“Did she say anything else?” Esme persists.
“I hate that,” he eventually replies.
“Sorry? Hate what?” I say, glancing around for something the barman might have taken offence to - besides our persistent questioning of him.
He places the polished glass on the bar. “That’s what the bride said when she was on the phone that day in the bar. She said, I hate that.”
He takes a step back and nods his head slightly. “Sorry, I don’t think I can be of any further help to you this evening on this matter. Normally we would put drinks onto the bill for a guest’s suite but, as you ladies are not staying at the Roseby, I’m afraid I’m going to have to trouble you for payment.” He coughs and pushes a piece of paper across the bar towards us, looking a little embarrassed.
I reach into the pocket of my jeans for my one and only money, my five pound note. As I was whisked away on this case with just ten minutes to pack, I didn’t have time to visit a cash machine. Not that there is one within a fifty mile radius of the agency training camp anyway. I reach for the bar bill and turn the piece of paper over, nearly choking. That much for two non-alcoholic drinks? Seriously?
I turn to Esme and whisper, “Have you got any money on you?”
She nods and pulls a ten pound note from her pocket, placing it on top of the bill and pushing it across towards our friendly bartender. He hesitates, then pushes it back, looking at me. I add my own five pound note to Esme’s ten pounds. She gasps and flashes me a look of incredulity. Clearly she can’t believe the prices in this place either.
As we sip our drinks, the only other guests in the bar get up to leave. Lottie links her arm through Taylor’s in a friendly gesture as they walk out.
“Do you think they’re calling it a night and all heading back to their rooms, or are they going to go off somewhere else to drown their pretend sorrows?”
“No idea,” Esme says, then drains her drink. “Why?”
“I was just wondering if we could go and knock on the door of Dorothea’s suite and ask her what things Poppy hated.” I glance at the clock above the bar. “But it’s getting late in the evening as it is.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she replies, sliding off the bar stool. “And time is not on our side. Let’s go and see if Dorothea’s in her room, shall we?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Time now: 22:30
Time to deadline: 19 hours and 30 minutes
Esme knocks on the door to Dorothea’s suite and we wait, listening for any sounds she might have retired for the evening.
I want to get my teeth into this investigation and find out who kidnapped the bride and why. Not to mention that the clock is ticking more and more loudly on our deadline. Ideally I’d like to catch this kidnapper before we run out of our allotted time - which is dwindling fast. I can’t believe Mitch isn’t here with us, trying to solve this case as well. Instead, he’s off in search of food. My stomach rumbles loudly. This investigating business is hungry work.
The door opens and Dorothea stands before us, dressed in a bathrobe. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you so late in the day,” Esme says. “But some additional information about Poppy has just come to light and we wondered if you could spare us five minutes to answer some questions?”
Dorothea nods and steps back to let us into her room. “Of course, I’ll do anything I can to help you to find my daughter.”
“What did she hate?” Esme blurts out.
Dorothea frowns. “Hate? How do you mean?”
“We have reports of an overheard telephone conversation in which Poppy said, I hate that. We need to know what that thing could have been,” I chip in. “It might be relevant to the case or it might not. Anything you can think of which could help us would be much appreciated though.”
“Shouldn’t Agent Hargreaves be here with you? Isn’t he leading this case?” she asks, perching on the edge of the four poster bed in her room.
“He’s, er, indisposed at the moment,” Esme replies hastily. “He’s busy investigating another angle on the case.”
Dorothea nods but looks sceptical.
“So, what kind of things would Poppy tell somebody she hates?” I prompt.
“There’s a few things,” Dorothea replies, looking thoughtful and smoothing a hand over the silk throw on the bed as she speaks. “Whisky. She hates whisky. I remember Taylor wanted a whisky coffee for the end of the meal at the wedding reception but she was dead against it.”
I nod, open my notebook and start writing everything down. Whisky. “Anything else? You mentioned there were a few things she hated.”
“Salmon,” Dorothea adds. “Of course, the hotel offered us several menu choices for the wedding meal and salmon was amongst them. Poppy insisted there would be no salmon at this wedding.”
“What else did she hate?” Esme asks, pacing the room.
“A perfume. It’s called La Isla Del Mar. She can’t stand the smell of it. In fact, her friend Lottie… You know her, don’t you? She’s one of the bridesmaids. Well, Lottie bought a bottle of it for her birthday last year and it set Poppy off in a terrible sneezing fit. I think she might have some sort of allergy to it.”
“La Isla Del Mar, that sounds like Spanish,” I check, raising a questioning eyebrow.
“That’s right,” Esme beams at me and nods enthusiastically. “It means island of the sea, I know Spanish pretty well. I lived in Barcelona for a while.”
“You did? Wow! OK, great.” Turning to Dorothea I add, “Is there anything else Poppy hated? Maybe there’s something you’ve remembered about Poppy and her relationships with Taylor or with David and you want to tell us about it? Anything you can think of which could help us to catch who kidnapped her?”
“Not at the moment,” Dorothea says, tightening her robe around herself.
I watch as she walks over to the window and stares out into the dark night. There are no other properties around the hotel. It stands, all alone, amongst the woodland, hills and lakes. Other than the lights which are artistically illuminating the trees in the Roseby’s acres and acres of grounds, there is no sign of life out there. The lake is dark. The surrounding hills are dark. A shiver runs through me and I gulp back a mix of scary thoughts and anxiety about passing this assignment.
“I can’t stand the idea of her being out there, taken by somebody, held against her will. I just want her here with me and safe.” Dorothea reaches for a box of tissues on the dressing table and sniffs back tears. “You will find her soon, won’t you?”
Esme walks over and rests an arm around Dorothea’s shoulders. “You can count on it.”
We leave Dorothea to get some sleep and head back to the staff quarters. In the kitchen I start to make us both mugs of hot chocolate. Esme gets to work on the internet as I spoon cocoa powder into two mugs. After making the drinks I place them on the dining table and sit beside Esme as we trawl through all of the search results popping up on the computer.
“Nothing,” she says about twenty minutes later before flopping back in her chair. “There’s nothing in this area relating to salmon or whisky. The perfume isn’t made in England either. We’ve got zilch.”
“So, what now? We’ve checked on the internet for any local whisky distillers or distributors and there aren’t any. There are no fishmongers or salmon farms around here. No leads on the perfume either.” I sigh. “Even so, I suppose we really should share what we’ve found out from the barman and from Dorothea, with Mitch. Shouldn’t we?”
Esme shrugs and looks irritated. “He’s not exactly playing fair with us though, is he? He’s not shared what agency HQ has told him from the background search he requested for David Smith, has he?”
“True.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Even so, I think we should probably try to get him back on side, don’t you? This thing with him being difficult, well, it could be a part of the assignment. A test to see how we cope with a challenging ag
ent working on a case. It could just be the way he is though, I suppose.”
“It could well be, but how do the assessors want us to react if it is a part of the test? Do they want us to play nice and make friends with him? Are we supposed to try to win him round? Or do they want to see if we can break away, stand up for ourselves, and solve the case without his help?” Esme ponders.
I pick up our empty mugs and head for the sink to wash them. “I don’t know what they want us to do.”
The kitchen door opens and we both turn to see Mitch. He’s wearing jeans and a coat damp with rain. All this time he’s been out somewhere? But he didn’t have any transport.
“Evening, girls,” he says, walking towards us. “Making a drink? I could use a coffee if you’re offering.”
“We’re not,” Esme immediately replies.
So much for playing nice then.
“Been out?” I ask, reaching for a mug to actually make him a coffee. I’m prepared to be the one to offer the olive branch to try and get our working relationship back on track.
He nods. “Yeah, into town.”
“You found transport then,” I say, tipping coffee granules into a mug. Across the room Esme glowers at him.
“Got the hotel to order me a taxi. Had a nice meal in an Indian restaurant and a few beers.”
“Right, well, that sounds good.” I hand him the mug. “One coffee.”
He surprises me by smiling. “Thank you, Amber. That’s very kind of you.”
Whoa. Where did that come from? Has he decided to be polite to us or does he turn into Mr. Nice Guy when he’s had a bit of something alcoholic to drink? I still struggle to believe, especially when we’ve got such a tight deadline for this assignment, that he’s off filling his face with food and drinking.
“Why didn’t you tell us what you’ve found out about David Smith?” Esme demands, getting to her feet, one hand gripping the back of her chair so tightly her knuckles are white. “Amber and I are supposed to be a part of this investigation and nothing you can do or say will stop us from helping to solve this case and catch the kidnapper. You do realise that, don’t you?”
Mitch sips his coffee then sits at the kitchen table, a smirk on his face. “Determined, aren’t we?”
“You bet we are,” Esme says, resting both hands on the table now and leaning towards him. “And don’t you forget it.”
He smirks again. “OK. I’ll share, but I get the feeling you’ll have something to trade with me if you’re both so determined to solve this case and get a job offer from the agency. Deal?”
I step forward and offer Mitch a hand to shake. “Deal.”
“OK then. I doubt it was David Smith who kidnapped our wannabe bride.”
“And why is that?” Esme demands, glowering at him.
“Because agency support checked with passport control when they ran the expedited background check I requested, and David Smith isn’t even in the UK at the moment. He flew from Heathrow to Spain three days before Poppy was kidnapped. He checked into the Hotel City in Madrid and has been staying there ever since.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling deflated. So David isn’t our man then. Which begs the question, who is? It looks as though we’re back at square one.
“So, come on then,” Mitch says, stretching long legs out in front of him. “What did you two find out? It’s time to share, don’t forget.”
“We spoke to the hotel’s bartender and he overheard Poppy on the phone on the day she arrived at the Roseby. She said something about time running out and then she said, I hate that,” I answer, filling him in on our latest.
“OK.” He nods, and I think I detect the faintest glimmer of approval. “So, what did you do next?”
“We spoke to Dorothea to try and find out what things Poppy hates,” Esme chips in. “She came up with three things - whisky, salmon and a perfume. None of them seems to lead to anywhere regarding clues to help with this though. We’ve checked online. There’s no local connection with whisky distillers or distributors and no salmon smokers, fishmongers or farms, so she isn’t being held at a factory or anything related to fish or alcohol.”
Mitch frowns. “What’s the perfume you mentioned?”
“It’s called La Isla Del Mar,” I reply. “Apparently Poppy is allergic to it, one of her friends, the bridesmaid Lottie, gave her a bottle as a birthday present a while back.”
“The island of the sea,” he instantly translates, and I experience a reluctant twinge of admiration at his linguistic abilities. Most special agents need to speak at least two languages fluently, more is preferable. “Anything else?”
“That’s all for now. So, what should be our next course of action, oh wise one?” Esme asks sarcastically.
Mitch checks his watch. “It’s almost midnight, so I say we all head off to our beds and get some sleep. First thing in the morning, we search Poppy’s room again and question the groom and the bridesmaid Lottie again, right?”
“Plus any other hotel staff we can find who are willing to talk to us,” Esme adds, flashing a look of defiance at Mitch.
He gets to his feet, leaving his coffee mug on the table. “Right, I’m off to bed. See you in the morning for day two of this assignment. Tomorrow is going to be a busy old day.”
As the door closes behind him, Esme and I exchange a look of uncertainty. “Do you trust him to be working with us properly now?” she asks, voicing my own concerns.
“I’m not sure,” I reply, with a shake of my head. “I’m not sure at all, but I’m leaning towards going with it for now and seeing what happens. How about you?”
Esme pulls a face but nods. “Yeah, OK, we’ll go with that. But I’m not ready for bed. I’m too wound up. Besides, should we really be sleeping when we don’t have long to track down the bride’s kidnapper?”
“I know. I don’t think I could sleep either. What can we do in the middle of the night to further this investigation though? It’s pitch black out there. We don’t have any transport or any clue as to where Poppy is being held.”
“A place like this must have outbuildings, surely? Where do they do the hotel laundry or store spare furniture and stuff like that?” Esme muses.
“I think most hotels use an external laundry service these days,” I reply. “Hang on! When we flew in to the Roseby I spotted some buildings half hidden amongst the trees a little way up the drive. We could grab some flashlights and explore those?”
Esme leaps to her feet. “Sounds like a plan!”
We scramble around in some cupboards and find lights, as well as a map of the area, some local guidebooks and camping equipment. Armed with the lights we make our way down the drive, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible and avoiding the floodlit areas, just in case anybody spots us from their bedroom window. Though, what they’d be doing gazing from their bedroom window at this time of night, I have no idea. Once again, we find ourselves skulking in the bushes as we peer out at what looks like a huge barn. The other structure next to it is clearly the hotel spa but the piles of bricks, a cement mixer and various tools scattered outside give it more of a building site appearance.
“Where shall we start?” Esme hisses in my ear.
“The barn,” I reply decisively.
We make a dash for the barn and check the huge doors. If the Gods are on our side, it won’t be locked. Esme tugs at first one door and then the other.
They’re locked.
So much for the Gods being on our side.
“What now?”
“Let’s see if there’s any other way inside,” I suggest, starting to walk around the edge of the building, shining my torch. “There might be a window we could smash with a brick.”
Esme frowns. “What if it sets off the security alarms?”
“We’ll worry about that if we find a window.”
Creeping along the side of the stone barn we find no other doors or windows. OK. Think. I could try lock pick
ing, but I’ve never done it before.
“Evening, ladies!”
We both jump a foot and Esme immediately goes into wrestling manoeuvre attack mode.
Mitch steps from behind some trees. “Not a very nice night for a walk,” he grins, pulling the collar of his jacket up against the drizzle which has just started.
“I thought you said you were going to bed!” I retort a little snappily. My heart is going a mile a minute but I don’t want to show Mitch he freaked me out. I need to give the appearance of being strong and brave here, not wimpy and scared.
He laughs. “We don’t have time for luxuries like sleep. That was a test. To see if you two would go off to get some beauty sleep, despite the ominous ticking of the clock towards our deadline. I’ve got to say, I’m impressed you’re both out here, trying to break into the hotel’s garage.”
“This is the garage?” Esme asks. “It just looks like a barn.”
Mitch’s words about not having time to sleep irritate me and it’s on the tip of my tongue to reply that there wasn’t time for him to swan off tonight eating Indian and drinking beers either. I bite my tongue though, for now anyway.
Mitch walks towards the doors of the building. “Believe me, it’s a garage. Want me to get us inside it?”
“Can you pick locks?” I ask warily, unsure if he’s trying to wind us up or not.
By way of reply he pulls a long metal device from his jacket pocket and, in a second, has one door open for us to slide inside and investigate the garage’s secrets. I’m impressed, but I’m not about to admit as much. We all check the walls near the entrance for any sign of an alarm keypad but find nothing. There’s a small office to our right and Mitch heads over, I presume to check that isn’t where the alarm keypad could be hiding. He walks out. “All clear.”
On Trial Page 7
