A Poisoning at the Pageant, page 7
I checked my watch. “We should probably head over to the police station. Dean will be waiting for me,” I said, then almost slapped my head at my stupidity in mentioning the policeman’s name.
Understandably, given our history, Craig’s face darkened. “Him? How’s he involved, all the way from Ballater?”
Social interactions weren’t my forte, but even I knew that I needed to do some damage limitation ASAP. I put my hand on Craig’s arm and looked into his eyes. “You know you haven’t got a thing to worry about there? I had nothing in common with the policeman. I’m with you now.”
Grudgingly, Craig grunted, “Okay. Sorry.”
“And to answer your question,” I said, “I think he said he’s on a placement in Perth. For his detective training. So he just happened to be the one who turned up at Kinross yesterday, after…” I trailed off. “After Orla,” I muttered, remembering her body lying, unmoving, on the grass beside Eagle’s feet.
How could someone be throwing their weight around one minute, then dead on the ground the next? It was so sad. She may not have been the nicest person in the world, but she didn’t deserve to die like that, and, if I possibly could, I wanted to work out who’d murdered her.
Apart from anything else, Eagle’s reputation was in danger again. Not to mention Violet’s. And Trinity’s heart. Pressing my lips together, I downed the last of my coffee. “Come on, let’s go, and I’ll see if I can get any more details about the murder from Dean.”
Sergeant Dean Lovell gazed at me across the table in the interview room. He was wearing his dark hair shorter than when I first met him, but it still curled around his face, reminding me of Kit Harington when he played Jon Snow. “You’re telling me that the horse who killed the Queen’s stud manager a couple of months ago had nothing to do with Orla’s death yesterday?”
“No!” I couldn’t believe he thought Eagle was in the frame again. “How could he? I was told she got poisoned. And then she fell off. It was nothing to do with the horse.”
“Really.” He looked unconvinced.
“And, for that matter, Eagle had nothing to do with Hamish’s murder either. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Again. “You know that. Why are you even bringing it up?” Anger had brought blood to my cheeks and I gripped my hands together under the table, willing my pulse to slow down. I didn’t do angry, and I wasn’t very good at it.
Dean’s full lips pressed together. “It’s just something of a coincidence that the horse was at the scene both times, wouldn’t you say?”
I shook my head emphatically. “No, I wouldn’t,” I enunciated. “You know fine well that the stallion didn’t inject Orla with poison.”
“Talking of which,” he cut in, “if you were leading the horse from the left, and Orla was injected from the right, how could you possibly have seen the syringe?”
Fortunately I was still feeling residual anger from his previous questions, so with luck the panic this question had evoked wouldn’t show on my face. I just couldn’t tell him about the visions, that would be—unimaginable. I couldn’t begin to think how awkward it would be. He’d think I was deranged.
But then the picture Eagle had given me came into my mind again, and the answer was clear. “You forget, Dean. Eagle is a pony, and I'm five foot nine. I can see over the top of his back.” I let the anger come through again. “So why aren’t you looking further afield and trying to find whoever did it, rather than giving me a hard time about an innocent pony?” I couldn’t believe I was having to tell the police how to do their jobs.
“Just exploring every avenue,” he murmured placatingly. Then he turned over a page in his notebook. “What about the re-enactor ladies, the ones who accompanied you and Orla into the park. Did any of them appear to have a particular grudge against Orla?”
Inhaling a deep breath through my nose, I imagined grassy meadows on a sunny day, a lark singing high in the blue sky above, saddle creaking as a horse walked quietly underneath me. Once I felt a bit calmer, I replied, “Not that I noticed. But when we needed a replacement for Orla, Tanya seemed quite pleased that she got the job.”
He glanced down at the pad on the table in front of him. “Tanya Sparkes?”
I shrugged. “Probably. I never caught her surname.”
“But I thought Mrs MacDonald—Violet—was the replacement for Orla?”
“She was. And then you took her away.” I glared at him. “So Tanya was next in line.”
“But by the time the ladies got to the jousting arena, it was you who was on the horse with a crown on your head, was it not?”
Oh boy. It would be just my luck that he would try to pin the murder on me. “Not willingly. I was taking the horse back to our lorry because I thought they were finished with him, when the organiser, Mr Brooksworth, insisted that someone had to ride him.” I lifted a shoulder. “I was the only one that could.”
“Hmmm,” he said again, scribbling something at the bottom of his page. “And then there was some altercation with a loose horse and you came to the rescue, I heard.”
“Yes.”
“Gaining fame and notoriety in the process. There’s photos and video of you all over Instagram and YouTube.”
My hand flew to my mouth. “Really?” My cheeks began to burn again at the idea of featuring on social media. That was not what I’d intended when I intercepted Pascal’s horse. “I’ll have to see about getting those taken down,” I said through gritted teeth.
He raised an eyebrow. “You needn’t worry. Nobody seems to have worked out who you are. They’re all saying things like ‘Mary Queen of Scots to the rescue’ or words to that effect. I’ve not seen you mentioned by name.”
The drop in my blood pressure was almost palpable; I deflated like a burst beach ball. “Thank goodness.”
That earned me a keen look. “So you’re not after fame and fortune?”
“No!” I exclaimed. Then I thought about it a little longer, and added, “A little fortune wouldn’t go wrong, though. I’d be able to buy more horses.”
Dean actually rolled his eyes at that. I wasn’t sure he was supposed to do something so unprofessional, and glanced at the corner of the room to see if we were being recorded. Yep, there was a little red light blinking on a video camera. But, luckily for Dean, it was pointing at me, not him.
“Going back to the re-enactors,” Dean continued. “I believe Mrs MacDonald had an argument with Mrs O’Brien—Orla. Did you witness it?”
“Yeah.”
“And how would you describe that argument?”
I chose my words carefully. I didn’t want to implicate Violet any more than she’d been already. “Inconsequential, in my opinion. Orla wanted to wear some shoes that Violet thought were historically inappropriate, that’s all. Storm in a teacup.”
“Violet. Yes.” He tapped his pen on his lower lip. “I believe she’s your boyfriend’s—” he almost choked on the word, “mother. Of course you’d stick up for her.”
Giving him some premium stink eye I said, “Why ask me, then?”
That silenced him for a moment. Then he puffed out a breath and changed tack. “Why indeed? If I’m understanding you correctly, you’re saying there was nothing in particular apart from a little rivalry, perhaps, between the other re-enactor ladies and Mrs O’Brien. But someone killed her.” He gave me a keen look. “Do you have any ideas who that might have been?”
Pressing my lips together, I stared down at my hands, debating whether I would bruise Trinity’s heart by my next statement. “I heard that, a while back, Orla made a pass at Blake, one of the jousters, and he rejected her. But they seemed perfectly civil towards each other today. She even gave him her handkerchief as a good luck token for the joust.” I lifted a shoulder. “He’s the only other person I heard of who interacted with her, but I really don’t think a knock back is grounds for murder, is it?”
I caught his gaze as I said that, then wished I hadn’t—because wasn’t that exactly where we’d been at, a month or so ago? But then again, neither of us had contemplated murder. At least, I didn’t think we had, until I caught the dark look that flashed across his eyes. Was it regret, annoyance—or something more sinister?
My stomach clenched, and I rubbed sweaty palms on my jeans—under the table, where he wouldn’t see them.
Dean, meantime, was bouncing his pen off his lip again, looking thoughtful. “Are you still doing your web investigations?” he asked, as if from nowhere.
“Um, yes. In my spare time.”
“Perhaps you could do me a favour, and check out Orla and her contacts. See if you can dig up any dirt.” He tilted his head to the side. “Anything that might help us find the real killer, and prove Mrs MacDonald’s innocence.”
“I could try.” That was a good idea, actually. Maybe something on social media would provide a clue as to why she was killed. I’d start on it this evening.
“Focus on anyone who might have had access to morphine,” Dean added.
“Morphine?” My eyes widened. “You know what killed her?”
“Yes, early tests indicate she was injected with morphine, not a huge dose, but enough to kill someone who’s not used to it.”
I stared at the floor, re-living the vision Eagle had given me of the flash of blue cloak and the glimpse of a syringe. “So it had to be pre-meditated.” The realisation made my chest cramp. I’d been within a few feet of a killer on Saturday, without even realising it.
“Yes. I believe this was a murder, not an impromptu manslaughter. That’s why anything you can dig up on the world-wide-web might help us to find the killer quickly.”
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do tonight.”
But before I could do any investigations for the police, I had an impromptu afternoon to spend with my boyfriend, who’d been waiting patiently for me while I was being interviewed. I reckoned some lunch, followed by a nice walk by the river was in order, until it was time to head to the airport with him. An internet fact-finding mission could wait till later.
Chapter Fourteen
As Dean ushered me out of the admin area where the interview room had been back into reception, Craig looked up and locked eyes with the policeman. “Sergeant Lovell,” he said—not quite through gritted teeth, but in a flatter tone than was his usual. He stood, then stepped towards us.
When I’d questioned whether he’d get bored waiting, he’d waved a book that he’d brought with him. On the back of the large softback was a photo of a chap in a baseball cap with a horse’s foot in his hands. “I’ll get a head start for tomorrow’s course,” he’d said.
“Mr MacDonald.” Dean inclined his head slightly, his gaze steely, then turned to me. “Thank you for your time, Ms Paterson. I would ask that you not leave the country until this is cleared up.”
I think my eyebrows disappeared up under my hairline somewhere. “With a dozen or so horses to look after, I hardly think that’s likely.”
Dean smiled wryly, raising a hand in farewell as Craig reached my side. Then my attention was caught by a grey-haired man remonstrating with the desk sergeant.
“Look here, Jimmy, you need to gie me ma wife’s body. She deserves a decent funeral, she does, and I’m sure as anything gonna gie her one.” With that, the man turned and pointed a finger at the internal door Dean had just disappeared through.
“Tell your buddies they’d better release her now,” the man continued forcefully in his strong Glaswegian accent, “so I can square things up wi’ the undertaker. And if her maw hears that youse are holding onto her daughter’s body, well, that Colleen is someone you wouldnae want to mess wi’, I’ll tell you that. We’re planning a service at the cathedral wi’ all the trimmings, and the fanciest coffin that money can buy. She’ll no’ hold for the ceremony being delayed by youse lot.”
Clenching my teeth, I pulled on Craig’s arm, and led him over to the seats.
“What’s up?” he asked, concern etching his face. “Are you okay?”
“Give me a minute,” I said, putting my elbows on my knees and staring at the grey linoleum floor as implications swirled around in my brain.
That grey-haired man up there surely had to be Orla’s husband, and he didn’t seem like the nicest of men. Could he somehow have killed his wife?
But then, why make such a hoo-ha about getting the body released for the funeral? If he’d killed her he’d most likely just organise something quick and cheap, not a big event at the cathedral. Making such a fuss about the dead woman sounded more like the actions of a man who loved his wife. So, even though I didn’t much like the look of him, that didn’t make him a murderer.
Rats.
I still had to find Orla’s killer. But for now, that would have to wait, because I had a couple of hours to spend with Craig first. Violet was off the hook, at least for the moment, and a delay wasn’t going to make Orla any less dead. Finding the guilty person was second on my priority list. My boyfriend was number one.
After dropping Craig at Edinburgh Airport to catch his plane south, I headed back to Glengowrie to start digging into Orla and Tanya’s background like Dean had asked me too.
Unfortunately, Tanya’s socials seemed primarily comprised of photographs of her sewing projects—mainly the historical outfits she made to wear at events such as yesterday’s pageant—plus the occasional shot of her dog. An incriminating photo of her holding a syringe of morphine would have been nice, but my investigation wasn’t destined to be that easy.
Giving up on the damp squib that Tanya appeared to be, Orla was next for a background check. As I should probably have expected, her profile was all ‘me, me, me’—photos of her posing in this dress or that outfit; new hair, new makeup, new nails… but nothing at all with anybody else in shot—not even her husband—which didn’t help with my fact-finding.
With a sigh, I glanced across at Trinity, who was sitting quietly in the other armchair, her nose buried in the historical romance I’d bought yesterday. “Any good?” I asked.
“Eh?” She looked up.
“Any good?” I pointed at her lap. “The book.”
“Ah! Yeah, it’s alright, actually. Makes the history quite interesting. Like you was really there.” She smirked. “The heroine reminds me a little of you, she’s a horse trainer and a bit of a daredevil.”
“I’m hardly a daredevil.”
Trinity gave me some side eye. “Says she who grabbed a galloping horse yesterday and stopped him from ploughing into a crowd of innocent spectators.”
She had me there. I waved a hand. “You get back to your book, I’ll get back to the internet.”
“Yes, boss.”
Her mention of the jousting ring reminded me that Blake should be next for the social sleuthing treatment. Just in case my friend had taken up with a ne’er-do-well yet again.
To say I was a little worried about what I’d find would be an understatement.
“You what?” Trinity glared at me, fire blazing from her eyes.
I held up my palms. “Steady on. You’d have been glad if I’d researched Richard’s background in time to realise that he was a murderer. Or Termie, for that matter. I’m just looking out for you.”
Breathing heavily, she clenched her jaw, a muscle jumping in her cheek. Finally she dropped her gaze. “Would you have told me if it wasn’t good news?” she asked, closing the book on her lap.
“Of course. Definitely. That was the whole point of checking Blake out, wasn’t it?” I was beginning to think I should have kept quiet about his clean rap sheet. Maybe that would have been more savvy, if less honest. But I’d learn my lesson and know better next time. “I told you that I investigated Craig out before we got too involved, didn’t I? It just makes sense, in this day and age.”
“You might have a point there. Okay.” Her shoulders dropped, and her face relaxed. “So he ain’t an axe murderer or a wife beater?”
“Not as far as I can tell. Most of his photos on social media are of horses or re-enactments.”
Then her face clouded. “He ain’t in that Horseman Club, is he?”
“The Horseman’s Guild? I don’t think so. But that’s a good point, I should probably look. Not that being in that society is necessarily a bad thing, but…” I lifted a shoulder.
“Yeah. Can’t say I’ve liked what I’ve heard about them up till now.”
“Same,” I said. It was probably just a rather unfortunate coincidence, but the two murderers I’d unearthed so far had been members of the guild, as had most of their victims. It would definitely be prudent to confirm that Blake wasn’t mentioned in the guild membership. Just in case.
However, unsurprisingly, being a secret society along masonic lines their membership files and meeting minutes weren’t on public record.
But I had a secret weapon at my disposal—Gremlin, the deep web search engine app that I’d written as a university project. It had proven very useful in my work with Aye Spy Investigations, not to mention how it had helped with solving the previous cases.
Gremlin was just what I needed now, and I could leave it to work away while I turned my attention to the next person on my list: Orla’s husband, Samuel O’Brien. It was only prudent to check out the murdered woman’s next of kin, even if he had been miles away in Glasgow at the time. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he’d hired someone to do away with his wife, so I had to examine every possibility.
Chapter Fifteen
Samuel O’Brien, as I’d discovered before, had a business in Glasgow dealing in scrap metal. But not just that. He’d built and owned a recycling plant housed in an old quarry on the outskirts of the city, and had plans awaiting approval by the council to build a food waste recycling plant on the next-door plot of land.
With every new nugget of information I discovered about him, my eyebrows crept a little closer to my hairline. He certainly had green credentials, which made me like the idea of him more than the actual bluff, brusque man I’d observed at Perth police station. Something about the person I’d seen there made me feel that the businesses he ran were more about profits than an ethical stance or a conservationist world view. Which was rather sad.
