“I don’t want to. I want Angus’s killers to be brought to justice! Don’t you want that, too?”
“Yes, yes. Of course I do,” she answered, but it sounded reluctant.
“Then you have to agree to help the police.”
“You’re definitely going to tell them everything?”
“Yes,” I answered, suddenly certain of the way forward. “There’s no other choice. And you must help. You have valuable information.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that... There’s my, um, father to think about in all this. I don’t know if I’m ready to...you know...”
“Say you’ll help!”
“I’ll think about it. Call me tomorrow.”
“What’s there to think about? How can you be this ungrateful?”
“Goodbye, Michael.”
The line went dead, and I sat there stupidly until the dial tone returned.
Damn her! Damn myself.
Eight
It didn’t surprise me to get a phone call from the Dunoon police at half eight next morning.
“ DCI Campbell would like to see you as soon as possible, sir.”
I didn’t feel up to what was coming, having been awake almost the entire night. No doubt about it, I’d landed in a right mess.
As I walked up the hill to the Dunoon police station, I kept a wary eye out for the media. It was only a matter of time before they got wind of my involvement in Angus’s death. Even though Neurotica’s story was firmly in the past tense, they wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to troll for juicy info. A bit of digging, and I’d be nailed.
I strolled by several cars and vans parked on the street, their occupants keeping warm while they waited for something to happen. They wouldn’t be happy when they discovered their big story had walked right under their noses, twice.
The duty officer at the station told me to sit on one of the benches lining the walls of the gloomy room. Ten minutes later, Campbell himself came to retrieve me. I stood to shake hands but couldn’t read anything useful in his expression.
We went to a different room that morning, bare except for an ancient wooden table, three unmatched plastic seats and a metal waste basket that looked as if it had been booted more than a few times. A constable came in to take notes almost as soon as we’d sat, but also— to my mind more ominously—he placed a recorder on the table between Campbell and me. Having seen the BBC ’s Prime Suspect series, I knew full well what that meant.
“So, Mr. Quinn,” Campbell began,“did you spend a comfortable night?”
“Not really. What is the recorder for?”
“We have moved on to the second stage of our investigation, and since we may require it later, I thought it best to have it on hand from the beginning.”
Up to that point, I hadn’t quite decided what I wanted to do, but the appearance of the recorder settled it. Not telling the detective what I knew was getting me deeper into it with each passing moment.
In hindsight, I probably should have had a lawyer with me, but since I felt I had nothing to hide, and I had done nothing wrong except to be a bloody stupid git, I got ready to spill the load.
“I, ah, may not have been as forthcoming yesterday as I might have been,” I began.
Campbell didn’t make an outward sign, but I could detect a satisfied reaction. After a long moment of staring, he reached forward and switched on the tape recorder, stating the date, time, circumstances and people present. Then the detective leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and nodded, making it clear I wasn’t going to receive any help with this.
I took a deep breath, said a silent Hail Mary and began. “When I returned here from Birmingham, I had a woman with me.”
His face was unreadable. “We were aware of that.”
“You were?”
He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “There were two condom wrappers under your bed, as well as one recently-used condom stuck in the toilet, which is an old one and doesn’t flush very efficiently.”
“You looked in the toilet?”
“We removed the toilet. Since discovering that, we spoke to the ferry workers, and one remembers your friend’s Jaguar making the crossing with its memorable damage as well as a rather good-looking young lady accompanying you.”
“And that’s why you asked me to come in this morning?”
“Partially.”
“What do you mean by ‘partially’?”
“Look, Mr. Quinn. Why don’t you just tell me your story, and then we can clean up any remaining questions when you’ve finished.”
Trying to stay relaxed and look decidedly not guilty, I fixed my eyes firmly on the opposite wall and told Campbell everything I could remember, starting with Regina jumping into my car in Birmingham in the early hours of Monday morning last.
It took quite a long time.
***
They didn’t let me go until almost half two. After I’d finished my story, Campbell had a multitude of questions. He asked if I thought I might be able to help a police artist sketch any of the six men who’d tried to stop us that night in Birmingham. He even had my fingerprints taken to help with identification of what they’d found at Angus’s place. Finally, they typed up a statement for me to sign. No one made any indication as to whether what I’d told them had been believed.
If I thought I’d been exhausted before the interview, I’d been wrong. Part of my fatigue was hunger, so I stopped at the same café as the day before and ate a bowl of soup and a sandwich, hardly noticing what any of it tasted like. Still, I felt better for eating—and for finally doing something positive to help the cops catch the bastards who’d murdered my friend.
When I got back to my room, I immediately tried Regina to give her the lowdown on how things had gone. Even though he wouldn’t say how he was going to proceed with the information I’d given him, I felt certain DCI Campbell would try to get someone in Toronto to interview Regina. She needed to know exactly what I had said so there wouldn’t be problems with conflicting stories.
With a sinking heart, I received the news that the person in Room 517 had departed the previous evening—almost as soon as she’d got off the phone with me, as it turned out. “Did she leave any messages for people calling?”
The desk clerk’s reply sounded tentative. “I will check, sir, but somehow I doubt it.”
“What do you mean?”
“She left without settling her bill.”
“She skipped?”
There was a pause. “Yes, and I’m afraid the credit card she gave me when checking in was not, ah, active.”
“Did Miss Mastrocolle leave any forwarding information?”
“I’m sorry, the guest in that room used a different name. Are you sure the guest you’re inquiring about was in 517?”
“Of course I am! I spoke to her yesterday afternoon.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. “How muchdoes she owe?”
The voice on the other end sounded very much relieved, and I suspected that he’d screwed up and not handled her registration correctly. Most hotels check credit card information when guests register, not after they’ve skipped out on their bill.
Filled