes, Patrick my love, you did. But I don’t mind you telling me again. How’s your company getting on without you?’
‘Not entirely without me.’ Patrick eyed the bread basket just brought to the table with an interest that explained his impressive waistline. ‘I’ve kept my favourite clients. Like you, you know that.’
Patrick had been Edge’s accountant for nearly fifteen years, and had been the person to recommend Grasshopper Lawns, also one of his accounts, several years earlier. He was still listed as the senior partner in his thriving accountancy practice, but had recently handed over the bulk of his accounts to his two younger partners in a first step towards retirement. Despite an appearance that made him a shoo-in every year to play Santa for charities of his choice, he was pursued with varying degrees of determination by the widows of the three towns. He still lived in the very beautiful Georgian house he had shared with his late wife, and was excluded from moving to the retirement village by a vast and affectionate family of five children and—at last count—nine grandchildren. Edge found him good company, but had not the slightest desire to become the next Mrs Fitzpatrick. They enjoyed a friendship that was the despair of the widows, had both shared and opposing interests, and were never short of conversation.
Only when the detritus of dessert had been removed and he could sit back in his chair, breathing rather heavily and with his face a good deal redder, did he return to the original subject. ‘I’m fortified now. Consider my brains at your disposal.’
‘Well, my love, it’s about Grasshopper Lawns. Are they also one of your favourite accounts, the ones you’ve kept on? I just wondered how stable it is, financially. Not for public knowledge, whatever you tell me is between us.’
‘The Trust itself? I did their last audit, then handed them over to Fellowes. But I told you at the time I recommended them; the land and buildings are owned outright. There’s no risk there. The five Board appointments have their salaries comfortably covered by rental income—there’s no recession big enough to make you worry about your home. It can’t go bust.’
‘I did wonder,’ Edge met his eyes directly, ‘and this is absolutely off the record, how much they rely on bequests to top up the original kitty?’
‘There have been a few of those,’ he agreed, ‘and no Trust would ever turn them down. But the way it was originally set up, it could meet all expenses for over a year without any rental income at all. The bequests—particularly the big one from Angus Burns, which his estate paid just before the audit—have extended that to close on two years. The staff wouldn’t get their bonuses, but their jobs would be safe, and all overheads met.’
‘Bonuses?’ Edge looked alert and Patrick sighed with pleasure as their coffees were delivered.
‘This isn’t exactly a secret,’ he stirred his coffee delicately, then shot her a look under his brows, ‘but it isn’t generally bandied about either. So I’m counting on what you said earlier, about keeping this between us. The Trust staff gets paid good, but not excellent, salaries. As the Trust is a non-profit organisation, at the end of the financial year, after all expenses have been paid and the maintenance kitty topped up, anything left over goes into a bonus pot and gets divvied up between them. It’s just an incentive scheme, really. You wouldn’t believe how many retirement options there are out there; if people aren’t happy they give a month’s notice and leave. Grasshopper Lawns has a remarkably low turnover in the business, but it’s a delicate balancing act to keep residents feeling safe and entertained and comfortable. If the staff, through their combined efforts, keep the place running at capacity and turning a profit, their efforts are rewarded. If people were unhappy and left, or didn’t like the meals so didn’t eat at the house, or the place started looking tatty and not attracting applicants, do you see? There wouldn’t be profits to divide.’
Edge turned that over in her mind. ‘Is there any profit to any—or all—in a high turnover of residents? Or in attracting the bequests?’
Patrick leaned back again. ‘Oho, so that’s it, Nancy Drew? You’re playing amateur detective in the Campbell murder? No, is the answer. Bequests go straight into the Trust, they don’t touch the profit and loss sheet. Refurbishing the units between residents is a cost that comes out of overheads, so it actually reduces profits. Not to mention that any rumours—let alone murder! adversely affect applications. Poor Hamish is kicking himself that he didn’t start phoning his way down the waiting list before the local paper ran the story. If their version gets picked up nationally, it will be a real problem for the Trust. Even the bungalow, although they’re usually snapped up, will be a problem because I believe it’s let on a long lease. He was telling me he already phoned the top four names on the buyer shortlist but either they only want one they can move into, or they didn’t want to know. You have to see their point of view—investing a big chunk of capital in a place where residents are being murdered, I wouldn’t do it myself. The rentals, well, I don’t think there’ll be much in the bonus kitty if the two apartments can’t be re-let, and with a murder in one and a rumoured murder in the other he’ll have his work cut out. For the Trust’s sake I hope the police get this solved and the murderer behind bars as soon as possible but while the killer is out there—well, Hamish has an impossible job on his hands. Get your lovely niece on the job, eh?’
CHAPTER THREE
Saturday – Dinner and theatre
By Saturday Kirsty still hadn’t heard from Rory. Estelle had finally heard from Jason that the band weren’t best pleased with either the gigs or their tantrum-throwing headliner, and that he was missing her. Jason hadn’t mentioned Rory and Estelle hadn’t thought to ask. So that, Kirsty thought, was probably that. Her relationship with Rory had started in their mutual appreciation of his looks and had survived the antisocial hours that marked both their jobs. It wouldn’t, it seemed, survive his inability to let go of a dream he should have long outgrown.
If he walked through the door now, Kirsty thought dully, and begged her to let them start over, she wouldn’t do it. Edge, most annoyingly, had been right, and Kirsty realized the relationship really was over when she decided to tell her aunt what Rory was really up to, and rang her shortly before the end of her shift.
Edge, to her credit, resisted any urge she might have felt to hang out flags and instead invited her niece to go to a new play in Edinburgh that evening.
‘In fact,’ she said over the phone, ‘there’s a new restaurant I wanted to try as well, and you’ll be doing me a favour because Vivian and I were going and she’s apparently woken up feeling like hell this morning. I was plucking up courage to go to the play on my own and was going to give up on the dinner. Any chance you can get a lift over here? Then we can go in by taxi and have wine with dinner and I can drop you off on the way home.’
‘If you wouldn’t rather go with someone from the Lawns?’ Kirsty asked politely and her aunt’s snort rattled the telephone.
‘Like who?’ She demanded ungrammatically. ‘Sylvia? Darling, you’ll be doing me a favour and turning my evening out back into a treat.’
Iain tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Want a lift? If that’s your aunt you’re talking to, I’m passing the Lawns, meeting the missus and weans at the station in twenty.’
‘Oh, that would be great, but I haven’t anything with me to wear.’
‘Better and better.’ Edge interrupted. ‘Was that lovely Iain? Tell him hello. I’ve got stuff you can wear—we’re the same size, remember? It’ll be fun! We can squabble loudly over who gets the mirror and try each other’s lipsticks. I’ve found a new way of doing my hair which would really suit you, too.’
Less than half an hour after resigning herself to a dreary evening on her own, Kirsty was sitting on Edge’s little verandah, well wrapped up against the winter chill in a pair of borrowed woollen slacks topped with a cable-knit jumper, her police uniform neatly packed in a bag, and a cup of coffee to warm her cold fingers.
‘This is wonderful! And darling, I h
ave to tell you, I’ve been doing a little investigating on our murder.’ Edge said proudly to Kirsty, who eyed her uneasily.
‘Don’t do a Miss Marple on me, Aunt,’ she begged. ‘Honestly, that only happens in books. I’m not going to bring you our results and ask for your wise and aged input, so don’t even think of asking.’
‘Aged input indeed!’ Edge gave her a very unfriendly glance. ‘And don’t tell me the police don’t rely on public input, because I know you do.’
‘Yes we do. And you know very well I was grateful to you for that tip-off on that drug dealer who lived opposite you before you moved here. But there’s a big difference between noticing something under your nose, and going looking for trouble. I am absolutely not going to encourage you to go looking for Betsy Campbell’s murderer and get yourself bumped off in turn. You know you’re my favourite aunt.’
‘I’m your only aunt,’ Edge retorted, unmollified, ‘and if this isn’t under my nose I’d like to know what is. I just wondered if you’ve found out who tipped off the papers. Because as best I can find out it wasn’t one of us.’
‘Tipped off the papers?’ Kirsty accepted a rather lop-sided slice of gingerbread loaf, liberally buttered. ‘Well, there are, what, nearly fifty people here at any one time, between staff and residents and cleaners brought in? We didn’t even bother to find out, why should we?’
‘Because it affected the applications list. Having a definite murder, as a result of a possible murder, in one small community—my contact said that people on the buyers list aren’t picking up their options for Mose’s bungalow, for example. Heaven knows what it’s doing to the rentals list. What if it was somebody who wants to jump the queue?’
Kirsty looked at her aunt with affectionate exasperation. ‘Dearest Aunt Beulah, do you seriously want us to investigate the first, what, fifty? people on that list?’
‘It wouldn’t hurt to find out if people are dropping out,’ Edge said stubbornly, ‘and to find out what the first person to say yes was doing on that day. And in the name of all that’s holy, Kirsty Cameron, don’t call me Beulah!’
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll run it past Iain,’ Kirsty promised, ‘and now, I don’t know if you noticed, I’m off duty as of half an hour ago and I’m here because this is my afternoon off after a terrible week and you promised me an absolutely fabulous night out and I don’t want to talk about police business at all. And if that outfit hanging on the cupboard door, the green and black jersey suit, is the outfit you’ve put out for me for tonight I absolutely love it. In fact I love this jersey, too!’
She did look very attractive indeed with her flaming hair and milky skin set off to perfection by the creamy wool and Edge told her so with proprietary pride. Not a word more was said about Rory, or murder, and the conversation turned to the slightly odd taste of the gingerbread loaf, which Edge had bought at the house.
~~~
It was one of those perfect December days which winter doles out so sparingly, and the two Camerons cut their tea short to take Vivian’s dog for a walk while the light was still good, before changing for the evening.
‘Aren’t you two a pair!’ Vivian, whose cold was expanding at a terrific rate and who was bundled up to the ears even in the warmth of her apartment, looked admiringly from one to the other in their padded Parkas and knitted hats. ‘Honestly, Edge, I hate you, you could be her older sister.’ Buster, an aging black Labrador, pushed gently past her with his lead in his mouth to put an end to the conversation, and led them briskly towards the road, his entire rear end stirred by his fervent tail.
‘He kens his way,’ Kirsty said drily as he trotted them up to the pedestrian part of the top gate. She obediently pulled it open, and Edge laughed.
‘He’s a lovely dog, he marches Vivian all over the place. Looks like he’s set his mind on the campsite today, though, that’s quite a short walk. He’s very protective of Vivian, probably doesn’t want to leave her for too long. I thought she was making a mistake taking on one of the house’s rescue dogs but he’s been the most brilliant success.’
Once they were safely across the road she unclipped his lead and he charged off to investigate an alarmed quiver in some nearby gorse. Kirsty looked about with interest—although the police were called occasionally to the campsite in the height of season, it was empty now, the caravan spots untenanted and the few guest rondavels shuttered and quiet. The few shops at the top of the campsite, rather to her surprise, had their lights on.
‘What, the shops stay open all year, even when the campsite is like this?’
‘Oh yes—in fact I could do with getting some more milk, we can walk up that way. Harry’s team don’t just rely on the campsite, most of the people on this road get their odds and ends here, it’s the closest place for them. And it’s the only petrol supplier for about five miles. The general shop is open all year, but this time of year, Rainy Days only opens at around lunchtime and they close at about five. If they could get a liquor license they’d be open every night. Come to think of it, now they’ll be able to apply again through the Trust.’
‘Why, what’s changed? Oh, let me guess, Betsy Campbell?’
‘Violently agin it, and because the whole thing is under the Trust it has to be unanimous. She stirred up a lot of feeling against it. She only ever went into our own pub to huff and puff at anyone enjoying a quiet bevvie, and rail at them about the demon drink. I told you she was totally unsuitable for this place.’ Edge glanced across at her thoughtful niece and started to laugh. ‘Ha, you can take the girl out of uniform but you can’t take the uniform out of the girl, just look at you thinking furiously away!’
Kirsty laughed and blushed. As Edge only had one pair of Hunters and she was therefore still in her uniform shoes for the walk, she hung back while Edge plunged into a particularly boggy bit to recapture Buster, who was enthralled by the trembling gorse and had to be dragged away. A philosophical dog, he cast it one last longing glance before resignedly accepting his leash and walking the two up to the little row of shops. Kirsty wandered around while Edge got into an involved conversation with the proprietor, and had a quick look in Rainy Days.
The snooker table was hosting a desultory game but the place was otherwise empty and she roamed round with interest. A long serving counter in the main room was unmanned—by the look of it, the usual attendant was one of the snooker players. The room also offered a jukebox, magazines, newspapers, second-hand books, DVDs and comics. There was a front room for reading, a secure soft-play room and a kind of hobbies room with several tables and shelves stacked with jigsaws and games for slightly older children. The place had a cheerful, slightly raffish air and she could imagine it becoming quite popular as a family-style pub in this fairly isolated area.
As they walked back through the fast-gathering dusk they waved at Sylvia, walking with a woman Kirsty hadn’t met, and a standard poodle which could only be Froufrou.
‘Would you really have invited Sylvia tonight if you hadn’t invited me?’ she asked when they’d handed Buster back to Vivian, and made their way back to Edge’s apartment.
‘I suppose so.’ Edge unlocked the door and let them in. ‘I just don’t like going out alone. Olga’s English isn’t up to a play, the men here would panic if I invited them or, worse, think I was interested in them, and anyway most of us are half-deaf. I can’t imagine anything worse than going to a play with someone who kept asking me in a penetrating whisper what had just been said. Sylvia’s very entertaining company in small doses so, yes, she’d have been my fallback if you couldn’t have made it.’
‘How about your big beau, Patrick?’ Kirsty hung up her borrowed parka and pulled open one of the pantry doors to switch on the kettle, and Edge shot her a concerned glance.
‘I was out with Patrick last night, two nights in a row would make us both uncomfortable. Darling, do you want to go home instead? Honestly, I don’t mind if you want to cancel, I don’t want you to feel pressured.’
‘No! No, not
at all, I’d much rather be with you enjoying myself than brooding at home, I’m just a little worried—no, not worried—a little surprised. I know you have a thriving social life and I somehow got the impression that you were all madly sociable here and did everything together. So when you tell me that if Vivian’s sick your best option is a woman you’d already told me you don’t much like, I’m—taken aback.’
‘Well;’ Edge draped the green and black jersey outfit carefully over a chair, and rummaged in her wardrobe to reappear with a purple armful. ‘Betsy wanted us all to be madly sociable and do everything together. Preferably with her in charge and directing all the fun. I think it’s lovely that you think I have a thriving social life here, and certainly I’m lucky in that I do enjoy my life as it is. You know I travel a lot, one of the perks of being here is that I can just lock the door and go. When I am here—well, it’s comfortable. If I go into our wee pub there’s no one—except Major Horace, he is such a chauvinist—I wouldn’t enjoy having a drink with. There’s always someone to chat with at tea times in the hall. I’ll go shopping, for instance, with Jamie, because bless him he carries all my parcels and he’s good company. I genuinely like Olga, and my other neighbour is friendly, although very shy.’
She shook out the jacket of the purple outfit and eyed it critically. ‘The place is sociable enough, no one would ever feel lonely because there’s always something going on somewhere, especially in summer. But that’s quantity. For quality, I have Vivian, and to some degree Patrick, and you have to realize that by the time you reach my age, my love, having lots of social acquaintances and a couple of good friends is a very comfortable place to be. Now, do you want to change in the bathroom? We’ve got just over half an hour before the taxi arrives, let’s see if two women can get dressed and gussied up and ready to go in one small apartment on time.’
