In the five minutes it took to drive to Drumnadrochit’s miniature police station and ease through the scrum of reporters outside its gate, Jean’s head of steam began to dissipate. Her encounter with Alasdair on top of the tower had been cordial. Comradely. They’d understood each other, albeit in a duck-and-cover sort of way. He hadn’t sent Sawyer to get her.
Sawyer, unimproved temper and all, sat beside her, not twirling the ends of his moustache. And not razzing her any more, either, which meant he had some minimal level of perception.
When the car stopped. Jean piled out and beat Sawyer to the door of the office—if he opened it for her, he’d imply she was a prisoner, not a free agent. She stepped into the tiny room with its informational posters, filing cabinets, and computer-topped desk, and looked around, poised for action. But no one, least of all Alasdair, was there.
A door on the far side of the room stood open on a narrow slice of domesticity, now filled with all the computerized paraphernalia of an incident room. Even as she headed toward it, propelled by Sawyer’s battering-ram entrance, Alasdair stepped through the opening and shut the door behind him. In his left hand a plastic tray held one complete half of a tomato and cheese sandwich and a bite of the other half. Turning toward Jean, he scooped that up and inserted it between his elegantly curved lips.
“Here I am to make that statement,” Jean said, and, with a glance behind her, “The sergeant decided he just couldn’t wait to see me again.”
Cameron chewed. His gaze moved from Jean’s truculent expression to Sawyer’s scowl. He swallowed. His eyebrows lifted and then tightened, minimally. His lips thinned. Without having blinked once, he looked back at Jean.
He might be at his most inscrutable, but she knew that he was irritated with Sawyer’s presumption. He wasn’t going to show it in front of anyone, though, least of all her. She went on. “I was going to have lunch and then come in, you know, blood sugar and stuff like that.”
Alasdair extended his remaining sandwich half toward her.
No way was she going to do something as personal as share his food in front of—well, in front of anyone. “No, no thank you. I’m okay.” She’d told the teacher on the bully. It was time to shut up before she sounded so lame they sent out for crutches. Jean plopped down in the hard wooden chair beside the desk and tucked her shopping bag beneath it, hoping no one would notice the cutesy stuffed animals.
Sawyer leaned against the outside door, ostentatiously blocking her escape. Gunn settled across the room, hunched defensively over his notebook. That was odd. Jean remembered him being deferential to his superiors, not afraid of them.
“Right,” Alasdair said, although his frosty glance at Sawyer suggested otherwise. He sat down behind the desk, wiped his hands on a napkin, then pulled a small plastic bag from inside his jacket and held it out to Jean. “This is yours, I reckon.”
With a queasy feeling of deja vu, Jean took the bag. It contained one of her business cards, the cardboard puffy and the ink blurred but legible. She felt its cold dampness through the plastic. “Where did you . . ? Oh. It was in Jonathan’s pocket, wasn’t it?”
“Got it in one,” said Sawyer from the door.
So that was why he’d taken it upon himself to come after her. Reasonable enough, on the surface. It was what was below the surface, some sort of strain not in the plot but in the cast of characters, that made her feel there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. And it wasn’t just the tension she always felt in Alasdair’s presence, either.
Jean handed the card back to him. “I gave this to Jonathan when I arrived at the Water Horse boat and he challenged me. I had an appointment for an interview.”
“You’re a chum of Dempsey’s, then,” said Sawyer.
“No, I’m not,” she told him over her shoulder. “We met briefly several years ago is all. I hadn’t heard from him until his press release landed on my desk last week, and he must have sent one, little Nessie and all, to every reporter in the UK.”
“Nessie?” Alasdair asked.
“The toy Nessie that came with the press release.”
“None of the other reporters we’ve interviewed said anything about a toy.”
“Why should they? They—we—get that sort of promotional gimmick all the time.”
“Aye.” Alasdair laid the plastic bag out on the desk blotter, his sturdy fingertips smoothing it down as delicately as a fortune teller laying out Tarot cards. “The preliminary report is that Paisley has no wounds other than cuts, bruises, and burns from the explosion, and that he drowned. Just now we’re thinking that he was killed by accident. Even so, we’re looking into his background.”
Jean didn’t want to know whether Jonathan had been conscious when he went into the water. Setting her jaw, she met Alasdair’s cool, correct expression with one of her own.
“The bomber might could have meant to kill Dempsey,” he continued. “Mrs. Dempsey tells us he has a habit of working late and losing track of time. This is assuming the explosion was meant to kill anyone at all, not merely to stop the expedition. Just now we’ve got no evidence the one way or the other.”
“Tracy was insisting he get to that dinner on time,” Jean agreed. “What about Brendan and Jonathan trading places? Could someone have wanted to kill Brendan?”
“It’s possible.”
“Hugh Munro said he saw Brendan with Iris’s niece Kirsty at the Tourist Authority dinner last night.” A snort from behind her back wasn’t exactly that of a bull, but still she felt like a matador. She didn’t turn around. “Maybe what Jonathan traded with Brendan was his place at the dinner. Brendan could have thought he’d make points with Kirsty by taking her to a posh function.”
“That’s likely.” Alasdair allowed her reasoning a slow nod. “Or he might could have been setting himself up an alibi.”
“Using Kirsty. Yes.”
“You overheard Iris telling Kirsty she shouldn’t be seeing any more of Brendan, did you?”
“More or less, yes. There’s a real Romeo and Juliet scenario going on, with Iris playing the old money, the Capulets, and Roger playing the brash new Montagues.”
Another snort indicated Sawyer’s impatience with literary similes. Alasdair didn’t rise to the bait. If anything, a blizzard blew across his expression. “You were asking about the anonymous letters. Despite fingerprint and saliva evidence being inconclusive, we may have found the person who sent them.”
“May have?” demanded Sawyer. “We’ve got her dead to rights.”
“Her?” Jean asked. “You mean Iris?”
In three steps, Sawyer was across the room and looming over Jean. “What do you know about it, then?”
Alasdair said nothing. Jean turned her face upward to meet Sawyer’s glare. His eyebrows were so pale they were almost invisible. No wonder he didn’t seem quite human. Even cartoon animals had eyebrows, to show emotion. “Who doesn’t suspect Iris, with her attitude toward Dempsey? When I heard her typing on an old typewriter yesterday afternoon, even I wondered if the letters were typewrit . . .”
Sawyer’s already narrowed eyes became slits.
“You’re kidding me.” Jean swung back around to Alasdair. “You mean those letters were typewritten? On Iris’s typewriter?”
“Not typed, no,” he said. “Computer-generated and printed, the both of them. But Iris has a computer as well.”
“That makes sense. Why would Iris or anyone else incriminate herself by using a typewriter?”
“Or by printing those letters on paper and posting them in envelopes provided to the guests at her own B&B?” Alasdair asked.
“Say what?” replied Jean.
“Oh aye.” Sawyer said. “Thanks to reporters like yourself, everyone knows his way round the forensics. You’ve made our job that much more difficult.”
“Don’t look at me, I only write about cases long over and done with,” Jean retorted, and added before he could, “As for the case in May, all I wrote was a series of historical articles. Period. And they haven’t been published yet.”
Alasdair re-called the meeting to order by clearing his throat. “You’ve got no more reason than Iris’s dislike of Dempsey to suspect her of sending the letters, have you, Miss Fairbairn?”
“No. She seems to be way too smart to stoop to anonymous letters, to say nothing of incriminating herself up one side and down the other.”
“You’re handing Iris too much credit, las—” Sawyer thought better of one diminutive but defaulted to another “—Jean. She’s telling us she used her own paper and envelopes, and posted the letters in Inverness to Dempsey’s office in Chicago, the first on May five, just after he announced his plans, and the second on June twelve, so it would reach him just before he came away from the US.”
“She’s confessed?” demanded Jean, not of Sawyer but of Alasdair.
“Aye,” his lips stated, but his eyes were far from convinced.
Jean could only shake her head. That did not compute.
Beside her, Sawyer went smugly on. “If you smelled petrol on the boat, then the bomb was hidden there before you arrived. Iris was seen pottering about the bay in her boat on the Thursday evening, whilst Dempsey and the others were interviewing with ITN at the castle.”
“She’s researching the ecology of the loch,” said Jean. “Did anyone actually see her on the Water Horse boat?”
“She climbed on board from the side facing away from the shore.”
“But the bomb didn’t go off until Friday evening.”
Alasdair said, “You were telling me she wasn’t at the B&B just then.”
“I said I didn’t see her at the B&B. She could have been there. Besides, why not take the bomb out to the boat at the same time you intend to set it off? Sounds to me like there was some kind of timing mechanism. Or that Jonathan set it off himself, which doesn’t make sense. Or doesn’t make sense with the evidence we have now.”
Judging by the roll of Sawyer’s eyes, he resented her imperial “we.”
Jean didn’t correct herself. “Even if Iris did send the letters, that doesn’t mean she blew up the boat.”
“She’s not confessed to that, no,” said Alasdair. “Still, the dive teams found a corkscrew from the B&B amidst the debris.”
“A corkscrew?” This time it was her brows that went up. “Well, yeah, Martin Hall was looking for one last night, but corkscrews all look alike, don’t they?”
“This one was a bit of an antique, with Ambrose’s monogram. Miss Wotherspoon identified it.”
Sawyer darted Gunn a sneer and said, “Kirsty the crumpet. Didn’t realize she was grassing up Aunt Iris, did she?”
What? Jean wondered. Had Gunn flirted with Kirsty? Inappropriate, maybe, but hardly the hanging offense Sawyer’s scorn made it out to be. Or else, more likely, Sawyer had been ogling Kirsty and Gunn had been offended enough to call him on it.
“That’s Miss Wotherspoon to you, Andy,” said Alasdair, in the quiet but menacing voice Jean remembered only too well.
A shiver trickled down her spine, and not one of fear. The voice drew no reaction from Sawyer except another roll of his eyes. She said, “I’m impressed you can find anything identifiable in the debris.”
“It’s a matter of noting the objects you’re not expecting to find. We expected quite a few bits of electronic equipment, pieces of Dempsey’s submersible, and the like. What we weren’t expecting were the broken wine and liquor bottles.”
“Well, that would explain the corkscrew, sort of. Roger’s a pretty hard drinker. Although how he got the corkscrew from the B&B . . .”
Alasdair spelled it out for her. “As luck would have it, one bottle wasn’t broken. It contained petrol. The bomb was made of several bottles partially filled with petrol and fitted up with fuses. Amongst the electronic debris might could be the remains of a timing mechanism. Perhaps Paisley was having a go at defusing the bomb when it exploded.”
“Oh.” Jean visualized a young man trying frantically to—to what? Cut the blue wire? Had he thought he didn’t have enough time to call the authorities, or had he thought he could handle it? Her knowledge of bombs and timing devices was on a par with her knowledge of nuclear physics. “Rigging up a timing mechanism would indicate some expertise, wouldn’t it? Could Iris have done it?”
“She worked with the electric flex whilst renovating the house,” said Sawyer. “She makes the repairs to the appliances. Kirst—Miss Wotherspoon was telling us that, as well.”
Jean didn’t think the one translated to the other, but didn’t waste her breath saying so. “I ran into Roger a little while ago. He thinks the explosion was caused by the propane stove, said it had been acting up.”
“He was telling us that, aye,” Alasdair said. “The chap who owns the boat says that’s nonsense, he’d vetted every item on board. Including a small generator that runs on petrol.”
“That could explain the smell, someone was being careless with the petrol. The gasoline. That could explain the explosion, for that matter. Except,” Jean said, sinking down in the chair so that her spine rattled across the hard ribs of the back, “except you found a bottle filled with petrol, something the boat owner would keep in a proper container. But . . .”
“We’re not asking your opinion.” Sawyer said, ignoring the fact that Alasdair was asking her opinion.
The door to the other room opened and a constable beckoned to Sawyer. With never a by-your-leave he stepped across to the door and slammed it behind him.
Whoa, there was oxygen in the room again. Jean was about to make some snide remark about Sawyer, then decided that someone had to take the high road.
Alasdair’s face was, if anything, even more cold and quiet than usual. She already knew that he could exercise admirable restraint, but still, she was impressed.
He frowned at the door, shedding an iceberg or two in the process, and shot an impenetrable look at Gunn. She glanced around to see the young officer huddled in his chair as though he was trying to vanish into the woodwork like an insect. Even as she watched he relaxed, straightened, and sent a bashful half-smile toward her and Alasdair, either separately or together.
So what was going on? She’d learned the dynamics of the investigative trio the last time around—Sawyer butting his head against Cameron’s chill shell, with Gunn playing both ingénue and straight man. But something had changed, like an already tart fruit gone rancid. “Well,” she said to Gunn, “at least you still have all the paperwork from last time. You know, my name, rank, serial number.”
“That we do, Miss Fairbairn.”
Jean looked back to see one side of Alasdair’s mouth tucking itself up in a suppressed smile, although whether it was at her or Gunn she had no way of deciphering. “What else was Dempsey telling you just now?” he asked.
“Not much, just that the remote-sensing equipment he brought along for the land part of the expedition was stored at the hotel, reasonably enough. He must have lost some of his computers, though, not to mention the sonar and the ROVs, the remote operating vehicles. That’s what you meant by submersible. Not quite the same thing, a submersible is a mini-sub and has a person inside. An ROV doesn’t.”
Alasdair nodded, filing that away in the infinite recesses of his mind.
“It’s a tough break for him. That sort of equipment is so expensive an expedition will rent it—like Roger did with the boat—although I guess he didn’t have to rent or buy anything manufactured by Omnium.” She told herself that if anyone was resilient, it was Dempsey. Or would be, tomorrow. As for Iris—well, even though Alasdair hadn’t formally arrested her, he wasn’t satisfied with her story. “If Iris hadn’t confessed, I’d say that someone was trying to frame her. It wouldn’t be that hard to pick up some paper and envelopes matching the ones from the B&B.”
“Or to pinch some from the B&B itself. Along with the odd corkscrew, come to that.”
“I figured you’d come to that all-too-obvious corkscrew.”
“Someone might could be trying to stitch Iris up for the explosion,” Alasdair went on, “but the letters, now, the letters are a bit of a problem. Iris isn’t telling us all she knows.”
“Or she’s telling Sawyer what he wants to hear, to get him off her back.”
“I reckon the immovable object’s meeting the irresistible force.” This time it was the other side of Alasdair’s mouth that almost smiled, and directly at Jean.
“You don’t seriously think she sent the letters.”
“You’re telling me my business again, Jean.”
She caught the glint in his eye, like a lamp glowing behind an ice-covered windowpane and thawing a peephole. Here we go again. This time, though, the thought wasn’t heavy and dull. There was an odd sort of sparkle to it. With all due respect to Jonathan, of course. And Dempsey, and Iris. She said over her shoulder, “D.C. Gunn, I’d sure like a cup of tea. Do you think you could rustle one up for me?”
Her idiom made him smile. “Oh aye, no problem.” Gunn put his notebook down and vanished into the main part of the building.
He had a nice smile when he let it escape, bright and open. No matter if he was a bit gawky, Sawyer had no right to bully him.
Jean turned back to Alasdair. With him sitting behind the desk she felt like a supplicant or a client, not an equal. But then, she wasn’t an equal, not when it came to police work. “What’s repeating itself here is you letting me in on the case. If all you want to know is what Iris or Roger has to say for public consumption, you could ask anyone. What is it you’re trying to lure me into doing for you?”
“Is it that hard to guess?” he asked, leaning forward.
There was the energy field again, tightening her follicles. It was like sensing a ghost, except it wasn’t like sensing a ghost. Alasdair was no disembodied flash of emotion. Clearing her throat, she held her ground. “I can play devil’s advocate for you, no problem. But there’s more to it than that. The letters seem to have come from the B&B. I’m staying there. I’m a reporter, I have an excuse to ask questions. I’m a nice person, so maybe I can offer to help Kirsty while Iris is gone. In other words, you expect me to spy for you.”
“I’m expecting you to conduct yourself as a public-spirited citizen and help the police with their inquiries. Without putting yourself in danger, mind. We’ve got a criminal here who’s either determined or careless. I’m hoping for the former, as that would make him predictable. Program your mobile with my number and Gunn’s. Here you are.” He scribbled two numbers on a bit of notepaper and shoved it across the desk.
She tucked the paper into her pocket. “I’m here because I’m curious—because curiosity is my job—but I’m only a member of the audience, not part of the play. There’s no evidence I’m in danger.”
“Someone’s roaming about your wee house in the night. There’s less proper evidence than that for Nessie, and she’s supporting an entire industry.”
“Nessie being a ‘she’ because of her stubborn and uncooperative temperament?”
He grinned at that, a little less briefly than he had grinned at seeing her atop the castle.
The effect made Jean slide back into her chair. Oh my. No, this was not a debate. She might as well save her energy for an argument she wanted to win. “Okay. I’ll help you with the case without putting myself in danger. And without putting myself forward, either. I get it.”
“You were already planning to suss out the story of Iris’s father, weren’t you now?”
“Yes I was, although I don’t see . . .” Jean caught herself in mid-phrase. “You don’t know yet what’s relevant to the case, so you’re looking into everyone’s background. Besides, Eileen Mackintosh’s disappearance was never really solved, and you’re curious about it.”
“There’s a bit of residual feeling about that in the area, or so I hear.”
“From whom?”
“Hamish Cameron, who owns the Cameron Arms Hotel.”
“A relative of yours?”
“Second cousin twice removed.”
Jean laughed. Once she had thought Alasdair had sprung full-blown from the brow of the Chief Constable, solitary as a hermit. But no. He was a Cameron, with all that implied. The last clan raid in this area had been perpetrated by Camerons in 1545. They had taken everything not nailed down, including women, and pried up a few things that were. Alasdair’s shell, thick as armor, was probably suppressing centuries of passion for good and bad.
He leaned on the desk, his eyes fixed on hers, knowing why she was laughing but refusing to acknowledge it with anything more than a surreptitious twinkle that approached but didn’t quite achieve a conspiratorial wink. This is just between the two of us, mind.
She plunged on. “Ambrose’s association with Crowley damaged his reputation, that’s for sure. People around here think he got away with murder. I’ve only seen the story in some newspaper files, but the way I understand it, Ambrose and Eileen were having problems, it was the servants’ day out, so he was alone with her when she disappeared—well, except for baby Iris, who doesn’t count. He was a shady character to begin with, and when a wife disappears, often the husband is at fault. And vice versa.”
“Was that the only evidence against him? Their ghosts hardly count as evidence.”
“Hardly,” she agreed. “There were one or two little things, but the casual attitude of the detectives would curl your hair. Like the officer in charge not wanting to upset Eileen’s family by going through her belongings.”
Alasdair winced. “Well then, I’ll have our archivist find the original reports and transcripts. If she makes copies for you as well, will that pay you back for your spying, as you put it? I’d rather have you working with me than against me.”
“I wouldn’t be working against you,” she assured him.
“I’m remembering a bit of a competition.” His voice softened into a register that tended more toward velvet than gravel.
Jean realized she was leaning forward, closer to the crinkles that shaped the corners of his eyes and mouth like subtle punctuation marks. “The only competition, Alasdair . . .”
The door opened. Jean lurched back. This time it was she who winced, as her vertebrae slammed against the chair. Alasdair retreated more slowly, the smile that had been playing along his lips evaporating before it reached fruition, his gaze dropping to the desktop.
Gunn set a steaming mug and three plump oatmeal cookies down in front of Jean. “I’m thinking the biscuits would go down a treat, since you’ve had no lunch.”
“Thank you,” she told him, as grateful for his entrance as for the food. What had she been about to say? The only competition, Alasdair, was between our heads and our hearts?
Alasdair picked up his sandwich, bit off a portion of the remaining half, and with a glance that made up in intensity what it lacked in length, slipped soundlessly through the doorway. Jean exhaled, feeling as though she’d been holding her breath the entire time she’d been talking with him—and not because his agendas were at all hidden. Ambiguous maybe, but not hidden.
He pulled the door shut but it didn’t catch, and drifted back open an inch or two. Through the aperture she heard Sawyer’s bray. “I’m away to collect the old witch at Pitclachie and carry her to Inverness. Keep her overnight in stir, that will take her down a peg or two. Unless she’s already spilled her guts to W.P.C. Boyd over a cuppa and a biscuit, all nice and cozy. Hah.”
“She’s Miss Mackintosh,” Alasdair told him. “You will treat her—and everyone else involved in this case—with courtesy.”
“Are you after solving the case or are you after winning a Girl Guides award? There’s no making an omelet without breaking an egg or two.”
“Don’t go wasting my time or yours with that sort of rubbish.”
“Ah, that’s the way of it, then. It’s rubbish when I’m doing my job, and heroics when you’re doing yours. If arresting your own partner isn’t breaking an egg, then what is?”
Jean’s lips tightened in righteous anger. That was ugly, reminding Alasdair of the scandal—and its consequences—in his own past. Last month he’d said he felt Sawyer’s breath on the back of his neck. Now she realized what he meant. Alasdair had climbed the ladder of rank because of his competence and honesty, painful though the latter might have been. But Sawyer was one of those men who climbed by stepping on the fallen bodies of others.
Alasdair enunciated so clearly each word fell like a pellet of hail. “That’s a low blow even from you, Detective Sergeant Sawyer. In the future you will keep your tongue behind your teeth.”
A long pause, prickling with frost. Then Sawyer, lacking a devastating riposte, said in a tone so light it was mocking, “Oh aye, never you worry, Chief Inspector Cameron.”
Jean visualized Alasdair’s face, cold, pale, impassive, and his body, upright and very still, seeming taller than Sawyer even though he was actually two inches shorter. She imagined Sawyer, his face red and overblown and his arms swinging loosely from his shoulders, knuckles dragging the floor. Menace for menace, she’d back Alasdair any day. But then, she was partial.
Gunn tiptoed toward the door and pushed it shut, slowly and silently. He was very good at moving silently. He must have found that a useful survival skill.
Taking Alasdair’s place at the desk, he drew forward a tape recorder and looked at Jean, his own face pale and set. She looked at him. No, neither one of them had heard a word.
“Right,” said Gunn. “I’ve got most everything here, if you’d not mind repeating a bittie or two.”
She minded, but there was no point in saying so. Nibbling at one of the cookies, she began, “I came here to interview Roger Dempsey and Iris Mackintosh.”