Chapter 8
With the cold starting to seep in, Jamie contemplated moving back inside, before deciding he’d rather stay away from the dead body.
He rubbed at his eyes, trying to take it in.
Marguerite had been so full of life yesterday.
An image of her winking at him came to him and he felt a pang of sadness.
He’d only spent a few minutes with her, but he’d been quite taken by her cheeky personality.
He glanced inside at the two uniformed officers loitering in the kitchen. Ten minutes ago he’d heard them mentioning a detective arriving, but Jamie hadn’t seen them yet.
When he stood up from the patio chair, both officers turned to look at him through the window and he raised his hands defensively.
“Just stretching my legs,” he told them and they went back to their hushed conversation. With the kitchen door slightly open, he could see into the hall and had a glimpse into the entranceway at the other side of the house. His insides lurched at the thought of Mrs Langford still lying there.
A stern-looking woman around his age strode down the hall and he quickly went back to his seat, as though he wasn’t supposed to have moved.
The woman stepped outside, coming to stand in front of him with her hand thrust out. “DC MacLeod.”
“Hi.” He started to stand while shaking her hand and stating his name.
“Sit,” she said with a flick of her head. “So you found Mrs Langford this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“That must have been a shock?”
He nodded and looked up at her, standing over him.
She wasn’t in uniform like the other officers, but wore jeans and a white T-shirt with a grey blazer over it.
Her glossy dark hair fell neatly around her shoulders, hooked behind her ear at one side and revealing a small gold hoop.
Frown lines between her eyes gave her a no-nonsense air of authority.
“Can you answer the question, please?”
“Sorry.” He gave a quick shake of his head, hoping to clear his eardrums as well as his thoughts, because he genuinely hadn’t heard a question.
“I asked if it was a shock to find Mrs Langford like that.”
“Oh, right. That question. I already answered it.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I nodded.”
“To avoid confusion I prefer verbal responses.”
“That makes sense. To be honest I also thought it was rhetorical, because I don’t know about you, but it’s pretty shocking for me to arrive at work and find a dead body.
” He scratched at his hairline. “Probably not shocking in your line of work,” he said.
“Hopefully, it’s not a daily thing but .
. .” He trailed off since he had an inkling she wanted him to stop talking.
“You’ve been doing some work at the house?” she asked, flipping open a notepad and scribbling something.
“Yes. I did some gardening work yesterday, and repairs,” he mumbled, not keen to focus on that.
“Is that your full-time job?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“At the moment,” she repeated. “So is it a new thing?”
“Yeah. But . . .”
“But what?”
“I’m also looking after a cat,” he blurted, then winced. Why on earth had he said that?
“Excuse me?”
“You asked if it was my full-time job. And I said it is, but in the interest of disclosing everything . . . I’m also looking after a cat.” Apparently nerves made him witter. He couldn’t seem to stop. “That’s not really a job, as such. Probably not worth mentioning after all.”
She smiled wearily. “Have you been in this line of work for long?”
“No. Yesterday was my first day on the job.”
Her sigh was entirely over the top, but it was very effective in letting him know she found him exhausting. “Why don’t you walk me through your day so far?”
“I already told your colleagues everything,” he said, indicating the uniformed officers in the kitchen with a tilt of his head.
“Now I’d like you to tell me. I’d also like you to tell me more about what you did here yesterday.”
He frowned, suspecting she’d already heard about him repairing the banister rail, but he’d have to explain that again now. Thinking back to arriving at the house the previous day, he walked her through the last twenty-four hours as succinctly as possible.
A few minutes later he wrapped things up, then waited a moment while the detective continued to scribble away on her notepad.
“I’m sure you can see the problem we have here,” she said eventually.
From his perspective it was the dead woman a few metres away from them, but he assumed that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “How do you mean?”
“I mean yesterday you came to fix the rail on the landing.”
“Mostly I was gardening, but yeah I also fixed the rail.”
“It seems you didn’t do such a bang-up job of that.”
He opened his mouth a few times, while searching her features for any signs that she was joking. It would be a pretty morbid joke, and her delivery was terrible, but it definitely sounded as though she was messing with him. Her face said otherwise.
“I fixed the rail,” he said. “Mrs Langford’s daughter was concerned about it being wobbly. Her mum had surgery not long ago and she relied on the rail.”
“So you fixed it yesterday, but this morning it gave way?”
“Yes. But it was sturdy yesterday. She must have fallen into it hard.”
The detective wrote in her notebook again and the simple action made him nervous. That and her implication that Mrs Langford’s death was his fault.
“I wouldn’t do anything to put anyone in danger,” he said defensively. “And definitely not her. She seemed like a nice lady.” He scratched at his throat. “That sounded as though I might have done something dodgy if I didn’t like her, and that’s not what I meant, but anyway, she seemed nice.”
“Did you have much contact with her?” She flipped back through her notes. “Because you mentioned chatting with her husband and daughter but didn’t mention Mrs Langford much.”
“I didn’t see her much, but I helped her down the stairs and we had a quick chat.”
“What about?”
He’d been hoping she wouldn’t ask that. “She was trying to set me up with her daughter,” he said, grimacing.
“Okay. That’s the only contact you had with her?”
“She also came outside while I was cutting back the vines. It was actually a bit weird . . .”
“What was weird?”
“The conversation.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Never mind. I think she was just joking around.”
“Joking about what?” Detective MacLeod asked impatiently.
He hesitated and swallowed hard. “Something about her daughter wanting her inheritance, and that she might kill for it.”
The detective stood taller. “Do you remember her exact words?”
“No. It was really odd, but then she laughed and said it was a joke and she was being silly.” His eyes snapped to the detective as she sank onto a chair.
“Heather seemed really nice,” he said quickly.
“She’s often here helping her parents. I’m sure she’d never do anything to .
. .” His heart was beating way too fast. “It was just an accident, wasn’t it? ”
The detective shrugged. “You seem a little agitated, Mr Sinclair.”
“Yes!” He threw his hands up. “That I can admit to. I’ve only been in Scotland for a week and I’ve had someone tell me their daughter might want to kill them, and I’ve found a dead body.
I’ve been questioned by a police officer and now a detective.
This isn’t normal where I’m from, so yeah, I’m feeling a bit agitated. ”
“Where are you from?” she asked calmly.
“Edinburgh.” He winced, not sure why he’d said that.
“You’re Scottish?”
“No.” He rubbed at the creases on his forehead. “Yes. Sort of. But I live in London. I should’ve said that to start with. I’m from London.”
She looked fairly bewildered, which was fair – he’d confused himself as well.
“How did you end up in North Berwick?”
“That’s another strange story. I’m house-sitting for a couple of months, and looking after this handyman business. And also taking care of a cat.”
“Misty,” she breathed, eyes flashing with realisation.
“You know Misty?” he asked. “That’s weird. London is so big and impersonal. Living in a small town where people even know the names of other people’s pets is going to take some getting used to.” It was actually really weird, especially as Misty was a house cat. “Wait, do you know Moira?”
She gave a slow blink. “You’re staying at Moira Campbell’s place?”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“Something like that.” She stretched her neck and muttered something about her day getting better and better. Then she whipped her gaze to him. “How old are you?”
“Excuse me?” The tone confused him rather than the question.
“Sorry.” She picked up her notepad and switched to a more professional tone. “How old are you, Mr Sinclair?”
“Thirty,” he said. “Why?”
“Just making sure I have all the facts,” she said with an insincere smile.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
She looked thoughtful. “Yeah. You can go.”
“Thanks.” He stood slowly.
“I’ll just need your phone number.”
“I’m flattered, but I actually have a girlfriend.”
Her unflinching gaze bored into him. “You’ve said some surprising things during our conversation, but I have to say that’s easily the most shocking.”
It took a few seconds for her words to register. “It’s surprising that I have a girlfriend?”
She replied with a silent nod.
“It was a joke, by the way. Not the girlfriend – she’s real – but the assumption that you were asking me out.”
“A slightly inappropriate joke, wouldn’t you say?”
For a second, he thought he saw a hint of a smirk on her lips, but it was probably a trick of the light. She didn’t seem like a smirker.
“You’re making me really nervous,” he said. “It turns out when I’m nervous I talk too much and make inappropriate jokes.”
“Your number?” she said sternly.
He gave it to her, and was heading for the side of the house when she called him back.
“We may need to speak to you again. Don’t go far.”
“Okay.” He took a few steps before turning back. “I was planning to go into Edinburgh at some point. Is that far?”
“No. You can get the train or drive. Either way, it’ll take you about half an hour.”
“Yeah, I know that. I just wasn’t sure when you said not to go far . . . Can I go as far as Edinburgh?”
“I’d say that will be fine.”
“You should think about being more specific,” he said, then smiled widely, hit by the overwhelming urge to drag a smile from her.
She didn’t take the bait. “I’ll consider it,” she said, deadpan.