by R B Marshall
Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded. It sounded like he was a little jealous of Craig. But why would he be? It was very confusing. Men were very confusing. I’d have to tell Trinity later and see what she thought, since she had better instincts with people.
“Okay.” Letting go of my arms, he picked up his cup and spooned sugar into it, then sat back down at the table. “I’ve got something to ask you. Two things, actually.”
Grabbing my coffee, I sat down heavily. “Yes?”
“Firstly, the investigation into Hamish’s death has been re-opened—this new development is just too coincidental. So my bosses have agreed to pay your fees, and we’d like you to investigate Mr Seaforth as well. They say they’ll raise a purchase order.”
“Oh-kay,” I said slowly, unsurprised at the police bureaucracy after my time spent working for a large organisation in London. I sipped at my drink. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“And secondly,” he continued, then picked up a teaspoon and started stirring his tea.
“Secondly?” I prompted, wondering what was coming next.
Brown eyes met mine. “Would you consider coming out with me again this weekend? We could go to the cinema in Dundee. Or ten-pin bowling. Or we could do dinner,” a slow smile lit up his face, “but avoid the wine this time.”
I almost laughed at that. However, I wasn’t ready to commit to a date. I was too confused about my feelings for him and Craig. “Let me see how today goes, and I’ll let you know. But first, tell me more about how Mr Seaforth died?”
The vet, it turned out, had been found dead on the floor of his surgery when his cleaner had turned up for work early that morning. An empty syringe lay beside him, and it looked as if he’d been injected with an overdose of animal anaesthetic.
“We might have thought suicide,” Dean explained, “except that we found the needle mark on the back of his right arm. Not the sort of place you’d inject yourself. And anyway, he was right-handed.”
“So we’re possibly looking at someone from the Horseman’s Guild as a suspect?”
“We are. You just need to concentrate on their financial dealings. See if you can find any crossover, or anything suspicious. I was just explaining the context so you understand what we’re thinking.” He picked up his cap and stepped towards the door. “Now, I need to take Mr MacDonald in for questioning.”
“Questioning?” I followed him out into the yard, where Craig and Trinity were talking outside Eagle’s box.
Dean acted like he hadn’t heard me, pulled Craig aside, and spoke urgently to him.
Craig’s face fell, and he nodded briefly. Then he strode towards me. “I have tae go back. Will ye be able to pick up Daisy and Allegra this week? There’s only two spaces in the wee lorry so I couldnae bring them wi’ me today, I’m sorry.”
His accent was definitely stronger than usual. I remembered it had been that way at the pub, after a few beers. But did stress or worry maybe make it stronger too? I didn’t know him well enough to be sure, but it seemed possible. Being interviewed for a second time by the police would be enough to worry most people.
“I could try to come up tomorrow?” I suggested. “Probably the afternoon, once we’ve got the horses done here.”
“Aye, that should be fine. Give me a ring before you leave, so I know when to expect you.” He leaned slightly towards me, as if he was going to kiss my cheek, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, he clasped my arm. “I’ll be seeing you. Soon, I hope.” With a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he stepped into the cab of the lorry and drove off.
Dean jumped into his police car and followed after Craig, raising his hand in farewell as he passed me.
The two vehicles disappeared in a cloud of dust, and Trinity appeared at my side. “What were all that about?”
I sighed. “The vet, Oliver Seaforth, has been found dead, and the police want to question Craig.”
“That’s so not right! He wouldn’t ever do something like that…” She paused, staring at the cloud of dust, then frowned at me. “Would he?”
“I’m giving up on men,” I announced as we congregated in the tack room for lunch. Even though Stables Cottage was only a few steps away, there was something satisfying about keeping work separate from our home life, and eating ‘on the hoof’ as it were.
“What’s brought that on?” Trinity picked up a cracker and started spreading butter on it.
In the corner, Jorja curled up on the old saddle pad we’d placed there especially for her, and soon was snoring contentedly.
“You heard what those gossips at the café said about Dean—that he jilted some woman. And Pat McDade said something about Craig having ‘another girl on the go so soon’. Plus, Craig introduced me yesterday as his ‘friend’.” I picked up an apple and started to slice it. “I really thought we were a bit more than friends.”
“Maybe it’s time to have ‘the talk’ with him?”
“The talk?”
“The state of the union. Are we just friends, or more? Is this just dating, or are we exclusive… You get the picture?”
I nodded. “But if he’s a bit of a philanderer like Mr McDade said, I’m not interested. There were enough players in London. I don’t need the drama.”
She waved a tomato in the air, before taking a bite of it. “So this is an example of why we need to cultivate the local gossips. To find out what really happened.”
“But is gossip not, by its very nature, mostly untrue?”
“You know what they say. There ain’t no smoke without fire. But you need enough sources to get the full picture. Like, from all angles. One swallow does not make a summer, and all that.”
I sighed. This was so not my area of expertise. “Any chance you could check out the gossip for me? About both of them? Dean has asked me out again, and I don’t know whether to go.”
“You absolutely should,” she mumbled through a mouthful of cheese and biscuits. “You could do with getting out a bit more, spending less time on that computer. And he’s hot.”
“Yeah, but being hot isn’t everything.”
“Is for me.”
That comment totally deserved an eye roll. “What about—”
I was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Hello?” said a male voice
From the corner, Jorja barked, then her nails clicked across the wooden floor, her tail wagging slightly as the door creaked open.
A full black beard and large horn-rimmed glasses peered around the jamb. “I thought I heard voices. May I come in?”
“Um, yes, I suppose so.”
The stranger entered the room. Wearing a red check shirt, jeans and a grey cardigan, he had almost as much hair on his head as in his beard, so it was hard to see his face, as if he was hiding from the world. He looked at Trinity, then swallowed. “I—I’m looking for Isobel Paterson,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face.
She jerked her chin in my direction. “Wrong girl, mate. I’m Trinity.”
His adam’s apple bobbled. “Hello, Trinity, nice to meet you. I’m Neil Etherington from the Gowrie Gazette.” Then he turned to me. “Ms Paterson,” he extended a hand, “We heard you were working for Lady Letham, and that you were a witness to the recent murder at Balmoral. I wonder if you might spare me a few minutes for an interview?”
“Oh, I don’t think your readers would be—”
“What she’s trying to say, mate,” interrupted Trinity, “is that she’d be happy to speak to you as long as you’ll include a link to the website for her horse training business.”
The boy reporter was staring at Trinity again, his mouth hanging slightly open. I couldn’t decide whether he was entranced by her, or had such a sheltered upbringing that he wasn’t used to seeing women who looked like her.
With a slight shake of his head, he seemed to remember why he was here. “Th—That would be beautiful, I mean, wonderful.”
His slip-up answered the entranced versus sheltered question for me—obvi
ously he was appreciative of her feminine charms. Unfortunately for him, I didn’t get any corresponding vibes from her. I sighed. “We can speak in here, if that suits?” I waved him to a chair.
Pulling a phone out of his pocket, he pressed some buttons and then placed it on the table between us. Then spun it round the other way. “G—great. I’ll just record the interview, if that’s okay—”
Trinity pushed her chair back and stood up, grabbing a banana from the fruit bowl which she raised in salute. “Excuse me. I’ll go check on Eagle. Leave you guys to it.” Before I could protest, she disappeared out of the door.
Clark Kent spent the next twenty minutes asking me various questions about the murder and my background. I did my best not to tell him anything which would annoy the police or compromise their investigation. And any time I got twitchy about the personal questions, I reminded myself that it would be good publicity for my training business. Despite his seeming shyness, he was good at his job, and actually made me feel somewhat at ease.
When his questions dried up, he motioned outside. “Would it be possible to get a photo of you, maybe with one of the horses?”
My initial instinct was to say no, but then I remembered that this was like free advertising for us. “Um, okay.”
Trinity was sweeping the yard when we went outside, but she stopped when she saw us.
“He wants a photo,” I said, then scanned the boxes. With a sinking heart, I realised that Eagle was the only horse that was in just now; the rest were out grazing in their various fields. Would the Queen mind if I was photographed with her prize stallion? Even if he was somewhat disgraced right now?
“Eagle is a client’s horse,” I said, leading the reporter over to the stallion’s box. “Would you be able to do something artistic so he’s not too recognisable?
“I’m sure I could. If you stand there,” he pointed, then glanced upwards to check the position of the sun and moved a couple of steps sideways before crouching down with his phone, “I’ll get an interesting angle from here.”
“I thought reporters usually had photographers in tow?” Trinity moved a little closer. “Union rights or whatever.”
He shrugged. “W—we’re just a little paper. We all have to muck in.” Taking one more shot, he stood and addressed Trinity. “Is it you who’s starting the dancing classes I heard about?”
“Good to hear the jungle drums are getting the word out,” she said with a grin, brushing a stalk of straw from her t-shirt. “Yeah, that’s me. Horse groom by day, salsa dancer by night.”
“P—perhaps I could do a piece on you for next week’s paper?”
“Sure thing. D’you want to do it now?”
Checking the time on his phone, he grimaced. “I’m afraid I’ll need to get this one written up to make our copy deadline. I’ll come back next week, if that’s okay?”
“It’s a date,” she said, and then resumed her sweeping.
For a moment, I thought Neil was about to faint. I’d already taken a step towards him, ready to grab him if he collapsed, when he gave himself a little shake and stood taller. “Sorry, sugar dip,” he said by way of excuse, and pointed at a bicycle propped against the oak tree. “I need to learn to eat more calories.”
“Mmm,” I said, but I wasn’t taken in. The roving reporter had it bad for my flatmate.
I had a feeling that there was a handsome guy under all that hair, and he seemed really intelligent and personable. But hardly what you’d call ‘hot’. So, from what she’d said earlier, he’d have no chance with her.
“See you next week,” Neil raised a hand in farewell, then strode over to his bike, popped a helmet on his head, and set off down the drive.
Like a typical Brit, I felt sorry for the underdog, and my heart twisted a little for him. Unrequited feelings must be the worst, and it was something that I, too, knew a little about…
Chapter Fifteen
Over dinner that night—ginger, sweet potato and coconut milk stew with lentils and kale, cooked by Trinity—I finally got to hear her gossip from the funeral.
At various times, the group of men surrounding her had included the now-deceased vet, Oliver Seaforth, Pat McDade the agricultural merchant, Richard Mortimer the farrier, the minister from Crathie church, and even Craig, once he’d left me. And it seemed the men were worse gossips than most women.
One person in the group that was new to both of us was the local ‘back man’—a chiropractor for horses—who was known as ‘The Terminator’ because of his catch phrase: “I’ll be back.”
I groaned when she told me that.
“Yeah. He were a bit of a looker, though. His eyes! They was so blue, like the sea.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “I thought you liked the farrier?”
Her fork paused, half-way to her mouth. “I do. But a girl has to keep her options open, don’t she? Succession planning, I think they call it.”
Shaking my head, I took another bite of the delicious stew. “But you’re still going out with Richard on Saturday?”
“Yeah. I’m meeting ’im for a drink. But,” she leaned forward, “I never told you the chat. Apparently old Hamish had an argy-bargy in the pub with one of the guys from the shooting party a couple of nights before he died. The man was ’aving a go at him because they hadn’t managed to shoot any deer that day.”
The vegetarian in me rejoiced at that. “I wonder if the police know?”
Trinity gave me a sly look. “If you go out with your rozzer tomorrow, you could tell him.”
She had a point there. “Any other tidbits?”
“Hamish weren’t having a good night, that night, ’cos when his missus came to get him later on, he were in his cups and she practically dragged him out of there by his ear.”
I sat back in my chair. “So the wife might have done it after all?”
Her shoulders lifted. “Maybe. But would Grisham not want more evidence than some tittle-tattle?” she said, referring to my favourite character in the TV show, CSI.
“You’re right,” I said. “I really need to get going with my research. And contact Dev to investigate their bank accounts.”
She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Off you go then. I’ll wash up.”
Dev, my ex-colleague from the bank in London, wasn’t as much of an introvert as me. But he was a bigger geek, wearing superhero t-shirts like they were a uniform, and able to quote reams from every Star Trek episode there ever was. So I knew that instant messaging would be the best way to contact him.
Me: Hey, Dev, how’s it going?
Dev: Just great! I’m having a whale of a time here. You?
Me: Good thanks, getting settled and getting to know the locals. Got my first job for Aye Spy, too, and I need your help.
Dev: ??
Me: A local guy got murdered. And then another. The police want their financial dealings investigated in case there was anything strange going on. I thought that would be a job for you.
Dev: Tell me more.
I proceeded to give him all the details I knew about Hamish and Oliver, and he said he’d get right on it, and let me know as soon as he found anything interesting.
Me: And how’s it going with you and Charlie?
Dev: She got a job at a tech startup down by the docks.
Me: In Dublin?
Dev: Yeah. We’re sharing a flat in the centre. Right across the street from my favourite pub :)
Yay! I punched the air, glad to hear that Charlie had finally got her man.
Me: Handy. You can stagger home.
Dev: Just have to watch out for kamikaze taxis when I’m crossing the road.
Me: Lol.
Dev: Right. I’d better get started on those investigations for you so I can get you some answers.
Me: Okay. Thanks. I’ve got some work to do too. Speak soon.
Dev: Live long and prosper.
I laughed as I shut down the chat window and opened Gremlin. Dev always had good banter.
Then I paused, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What was I going to search for? “Trin, did you hear what the name was of the guy who was arguing with Hamish?”
“Don’t think they mentioned it.” She opened a cupboard door and tidied away a casserole dish. “Perhaps Craig would know?”
“Mmmm.”
She gave me a sharp look. “An’ you could have that talk with him.”
My insides knotted up. “Not sure I’m ready for that, yet.”
“Yeah, but don’t you think you’d better check before you go out with the policeman again? If Craig thinks you’re exclusive,” she made air quotes around the word, “he’ll be well annoyed if he finds out you’ve been out with another man.”
She had a point. “Oh-kay.” Oh boy. I so didn’t want to do this. My brain was all about the logic. And emotions just weren’t logical, so I tried not to do them.
But his phone rang out. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. Were the police still questioning him this late in the day? I decided to send a text instead:
Me: Hey, Craig, hope all is okay. Can you give me a phone when you get this? Thanks, Izzy x
I debated long and hard about whether to type a kiss or not. But, up till now, we’d always signed off with an x, so it made sense to stick with it so he wouldn’t think something was up. I made a face. Did men even notice such things?
While I waited for him to reply, I sent Gremlin off to search for meeting notes or minutes from the horseman’s guild, to see if there were any hints of trouble or animosity.
Trinity came through from the kitchen, shooed Jorja off the armchair and plumped herself down. “So?”
“He wasn’t answering. So I sent a text message.”
She threw up her hands. “Technology ain’t the be-all and end-all, Izzy. Like, sometimes it’s best to just talk to people. Tell them what’s in your heart.”
My shoulders slumped. “That’s the problem. I’m not sure I know what I feel. I mean, if I like Craig, then why did I let Dean kiss me last night?”
