“They aren’t giving us much time, are they?”
“Can you get the money by then?”
“That’s not a problem. Odd choice of venue,” I mused, “but it should be pretty quiet at that time of night. Easy enough to keep an eye on the drop from a distance and see who picks it up.”
“I can deliver it if you’d like,” Amanda said. “I don’t want to put you at any more risk. You’re already fronting the money.”
“No,” I insisted. “I’ll go. You should stay as far away from this as possible. I’m on my way to the shop now. I want to see the note and the envelope it came in.”
My friend with the glasses tailed me to the store. His presence wasn’t so bad in the daylight, but tonight would be a different matter.
The shop was busy when I arrived with a knitting class starting in the lower-level classroom and customers milling around everywhere. Amanda was standing behind the front counter talking to Colin. He had an arm around her shoulder and his head was bent to hers.
They looked up as the bell jangled, announcing my entrance. Amanda handed me the envelope and leaned on Colin’s shoulder. “Colin was here delivering some fleeces from his neighbor’s farm when the note arrived,” Amanda said. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at hiding my emotions.”
“What a horrible situation,” Colin said. “Are you sure you can manage the ransom alone? Greer and I can donate some money, too, if that helps. Just let us know what you need.”
I wasn’t thrilled to have Colin and Greer in on the secret, but I might be able to use Colin’s influence on Amanda to get her to agree to bringing the police in. “The money I can manage,” I said. “What we really need is some help from the police.”
“That seems reasonable,” Colin began,
Amanda stiffened. “No. I’ve told you, no cops.”
“But this is more than you can handle. You need to have experts involved. No offense,” Colin said, turning to me.
“None taken,” I replied. “You’re exactly right.”
“No,” Amanda said so loudly that several patrons turned and looked our way.
“Alright, alright,” Colin went on soothingly. “Amanda has issues with the police,” he explained. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe we pay up and then see what happens. If they release Sheila, well and good. If they don’t, then absolutely the police have to be brought in immediately.” Colin gave Amanda’s shoulders a squeeze. “Okay?”
Amanda’s head drooped and she nodded silently.
If I’d hoped to get more help from Colin, I was going to be disappointed. His main concern was comforting Amanda and I left him to it. I took the note and the envelope and called Michaelson as soon as I was back in the car. He instructed me to place the note in a ziplock bag, as I’d done before, and bring it to Patrick’s office in the city. A plainclothes officer would be sent to retrieve it.
He confirmed that Elliot was checking into the folks who’d had access to the house at the time Sheila disappeared, but he was keen to stake out the drop zone and hoped to tail the perpetrator back to the place where Sheila was being kept. In the meantime, I was to follow the instructions to the letter and then get out of there. I wondered if I should mention that I was being tailed, but I didn’t want to have to explain what I’d been up to this morning. I’m sure it would qualify as interfering. Besides, so far this guy was not so hot at his job.
As long as I had my shadow, I needed to be mindful of what I did. I parked near Patrick’s office and ran up to deliver the note. He buzzed me in and I found him alone at his desk working on some layouts. He suggested we meet for dinner later. I wouldn’t be hungry, but I agreed, knowing it would help to fill the time before the drop.
I left Patrick hard at it and ran down the block to the Royal Bank of Scotland. I’d filed the necessary paperwork and requested the cash yesterday. I didn’t fancy carrying the money around any longer than necessary, but it was nearly half-day closing time so I couldn’t wait any longer. I left the building with twenty thousand pounds in a manila envelope, feeling as if I had a target on my back.
By eight thirty I was waiting for Patrick outside of La Mer. His choice of restaurant, and I suspected home to his new chef friend. Patrick sauntered up ten minutes later in black slacks, a dark gray shirt, and a black leather jacket.
“You didn’t tell me it was a biker joint,” I said.
“Very funny. I just want to keep a low profile for tonight.”
“At the restaurant?”
“No, for your little rendezvous.”
“Who said you’re going?”
“No one, but I’m not letting you go alone. Even if I hang back in the shadows and just watch, I’m going.”
“I have protection,” I whispered. “Besides, it’s not me I’m worried about if they get what they want, it’s Sheila. We’re not there to grab the courier. We want to know where he goes.”
“Fair enough, but I’m still not letting you go alone.” Patrick led me through the front door and we were quickly seated in a prime booth near the kitchen. It pays to have friends in high places. Patrick told the waiter to let the chef choose our menu, which suited me. I had little appetite and even less interest in fancy food at the moment. I let my eyes wander around the room. The tables were full and there were more patrons waiting in the bar area. Of course it was a Saturday night, but it was still an impressive crowd for a relative newcomer to the scene.
The first course arrived, plump fresh sea scallops with a selection of three sauces. Each intricate and textured. If for some crazy reason things went south tonight and this turned out to be my last meal, at least it was an excellent one.
I’d declined a glass of wine to begin with, but changed my mind when the main dish of sea bass arrived with a side of ginger-and-scallion fried rice. It was perfectly cooked and light enough to sit well on my already nervous stomach.
“Where exactly is the drop-off?” Patrick asked.
“In Nicolson Street.”
“Over by the university? Odd place to choose, but maybe it’s familiar turf to whoever is doing the pickup.”
“I wondered that, but should be pretty quiet at that time of night. Most of the students will be off at parties and clubs by that hour. The tricky bit is that Urquhart is having me followed.”
Patrick looked up from his scallops, startled. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” My eyes strayed around the room. “He’s leaning on the bar, back to us, watching in the mirror. Still has his coat on.” Further along the bar I was surprised to see Colin Templeton, leaning across the counter, drink in hand, chatting with the bartender. Not surprising, I realized, given his line of business. I pointed him out to Patrick.
“Nice-looking bloke.” Patrick looked faintly miffed. “I’ve seen him in here before talking to Gordon.”
“He’s on the board of the Shepherd’s Rest with me. He and his sister run an organic farm that sells to most of the high-end restaurants in town. I wouldn’t stress about it.”
“I’m not stressing.” The rest of Patrick’s excuses were cut off by the arrival of the chef himself. He’d removed his toque and slid into the booth next to Patrick.
“Gordon Wright,” he said extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Abi. Patrick’s told me all about you.”
“Hopefully not all,” I murmured.
“Only the good things.” Gordon raised a hand and three glasses of whisky appeared on the table. It was a neat trick. “We’re proud to serve your Abbey Glen in the bar, and I’m working on a special dessert for tonight that makes use of your award-winning sherry cask reserve.”
Oh good lord, the last thing I needed was a rich dessert, but I could see no way to refuse. I smiled and continued to discuss Abbey Glen’s recent success at the Golden Quaich Awards. For Patrick’s sake, and mine, I decided to raise the subject of produce.
“The meal tonight was fabulous. Do you use produce from Templeton Farms?”
Gordon looked slightly puzzled. “We do. What makes you ask?”
“Well, Colin Templeton’s at the bar. I know him from the board of a charity we both serve on. I was out at the farm recently touring his sister Greer’s herb gardens. They’re amazing.”
“The best in the area,” Gordon agreed. “Colin and I have been mates since school. I was a bit skeptical at first when he talked about farming, but I have to say he’s done a bang-up job. The product is first-class. I’d buy it even if he wasn’t a friend.”
“He certainly seems to take his business seriously. Most farmers wouldn’t be out chatting up clients on a Saturday night,” Patrick said.
Gordon chuckled. “Colin sells the food, he doesn’t cook it. He arranged a meeting with me for later tonight after the punters clear out because he knows I’ll feed him well.”
“Doesn’t seem like the type who’d go in for farming,” I noted. He was now in the process of chatting up a buxom brunette sitting next to him at the bar. The conversation didn’t look like business. I hoped Amanda wasn’t getting too attached to him. I’d noticed that look of challenge and invitation in his glance when we first met. The girl seemed enraptured and out of the corner of my eye I saw that Patrick had relaxed against the back of the booth, looking pleased with the latest development.
“Colin would go in for anything that makes money,” Gordon went on. “He’s shrewd. He jumped on the organic bandwagon at just the right time. Restaurants want to be able to tout their green credentials and they’re willing to pay for the privilege and so are their patrons.” Gordon lowered his voice. “Twenty-three quid a plate for a fresh salmon appetizer because I can tell you which loch it came out of. No better or worse really than the farmed stuff, but people think it is. Daft, really, but who wants to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
True, I suppose, for all of us in the food and drink business. We’d be able to charge a premium for the Abbey Glen single cask and yet, if anything, it took less effort to produce than our usual product.
Gordon was summoned back to the kitchen by an underling. He excused himself, promising that dessert would be following shortly. I looked at my watch. Ten o’clock and the place was still hopping, a sure sign of success. We were about a fifteen-minute walk from the drop zone. I certainly didn’t need a pudding, but we did have time.
“See what I mean? Can hardly get a conversation started before he gets pulled away again,” Patrick lamented. “Did you find out what you wanted to know about your board mate?”
“I asked for you as much as me,” I shot back.
“Doesn’t look much like a farmer to me,” Patrick pointed out. “That shirt alone must have cost a couple of hundred pounds.”
“That black t-shirt?”
“Capaldi. Italian silk blend. Doubt you could even buy it around here.”
Trust Patrick to notice that sort of detail. Funny how different twins could be. I was distracted from that thought by the arrival of the dessert. A whisky and dark chocolate mousse with a raspberry coulis. It was lovely but my mind was too preoccupied with the twenty thousand pounds sitting in my purse waiting to be delivered. We still had thirty minutes to go, but I couldn’t sit still any longer. We paid the bill, and Patrick told Gordon I was trying to avoid an old boyfriend and asked if he could sneak us out through the kitchen. He seemed tickled by the idea, and made an elaborate show of giving us a tour of the place before shunting us out into the alley. We only had a couple of minutes this time, I’d guess, before muscles realized my tail had been had again. The real test of Urquhart’s involvement with this potential kidnapping would be if my shadow knew where to find us next.
We hustled away on foot, making a wide circle around the Meadows and back through George Square Gardens till we drew near the top of Nicolson Street. It was quiet on the university grounds. A Saturday night and the students were out carousing. The cafés and bakeries on Nicolson Street were silent and shuttered. The Ramen Shoppe was open till midnight, but it seemed a wasted effort, as the place was empty.
At least it should be easy to see whoever made the pickup. I left Patrick in the park watching for anyone watching me. I walked down the silent street, my nerves on edge, the sound of my heels echoing loudly in my ears. I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that somewhere in the shadows, Edinburgh’s finest were watching my every move. It was ten forty. I walked up the steps to the noodle shop and placed the envelope in the metal milk delivery box and strolled away. No sign of company. Either he was being more careful or he didn’t know in advance where we were going tonight.
I returned along the street and took a left at the park. Patrick and I had arranged to meet in a bar just around the corner. As I stepped in the door, he immediately ushered me up a flight of stairs and into the loo at the end of the hall. “What are we doing?” I demanded.
Patrick pushed me into the end stall, shut the door, and opened the window on the outside wall. “Look.” I didn’t want to know how he’d figured out the view from the ladies’ toilet, but it looked across the café on the corner of Nicolson Street next door and straight at the front door of the Ramen Shoppe across the street and two doors down. “Clever you,” I said.
Patrick drew a pair of opera glasses out of his jacket pocket and handed them over. “You think of everything, don’t you?” I trained the glasses on the milk box on the top step. The lid was still slightly ajar and I could see the envelope resting inside. I looked up and down the street, but saw no sign of my shadow.
The pickup hadn’t been made yet. I was starting to feel optimistic. This was an amateur move and a trusting one. There was no one around. The courier would stand out like a sore thumb and be dead easy to trail. Time ticked on painfully slowly. Ten forty-five came and went. Ten fifty and still no sign of a pickup. I was starting to worry that I’d managed to get the location wrong. Eleven o’clock. I was getting antsy.
“Let’s give it till eleven fifteen,” Patrick said.
“What then? Do we go and reclaim the money, or just leave it there?”
“Leave it. The note was clear and the drop spot is being watched.”
“I suppose.” I continued to fixate on the stoop.
“Oh jeez,” Patrick said.
“What?”
“Look.” Patrick pointed down the street to the right.
I pulled back from the glasses and saw at least two dozen young people making their way down the street, laughing and goofing around.
“The kidnapper’s not so stupid after all,” Patrick said. “The pub around the corner just closed and I’m betting the Ramen Shoppe is the only place open at this hour for food. There’s a hoard of hungry students about to descend on the place.” Sure enough, the crowd made their way up the steps and were soon joined by another noisy group coming down from the other end of the street. The takeaway was suddenly a seething mass of drunk college kids filling the shop and spilling out onto the street. I lost sight of the milk box for several minutes, and when I finally caught a glimpse through the jean-clad legs, the envelope was gone.