When his regiment prepared to pull out, they met one last time. He remembered that plainly enough—her dingy basement apartment, the one working light fixture, the ersatz tea and smear of jam on week-old bread. They sat in candlelight, not because it was romantic but because the power wasn’t on. She was dressed in a blue blouse and black floral skirt, and her hair was done up in one long braid. As she opened a tin of pears she told him she was pregnant with his child. No grand announcement, no joy on her face. Just a piece of information, as though she were a television news reporter.
He’d accepted her word as fact. She could have lied, told him she carried his child in order to procure a husband, a more comfortable life, and a way out of the dinginess of war. Just another British war bride. But her voice held a tone that suggested the sadness of the truth. The baby would be another mouth to feed, another body to keep clothed, another handful of guldens or Reichsmarks or bartering reciprocal work for babysitting.
Neill had asked what she wanted; marriage was impossible at the moment. But after the war…
Liesbeth looked at him gravely, her blue eyes mirroring her hopelessness. She’d have the baby, keep it. If he felt the same after the war…
They’d parted after exchanging home addresses. He recalled hesitating, about to write down a fictitious house number and street in Glasgow. The pencil point made a dark, deep mark on the paper, underscoring his hesitation, then the smooth, even flow of his penmanship took over as he wrote out his Balquhidder address.
He swallowed, suddenly ashamed he’d contemplated leaving her alone with her burden. He had prided himself on being a man.
Neill saw combat in other European occupied countries and escaped being wounded. When the Scots Guards were demobilized, he wrote to Liesbeth, pouring out his constant love and wish to be married. The letter was answered months later by a relative, saying Neill’s daughter was being reared by Liesbeth’s sister and husband. They’d decided it was best for the child to be kept in Holland. He could never discover their names or whereabouts.
The wind touched the tapestry again, shifting his gaze to the McLaren clan crest badge. A crowned lion’s head surrounded by two laurel branches. The clan motto Creag An Tuirc stood out in stark white thread beneath the crest. The Boar’s Rock. A rallying cry. A place of gathering.
Neill shook his head. He hadn’t gathered Michael into his embrace nor rallied around him when he’d come to make amends for the past, for something not of his own doing. Was he living a lie? Was he so useless that he was allowing Michael to slip out of his life again? He’d done that with Liesbeth, with his baby.
Was that why he’d grown so hard and unforgiving? He’d not always been so. In his youth, during his war years, he’d been fun-loving and outgoing, wanting to explore the world and gather friends to his side. He’d wanted to be popular and loved, unconcerned what others thought or how the world ran. Had losing Liesbeth and the girl changed him, made him bitter for his loss, determined to wall his heart against human emotions so he’d never be hurt again?
Had his fanaticism about the family business developed to take the place of his lost love? Wasn’t he cursing his elder son for doing what he, himself, was doing? Colin had taken over the farmstead, keeping it in the family. Was that different from taking over the brewery?
Neill got up and went to his desk. The wood shone in the firelight, dark and distressed and satiny from centuries of use and polishing. He pulled a pen and a sheet of stationery from the drawer and sat down. The paper lay large, white and intimidating before him, waiting for his words. He chewed on the end of the pen, suddenly unsure of what he would say, unsure of his motive. His and Liesbeth’s daughter would be in her sixties now. Ten years or so older than Brandon. Would he be able to find the girl? She had a lifetime of living somewhere else, of growing up Dutch, of having different values. Even if he could locate the girl, she was probably married. She wouldn’t want to leave her husband and family to live in Scotland. Or want to learn the family business. Anyway, where would Neill start to find his daughter? Her last name would have changed when she married. How would he ever find anyone after all this time? Did wartime records even exist?
His right hand slowly fell onto the stationery and drew it into a wad. The paper crackled as he squeezed it into a ball. He laid the pen on the desk and walked to the fire. He tossed the paper onto the logs and watched as the flames devoured it. A charred wisp remained, fragile and cobwebby against the log. He blew on it and it disintegrated into ash and floated up the chimney. A clean death, he thought. A closed door on the past. Ashes to ashes. Fire purges many mistakes.
He reclaimed his chair and grabbed his fork. The Welsh rarebit had grown cold, the cheese tough and stringy. He pushed the plate aside and picked up the beer glass.
Beer. Rannoch beer from Strathearn Brewery. His brewery. The brewery he could not pass on beyond Brandon.
He stared at the glass, lifted it shoulder high, and threw it into the fire.
****
Tuesday morning after breakfast, Jamie phoned McLaren with the information. “I had to lie through my smile,” Jamie said. “I told Ross Gordon, my contact in Central Scotland Constabulary, one of our probationary constables was looking through Scotland and northern England reports for a black Ford Kuga that might’ve been used in a robbery here in Derbyshire.”
“You will be rewarded in heaven, my son.”
“I could feel my face getting redder by the moment, but I got what you wanted.”
“Good thing Ross couldn’t see you, then. You’re a rotten liar, Jamie.”
“Probably why I’m not a good criminal. The hit-and-run bloke’s name is Lanny Clack. He’s got a history of theft, robbery, assault, and domestic violence.”
“Well known to the local coppers, I take it.”
“I’m sending his photo to your mobile as we speak. My contact up there sent it to me, thinking to help me with my…inquiry.”
“Good lad.”
“You probably won’t want to keep it after you leave Edinburgh, Mike.”
“That bad?”
“Let’s just say he’s no contender for the next romance novel cover. He has a job as a car mechanic.”
“Bloody hell. Is that where he got the car? The news report said the car’d been stolen.”
“He evidently picked it up at the owner’s house. That’s Stuart Forbes.”
“I remember.”
“The car was parked on the street.”
“An expensive car like that? It must cost between £22,000 and £27,000.”
“Same old story. Forbes got home from church service Sunday afternoon, was going to go out again in two hours, so he left it outside. He discovered it had gone around three o’clock when he stepped out of his house.”
“And no one saw anything.” McLaren exhaled loudly.
“At least no one’s come forward yet. The police suspected Stuart Forbes of dumping the car somewhere or paying Lanny Clack to steal the car so the insurance company would have to pay on the claim.”
“Does Forbes have a history of insurance fraud?”
“No. But he does own Arthur’s Seat Insurance Company, so that raised a few red flags for the cops. So far, nothing’s been proven against Forbes or his company. Lanny Clack was ID’d by the CCTV photo. One person rang up the police station to give the face a name. Right after the newscast, in fact. So those appeals do some good, it seems.”
“Maybe he merely wants to blame Lanny for this incident.”
“The jacket was the best lead. Five people phoned in to mention that skull was a gang design.”
“It’s probably a few hundred gangs’ design. Why are these callers so certain it’s associated with Clack?”
“This little gem includes a few neck vertebrae with a knife stuck in it.”
Chapter Six
The face looked at McLaren from his smart phone Tuesday morning. Jamie had been right: Lanny was better suited for a novel’s villain instead of the hero. Blac
k eyes glared at the viewer from beneath a thatch of spiky black hair. An equally vigorous mustache hid his upper lip and bracketed the corners of his mouth. All this seemed to be connected to a tattoo that blanketed his chin, beginning where the mustache left off. But McLaren had never seen a tattoo such as this. Rather than teardrops or a dagger or other picturesque graphic, the design was abstract. It was comprised of black swirls and curves, the skin between the geometric figures as much a part of the pattern as the tattooed flesh.
Lanny might’ve been known to the local constabulary, but evidently the tattoo had muddied the identification waters a tad. Which was why the coppers put out the television appeal. Lanny had acquired it after his most current prison stay. Probably some sort of rite of passage, McLaren thought, knowing some gangs marked successful candidates or rewarded successful fetes with these visible badges of honor. If so, those six conscientious citizens must be extremely familiar with Lanny to be able to name him even with a fresh tattoo.
The coppers got their break when, according to Jamie’s Scottish colleague, the helpful citizen even trotted a photo by the station. The photo was Lanny with the tattoo. Something new to the police. But technology stepped in where the human eye failed; the photo was scanned and the tattoo was eradicated on the computer screen. Gazing back at the graphic artist who accomplished this “before” likeness was the Lanny Clack known to the police.
The problem with the CCTV was that the image was too small and the driver’s head had been partially obscured. The photo from the concerned citizen cinched the ID.
McLaren stared at it, trying to recall where he’d seen something similar. It looked Hawaiian. Or at least Polynesian. But Lanny Clack didn’t appear to be of that race. Was there a rule that designated only tribal members were allowed to sport such a tattoo? Like tartans of Scottish clans. The wearing of the tattoo or tartan established kin and pride of belonging.
He abandoned his speculation. It did nothing to explain Liza Skene’s silence. He called her home phone again but still got no answer; he rang up her work place. Her boss hadn’t seen Liza that morning, nor had he heard from her. He was not amused.
Neither the boss’ report nor the unanswered phone calls comforted McLaren, so he drove the mile to Cluny Gardens, near the Royal Observatory. As he parked in front of the cream-colored stone building, he eyed the front windows and door. Nothing looked different from when he’d been there yesterday.
He walked up the pavement, aware of the sharp tap of his shoes on the concrete. Behind the row of houses curving along the road, fragments of the comma-shaped lake peeked out from the mass of trees. Their bare branches nodded in the slight breeze that brought the chill off the frozen lake. Diverting his eyes from the painful glare of the iced-over water he knocked on the front door.
The house was deathly quiet. No dog yapped at the intrusion into the silence; no voice responded. He pressed his left ear against the door. No conversation issued from behind its protective buffer.
He peered into the windows of the front room. Nothing looked out of place or suspicious.
Leaning against the wall, he pulled his mobile from his jeans pocket and punched in Liza’s phone number. The house came alive with the sharp resonating of its phone, and McLaren again stared into the front room. It was odd standing outside, listening to the ring sounding inside, looking at the phone he wanted Liza to answer. The room appeared gloomy and foreboding, as though it had gone into mourning or held a terrible secret.
McLaren shook the fanciful scenario from his mind, told himself he was overly concerned. After all, Liza might be seeing a doctor, still suffering from emotional trauma. Or perhaps she was at a friend’s house, unwilling to stay alone after the experience. She could even be on her way to work, having overslept. He called up the library and this time talked to one of her co-workers. Liza Skene was still absent.
The now familiar urge to break into her house or talk to neighbors threatened to overpower him. He walked back to his car, telling himself he was not hired to find Liza, he had no jurisdiction in Scotland even if he were still a cop, he would receive no warm handshake or slap on the back from the local authorities if he investigated. He had to stop inventing trouble, stop creating drama where none existed. Why did he think drug dealers or gang members or spies had kidnapped her, done away with her? Nothing at all hinted at such people; it was a simple case of an accidental hit-and-run. The driver, Lanny Crank, had probably been on his mobile, distracted, and unfortunately lost control of his car. Those things happened.
He drove back to his guesthouse, parked the car, and walked into town. He needed the exercise, needed the physical activity that would calm his galloping imagination.
The suggestion of snow hung in the air, more an aroma than flakes. Gray clouds bunched in the west and overhead, but the eastern horizon held a slash of blue sky. A wisp of wind curled down from the slated roofline, stinging McLaren’s face with the bite of cold and a few pelts of frozen rain. Two seagulls huddled together in the protection of a dormer window, their feathers fluffed against the chill. McLaren stepped over a patch of frozen water as a bus threw a spray of slush across the road.
He turned left off South Bridge and meandered up the High Street. Aptly named, he thought. Edinburgh Castle sat farther ahead, like a prize on the crest of the hill, beckoning the footsore to plod just a bit farther.
He passed the police information center, and shop windows displaying readymade kilts, leather goods, cheap souvenirs, bottled drinks, Scottish food, and knitwear. Christmas specials, the placards announced in large red and green print. Unique gifts; make her happy; free gift-wrapping; overseas shipping available. Cheap flights to the Canaries, Crete, or the Caymans for a never-forgotten Christmas gift! McLaren glanced at the lettered proclamations and considered a heathergem and silver necklace for Dena or a kilt for himself. Of course he was entitled to don the Clan tartan, but would he ever wear it? Was it merely a rebellion against his grandfather’s treatment, needing to declare and cling to his Scottish heritage? He sighed heavily, letting the moment and the link slide by before going on.
St. Giles Cathedral loomed ahead, its gothic exterior bright in the sunlight. He hesitated, the architecture whispering to him to explore, his aversion to organized religion whispering to go elsewhere. As he turned, ready to walk to the castle, he stopped short. Lanny Clack sauntered toward him.
Before McLaren could move, Lanny crossed the High Street. McLaren ran after him, determined to detain him for the police. Lanny seemed to be headed for the City Chambers, the U-shaped courtyard holding governmental apartments from the 1750s. Fearing he’d miss Lanny in the maze of doors and alleyways, McLaren yelled. Lanny turned around. Either recognizing McLaren or fearful of the man running toward him, Lanny dodged down a tiny lane. McLaren bolted after him.
The lane, a few dozen yards long, contained a courtyard cafe on the left, but by the time McLaren got there Lanny had disappeared. Ahead was the entrance to The Real Mary King’s Close, the seventeenth century underground labyrinth of residences and alleyways of which Hurd Dowell had spoken. McLaren yanked open the attraction’s door and hurried inside.
A well-lit, well-appointed gift shop greeted him, not at all what he expected. Upscale souvenirs and books claimed most of the area, the ticket kiosk in the center of the floor. A voice announced the group had left on the tour and McLaren looked around wildly. Lanny wasn’t in the shop.
McLaren dashed to the ticket kiosk. A young woman sorting brochures looked up, smiled, and asked if she could assist him.
He glanced at the sign proclaiming the start times of the tours, then at the wall clock. “Am I too late to catch this tour?” he said, his voice urgent and sharp.
“They’ve just gone.” The woman gazed at the open doorway at right angle to the shop entrance. The stairwell descending to the warren of lanes below was dark. “You’ve missed the first two minutes where the history is told if you join them now. Anyway,” she added, looking slightly hesitant, “the
re is the safety rule. It’s black as pitch down there. The tour leader has the light. You might get hurt if you were to join them now. We can’t risk that.”
“Safety regulations,” McLaren leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I won’t sue you. I’ll sign something to that effect.”
“There’s another tour in an hour, sir. I think it’d be best if you joined that group.”
“I haven’t the time to wait. Please.” He opened his wallet and pulled out the admission price. He handed it to her, closing her fingers over the pound coins. “I’d really appreciate it. They can’t have gone too far ahead. I’ll catch them up.”
“Well…” She looked at the money, as though considering the man’s urgency and the darkness below them. “There are pockets of light down there, of course. It’s not pitch black. Many of the recesses and chambers are theatrically lit.” She printed out a ticket and gave it to him. “Through that open door and down the stairs. You’ll find them.”
McLaren thanked her and dashed into the chilly gloom.
The upper landing was dimly lit, so as not to spoil the theatricality of the underground scene. But tiny strips of lights shone from beneath the stair treads, defining the path to the bottom. His left hand slid slowly along the metal railing, gripping more firmly as he paused to find each successive step. He felt the small torch in his jacket pocket but didn’t remove it. He needed his eyes to acclimate to the darkness.
He came to the second landing and the railing snaked back on itself, yet still angled downward. McLaren could see a small pool of light at ground level, a dozen stairs below. It seemed to come from a small door to the right. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves, and descended.
At the bottom of the spiraled staircase he stood for moment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the near darkness. The ceiling was not much more than head high and seemed to mock his fear of confinement. Ahead he heard a voice relating the Close’s history. The voice sounded thin, bouncing off the hard walls.
An Unfolding Trap Page 6
