by EJ Lamprey
‘If you’re still planning on sticking around, I’ll come back out around nine?’
She nodded, fascinated by the change in his appearance, and he drooped a blackened eyelid in a wink and let himself be carried on by the flood of celebrities.
‘He could win, that would be ironic,’ Matilda remarked as she stepped out of the flow to join Edge. ‘That wig is astonishing, what a difference. But then, of course, he’s used to getting into costume from his performing days. Poor Rory’s rigid with embarrassment.’
‘Win?’ Edge was interrupted by the makeup girls pushing their way into the courtyard to remind everyone the ballroom was a mobile-free zone, that there was a jamming signal so they might as well switch them off now. ‘Win?’ she repeated when she could make herself heard.
‘Oh, they wouldn’t dress up for nothing, even for Spinner. There’s a week in the Bahamas at Tobias’s villa as a sweetener, and weekends in Europe up for grabs, that sort of thing. The guests buy voting tickets for charity. It raised about fifty thousand pounds last year. Good exposure and very good PR.’
‘Well, he did look convincing. But some of the others are incredibly good, too. Look at Keith Richards!’ The artiste in question gave them a flashing grin as he went past. ‘Who did Rory dress up as? Has he gone past already?’
Matilda gave a little laugh. ‘Yes. He kicked like a steer, but even he had to agree he looked good when I’d finished with him.’
They were interrupted again, this time by Major Horace, William and Vivian, bringing up what proved to be the rear. Vivian fanned herself with relief as they crossed the little bridge.
‘I can’t believe on an evening like this it could be cooler outside than in. Has my makeup melted?’
‘You look fab,’ Edge assured her. ‘Go knock ‘em dead.’
‘I wish you were coming too. What are you going to do now, Cinderella? Go back to the Lawns?’
‘No, I thought I’d walk down the Mile. I never did get my annual caricature the other day, and there may still be some street artists out. There’s sure to be plenty going on, anyway. Donald said he’d be out at nine, so I’ll head back here around then. It’ll be kept open, right, with a constant flow of people in and out to get their makeup touched up?’
‘There’s a dressing room inside for that,’ Matilda told her. ‘But one of the girls has to stay on duty here so that anyone who wants to leave can get their street clothes.’ She was keeping an eye on the ‘celebrities’ disappearing up the close. ‘Should we head in, get it over with?’
The Major gave his moustache a last brush up with his finger and gallantly offered his arm and Edge bit back a smile as she watched the oddly assorted foursome head up the last few yards of the close to the High Street. Her big shoulder bag was still in the dressing room, but would only be a nuisance. She checked that she had her phone and a twenty tucked into her hip pocket, gave them time to get clear, and followed.
Royal Mile, Edinburgh
She was gazing into space, a quizzical expression frozen on her face, when the niggling memory from the sunken close finally relented and popped to the surface. Her jaw dropped and the skinny Israeli artist tutted.
‘Please keep the face still?’
‘Sorry, but I have to go. I’ve just realized something.’
‘One minute, one minute only, is good likeness,’ he pleaded and she shot him a distracted look and fished out the twenty, paid him and phoned her niece as he resignedly sprayed the half-finished caricature with fixative and flapped it to dry. ‘Kirsty, do you know, has the Morrison girl been found yet?’
‘I don’t, but I think Iain might have tipped me the wink. He knew I was interested and it’s looking pretty grim—five days now. Why?’ Kirsty’s voice quickened. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got something?’
‘Well, I don’t know but I may have. The thing is, I saw a really ancient-looking cellar door with a new shiny Yale lock today. And I thought my scream had an echo, but it’s faintly possible that it was a cry from behind the door. Although most of these doors seem to be about a foot thick.’
‘Your scream? Anyway, where was the door? I’ll phone it in, they’ll be checking every possible lead at this point.’
‘I don’t know the address, I went there with the others, but it’s just off the Mile. There’s a courtyard and workmen have lifted some of the flags to get to the close beneath. The door was in the close.’ Kirsty made a slightly impatient sound and Edge tried again. ‘Do you know the Murdoch house on the Mile? It shares that courtyard with at least two other houses. In fact. . .’ she stared back up the Mile towards the house, and absently took the cardboard tube from the artist with a quick smile, ‘it could be part of the Murdoch house, Kirsty. I don’t know how big the Murdoch house is, but the sunken close certainly runs along their back wall.’
‘The Spinner place?’
‘Yes, you know it?’
‘I don’t know the street address, but Rory pointed the house out often enough: it was his Mecca. I ken where it is, I think I can pinpoint it a bit better than you did.’ Her voice was teasing and Edge smiled into the phone as she answered.
‘I’m an idiot at directions, but if it will help, give the police my number and I’ll go back there and wait. We had to walk up from Cockburn Street, but I’ll look up street numbers as I pass, too. Presumably the police can get through the bollards blocking Castle Hill? They’d better bring a battering ram, it was a heavy door.’
‘Just the key,’ Kirsty said patiently. ‘If it fits, no battering ram. If it doesn’t, no battering ram.’
‘Oh, right.’ Edge lengthened her stride as she tackled the slope back, looking for street numbers. ‘This is ridiculous, I can’t see a single number. Postman Pat is presumably psychic, or these guys would never, ever get their post. ’
‘Tell me shops, or a pub. Or a close.’
Edge reeled off four references and Kirsty thanked her and rang off. The phone rang again immediately, and Brian’s name came up on the screen.
‘Edge?’ His voice was reproachful. ‘You promised you were going to stay safely in the dressing room.’
She glanced around, surprised, then shook her head at herself. ‘I keep forgetting you linked that mapping thing to all our phones. I’ve just had my caricature done, and I’m heading back to the dressing room now. How’s it going your end?’
‘A bit worrying, to be honest. Do you remember me saying the Murdoch property and title couldn’t be left outside the bloodline? Well, Scottish law is different from English law, you know that, and there was that thing William mentioned it last night. I’ve been trying to look up ‘heir of the body’ legislation. As best I can find, the difference is that in English law, inheritance is limited to legitimate children, those where the parents were married, or later got married and legitimated their kids. In Scottish law, heir of the body means that if the father acknowledges his child, legitimate or not, the child has a full claim in law to the estate.’
Edge stopped in her tracks, virtually outside the Murdoch house, and was tutted at by a group of tourists who pushed past reproachfully. ‘Fergus?’
‘Fergus. I said all along I was worried about the Murdochs. I don’t know that the Laird would want to cut his brother out of the inheritance in favour of an illegitimate grandson, but Fiona could conceivably claim Fergus’s rights. It’s possible Tim only told his family recently, after Fiona’s divorce, which could have been quite a shock to Tobias. Instead of one gay nephew to be nudged out of the way, there’s also a potentially ambitious mother and a teenage boy in his road. That ties in with the killer’s instructions, which the tontine theory doesn’t. I still can’t find enough on the legislation to know if there’s a real chance of claiming the title and the estate, but I tried to call William to find out more, then I got worried and tried Donald and Vivian. I even went to Sylvia to get Matilda’s phone number, and that’s switched off too.’
‘Not switched off, blocked. There’s a jamming signal in the ballroom
,’ Edge remembered, and started walking again as people swerved impatiently around her. ‘There might be a late arrival in the changing room, so we can still get a message in to one of them. But Brian, I still can’t see why anyone would plan to commit three murders to get what you said yourself was a pretty obscure minor title.’
‘But a very old one. If Tobias set his heart on being the Laird, and having the country place, and he knew his brother wouldn’t last much longer, he wouldn’t be too pleased when the Laird’s lady suddenly started talking about Tim having a son after all, would he?’
‘Mmm,’ Edge said doubtfully. ‘Hang on, I’m at the changing room—damn. Empty.’
First rescue
The last of the glittering outfits was gone from the racks, the music had been switched off, and only one of the makeup girls remained, sitting next to table with the coffee machine and looking bored. ‘Girl’ was not only politically incorrect but about forty years out of date—her makeup was good but the lines of her face dragged down with weariness in the merciless lighting. She shook her head when Edge asked if she would take a message inside.
‘Not allowed to leave the place, hen. Everyone’s clothes and stuff here in the lockers. And no, I can’t leave you here to keep an eye on things. I ken you were here earlier, but I don’t know you from a bar of soap!’
‘Okay,’ Brian said resignedly before she could relay the conversation. ‘I heard her. Can’t fault her for doing her job. I imagine Donald will be allowed back inside, we’ll have to wait for him. We can’t phone the polis without any evidence. I only wish I knew an expert in Scottish inheritance law.’
‘You could try Drew. He’s studying law, so he should know where to look it up even if he doesn’t know offhand. And long story, but the police will be arriving soon, they’ll be able to go in if I can convince them it’s urgent. I’ll try, anyway. I don’t have Drew’s number but Kirsty’s at his this evening. Ring him on her phone.’
They rang off and she walked back into the courtyard to look up the little close again. Come on, Donald! But there was no sign of him, even though her watch showed it was just on the hour. She climbed back up to street level and stepped into the small candle-lit vestibule of the Spinner house to knock. A large and very bored security guard said no-one had left the party and no messages had been left at the door for anyone. And no, he wouldn’t go to find any of the guests. Resignedly she went back to the dressing room, smiled weakly at the other woman, and pointed at the filter coffee machine.
‘My name’s Edge Cameron, and I shouldn’t be much longer, but could I possibly have another cup?’
‘Not my coffee, hen, and there’s plenty more. I’m Gillian, Gillian Campbell. Help yourself. I brought sandwiches, do you want one?’
Edge suddenly realized she was ravenous, and accepted gratefully, picking a thick cheese and chutney sandwich from an impressively filled plastic lunchbox. As she took her first bite her phone rang—the police. She went outside as two uniformed officers climbed heavily into view up the steps, raised a hand in greeting, then mutely pointed into the sunken close as they reached the courtyard. The younger of the two policemen swung himself down cautiously onto the bridge ladder, dropping lightly to the bottom, and produced a key, which he tried in the new lock.
‘It fits!’ he called up jubilantly, and pulled the door open, then took an involuntary step back as a powerful stench billowed out. The other policeman started speaking urgently into his shoulder unit and Edge moved back a few feet, feeling suddenly weak. In minutes an ambulance siren could be heard nudging its way through the crowds on the Mile, jerking to a halt at the top of the close with a final whoop, another siren close behind it. The older policeman asked politely if she had somewhere to go, which she correctly interpreted as ‘get out of the road and let us do our job,’ and she retreated hastily into the dressing room, where Gillian was watching with interest from the doorway. The policeman followed to politely but firmly close the door in their faces.
‘What’s going on?’ Gillian went back to her chair by the coffee table and Edge, still feeling slightly shaky with reaction, sat rather heavily in the other chair. She shook her head, finished her abandoned cheese sandwich, and found her voice.
‘Gillian, I’m sorry, I’m not sure if I can say. Do you suppose they’ll tell us when we can go out again?’
‘They’d better.’ Gillian accepted her lack of explanation and offered the lunch box again. ‘I’m not allowed to smoke in here, and I’m dying for a puff. You’ve gone pale, have another.’
Edge liked people, and liked listening, and Gillian was easily coaxed into some excellent anecdotes about the celebrities she’d encountered at the makeup mirror. Half an hour flew by before the older policeman was back at the door to give them the all-clear. He even, after a moment’s hesitation, accepted coffee.
‘Is she—will she be okay?’ Edge asked and he glanced at Gillian.
‘Oh aye. That was a good job you did, spotting that door. I ken you’re known to the polis, so I’ll no be after you for a statement the night. We’ll no need you to wait any longer the noo.’
‘Oh, I have to wait anyway. But are you—can I go up with you to the house?’
He looked a little wary. ‘The Murdoch house, would that be?’
‘Yes, of course. That cellar belongs to it, doesn’t it?’
‘Not precisely. There’s no direct access, and there’s been workmen and excavations in the courtyard for over a month. We wouldn’t be barging in there the night, with a party on.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ It was her turn to glance at Gillian, who reluctantly decided she needed her smoke break and left them alone. Edge waited until she was outside, and lowered her voice. ‘The person that poor man was being blackmailed to murder, Fiona Bentwood, well, she’s in the house at the moment. There’s good reason to suspect she’s in danger herself.’
‘Och, you’re all right, we ken she was there.’ He gave her a polite, but not encouraging, smile. ‘I went up meself, while I was waiting for the paramedics to get the Morrison girl stretchered oot, and asked for Miss Bentwood. The security guard said she wasn’t on the list. I said she was a house-guest and he fetched the event manager for me. She confirmed Miss Bentwood has been staying at the house, but wasn’t at the party. No reason to lie, eh?’
‘Yes, I suppose.’
He finished his coffee, thanked her and left as Gillian came back inside, her eyes bright with curiosity. ‘I thought it were drugs, until you said ‘she’. Cannae believe we have our own ‘slave in the cellar’ story now. What is it with people locking each other up? You could a fair knocked me doon.’
‘If that’s what it was,’ Edge said evasively. ‘Gillian, do you think my friend could have come out while the close was barricaded off, and just gone home instead? He was the Alice Cooper.’
‘Oh, aye, su-perb! But nae chance. I did his makeup meself. He’ll need proper cleansers to shift it. He’ll have just hooked up with someone and forgotten the time. I’m making fresh coffee? This is decaff, so you won’t be bouncing off the ceiling if you do.’
‘I wondered why I wasn’t already twitching. Yes please.’
While Gillian busied herself with fresh filters she rang Brian’s number. It went straight to voicemail—he must still be talking to Drew—and she left a message saying he could stop worrying, Fiona wasn’t in the house, the police had asked.
But where was Donald? She tried his number too, in case he’d had his makeup removed inside and gone, but his phone also went straight to voicemail. Worry pricked at her insistently. Donald was never, ever unreliable about time. It was one of the things they had in common, a compulsion they both agreed could be extremely inconvenient. No matter what was holding him up, he would have sent a message out to her. It was now closer to ten, so where was he?
‘Gillian, I’m getting really worried now. Is there anything I can say that will convince you to go inside and find him? You can take my handbag with you if you like, to make sur
e I’ll still be here when you get back.’
‘Aw, I trust you now, hen, seen you with the polis and all. I’ll go in. What’s his name?’
Edge stared at her in dismay. What was the drummer’s name? She couldn’t for the life of her remember. Rory, Jason, even Madge, but not the drummer.
‘Ask for Rory Wilson,’ she said finally. ‘Or William Robertson. Either of those. And whichever one you get, tell them Edge has to speak to them urgently, they have to come out.’
Gillian, not unexpectedly, hesitated but then left, to Edge’s huge relief. She was back in ten minutes, but she was alone.
‘Bloody security guards, think they own the world,’ she said irritably. ‘Bugger wouldn’t let me in. I tried everything I could think of. He said I had no right to even be there, leaving this room open, so I lied and said I’d locked it and then the bitch from the reception desk came back to the hall and gave me hell, said I had to come back here and wait. One more act still to arrive, so I had to be here to help her get dressed. There aren’t any more outfits here!’
‘But that’s fine, whoever it is, they can take the message in. They may be in regular clothes, only need makeup?’
‘Her from Blondie. You know, Debbie Harry lookalike? I suppose she could do straight clothes, at a pinch. Black and tight-fitted, for a party like this. It’s mainly the hair and makeup.’ Gillian sat down crossly. ‘So we just wait until she arrives?’
‘Damn.’ Edge looked at her in dismay. ‘She won’t be arriving, Rory Wilson put her on the list. He obviously never changed it. Long story.’
Gillian half-smiled. ‘Pity we haven’t got an outfit, I could make you up to look like her. Not to fool anyone, but good enough for the party. But without a wig—and your clothes are all wrong, all that red.’
