No Stranger to Death: A Scottish mystery where cosy crime meets tartan noir: Borders Mysteries Book 1 (6 page)

‘Does he think the body is Chrissie Baird’s? Everyone round here seems convinced of it.’

‘Mather was much too circumspect to share that with me. And until the police inform me officially who it was you found, I can’t tell them anything more.’

There was an intonation in Paul’s voice which made Zoe ask, ‘Is there more to tell?’

‘Oh yes, my dear, although I have no idea if it’s at all relevant. If anything it complicates matters rather than clarifies them.’

Unsure whether to press him to explain this cryptic remark, Zoe had the decision made for her by Margaret looking round the door to tell them they both had patients waiting. Paul stood and yanked up his baggy chinos. He was scarcely out of the room when Zoe noticed the urine sample sitting on her desk and rushed after him with it.

Identification of Zoe as the ‘woman walking her dog’ had spread. Everyone who came into her consulting room that morning was eager to sympathise over her experience, and several patients openly questioned her about it. She dealt with them all in the same manner: a brief smile followed by a firm ‘What can I do for you today?’. Given the time of year, coughs and colds were in abundance, the uniformity of symptoms broken up only by a throbbing toe, an infected boil and a case of chronic constipation. Just one patient presented with symptoms justifying referral to a specialist at Borders General Hospital.

It was all over by noon. Zoe had closed her briefcase and was rising from her chair when the door, left ajar to indicate she was no longer seeing patients, opened fully. On the threshold stood a young woman in her late twenties wearing a white blouse, a black, knee-length skirt and flat shoes. Her hair was cut in a neat but unflattering bob and she was unadorned by cosmetics or jewellery, bar a small silver cross on a chain around her neck.

‘Hello Jean,’ Zoe said.

‘Doctor Zoe, can you spare me a minute?’ The girl’s voice was so soft Zoe had to strain to hear it.

‘Of course. Come in.’

Jean shut the door and approached Zoe’s desk, straightening her skirt as she moved. Instead of sitting down she placed her hands on the chair’s back and remained standing.

Zoe did not know Jean Hensward as well as she knew the other practice staff for the simplest of reasons: they were both part-timers and their hours rarely coincided. Most of what Zoe did know was courtesy of Penny and Margaret, and mainly revolved around the problems Jean experienced in caring for her elderly mother who had recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

‘How can I help?’ Zoe asked.

Jean blinked rapidly. ‘I hope you don’t mind me coming to you, Doctor, but it’s all very difficult and with you being involved I thought maybe you could tell me what to do.’

Zoe waited, expecting more, but nothing came. ‘What’s worrying you?’ she eventually prompted.

‘It’s about Chrissie – Mrs Baird – being killed. They think my Tom did it. I know they do. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.’ Jean released her grip on the back of the chair to wipe her eyes with her hands.

Zoe held out the box of tissues she kept on her desk and watched Jean take one then blow her nose. When the girl seemed more composed, she asked, ‘Are you talking about Tom, Kate Mackenzie’s cousin?’

Jean seemed surprised the question was even necessary. ‘Tom Watson, yes. We’ve been seeing each other for more than a year now. He’s ever so good with Mum, and I love his girls. We were so happy and now it’s going wrong and it’s all Chrissie’s fault.’ She dabbed at her eyes.

‘We don’t even know it was Mrs Baird in the bonfire,’ Zoe said. ‘And if turns out to be, I’m sure the police will discover who did it. No one’s going to accuse Tom of doing something he hasn’t.’

She knew this to be an absurd assertion but it was apparently what Jean needed to hear. The younger woman stopped sniffing and managed a wan smile.

‘You’re right. He can’t have done it and no one will think he did. It’s common knowledge how horrid Chrissie can be. Tom’s an absolute saint to put up with her. He does it for his girls.’

‘Did – do – you know Mrs Baird personally?’

‘She used to visit a lot and sit with Mum, listening to all her stories. Mum loves talking about the old days, when she worked as a maid up at the Hall. But then she stopped coming.’

‘Why was that?’

Jean’s worried look was replaced by one of indignation. ‘I started seeing Tom, and Chrissie didn’t approve.’

‘That must have hurt your mother.’

‘It was awful. Mum’s like a child, she doesn’t understand things and hates her routine being changed. She kept asking where Chrissie was and looking out of the window for hours on end.’

‘Did you tell Mrs Baird how upset your mother was?’

‘Oh no, that would have made things worse. Even before Tom started seeing me she threatened to find a way to take the girls from him. She was determined they weren’t going to grow up the daughters of a mere chimney sweep.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘And it got a lot worse when she found out about us. Even though Alice was the one to leave and she chose not to take the twins with her, in her mother’s eyes she can do no wrong.’ Jean stepped out from behind the chair. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this, but if that body is Chrissie’s, I’m glad. And you’re right – no one can possibly think Tom did it. Thank you so much for the advice, Doctor. It’s really helped.’

‘But Jean, I – ‘

Zoe was speaking to herself.

She had hoped to see Paul on her way out, but the door was closed when she went by his consulting room. Following up his mysterious remark about Chrissie Baird would have to wait until tomorrow. Perhaps the formal identification would have been made by then.

A few moments later, as she approached the health centre’s exit, she heard someone call her name. Half-expecting to be dragged back by Margaret, who still had not had a chance to grill her about yesterday’s experience, Zoe looked towards the reception desk. Margaret was on the phone, but Walter was standing at his consulting room door, hands on hips.

Like Mather, Walter Hopkins favoured the formality of a suit for work, but his were usually brown and never fitted him properly. He had a fine head of hair for a man in his mid-fifties, although Zoe was suspicious of quite how dark it remained.

‘Hello Walter.’ As she went over to him, Zoe put on her most winning smile while inwardly cursing herself for trying too hard. Whatever she did, it would not prevent more pointed comments from Walter about the number of his patients who were asking to see her these days.

‘I want you to take the ante-natal clinic tomorrow afternoon,’ Walter said.

‘I’m scheduled to do tomorrow morning’s surgery.’

‘Are you saying you won’t change?’

‘No, of course not. I’m happy to, if that’s what you want. I just need to know if you want me to do the clinic instead or as well as.’

‘Instead. And see to it that Margaret knows.’

Zoe could tolerate the Welshman’s offhand manner and tendency to waive time-wasting niceties like please and thank you. Not long after she arrived at the practice, Margaret had explained he behaved that way with most patients and all the junior members of staff. But lately it seemed as though he was deliberately trying to make things difficult for her.

He had not said much during Zoe’s interview, leaving most of the talking to Paul, except for challenging her to explain why she wanted to move to the Borders. She had thought him shy and was confident he would unbend once they worked together. Now, though, she was certain he had not wanted to give her the job, but had been overruled by Paul.

She took a deep breath and made for the reception desk.

Margaret put down the phone. ‘You looked like you were going to rush off without telling me about yesterday.’

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ Zoe said.

Chapter 7

That afternoon, after sharing a cheese roll for lunch, Zoe and Mac set off on foot for the coach house. Zoe wanted to see what progress, if any, the builders had made. Given Gerry Hall and Son’s track record so far, it was more than likely nothing would have changed since her last site visit, in which case she planned to deliver an ultimatum to them: get back on the job immediately or she would find someone else. Although Keeper’s Cottage was available for as long as she needed it, she had not envisaged spending Christmas there. Now that seemed inevitable.

Their walk took nearly half an hour, although the journey could be made by car in a fraction of the time. But the route through Pender’s Wood alongside the Blackadder River offered Zoe the chance to observe more wildlife than she had ever seen before. Granted, most of it was running away from her – squirrels vanished up trees, ducks flew out of the water – but she knew that as soon as she and Mac moved on, everything would return to normal.

A semi-derelict lodge house presided over the entrance to the Larimer Park estate. Mac, off his lead, knew now where they were going and ran ahead up the cracked and weedy driveway. Zoe caught up with him as the coach house came into view.

Their future home was being created out of the L-shaped remains of a Victorian quadrangle built entirely in hand-cut sandstone for people so wealthy they had seen no reason to economise even when stabling their horses. Its longest side faced the drive and featured a broad archway with a small tower above, giving access to what had once been a courtyard and was now a dense growth of brambles and couch grass.

The neglected structure had been on the market for some time when Zoe agreed to view it in the early summer, after the estate agent had enthused about its potential.

‘The plans are drawn up and approvals granted. Unfortunately the owners separated before the work started. It’s waiting for the right person to come along and make it into a lovely family home.’

As she was shown around, Zoe had tried to dismiss the idea of taking on a project of this size, while simultaneously experiencing mounting excitement at the prospect. It was the tower room, the building’s only upstairs space, which had decided her. They had been standing in what the agent called ‘public room number one’ when Zoe had pointed to a door in the wall at the top of a ladder and asked, ‘What’s up there?’

‘Storage space, I think.’

Ignoring the agent’s protestations that she was not insured, Zoe had handed him Mac’s lead and climbed the ladder. As she opened the door at the top, stale air had hit her in the face, making her gasp. The tower room had contained row upon row of saddles mounted on wooden staging and numerous bridles hanging from brackets around the walls. She had reached out and grasped a leather rein dangling near her head. It had felt dusty and brittle.

She had wiped many years’ accumulated dirt from the hexagonal window and looked through it. The drive continued for a few hundred metres then widened out in front of a grand house built in a classical design with stone columns flanking its entrance. Several peacocks strutted their stuff on the lawn. Larimer Hall spoke of such wealth, no wonder its original owners had expected their horses to live in style too.

Zoe had made her mind up to buy the coach house before she reached the ground floor. The man in the suit had perked up considerably when she asked if its owner would accept an offer lower than the asking price.

Now, in November, the tower room still had to be accessed by a ladder, but it was cooler, cleaner and empty. Zoe’s hopes of salvaging some of its contents – though with no idea what she would do with them – were dashed by years of neglect and extremes of temperature which had rendered the leather friable, causing many of the saddles to snap like folded cardboard as soon as they were lifted. Their removal had been a mournful sight and she had felt guilty for assenting to the destruction of the building’s final link with its past life.

She stood now with her back to the window and tried to imagine the room full of her favourite possessions.
Would Gran’s three-seater sofa fit up the new staircase and through the narrow doorway?

In the room below, where she had left him contentedly chewing a stick, Mac started to bark. When Zoe looked down, the dog had disappeared, although she could still hear him. Then the tone of his bark changed from warning to joyful greeting. A familiar voice drifted up to her.

‘Hello boy. Where’s that mistress of yours?’

‘I’m here,’ Zoe shouted.

Neil appeared a few seconds later. His eyes traveled up the ladder and a smile spread across his face when he saw her.

‘I was on my way down the drive when I saw some windows open. There were no vehicles parked outside, so I thought I’d be a good neighbour and check the place out.’

‘Thanks for that,’ Zoe said. ‘As you can see, it’s only me and Mac.’

‘As soon as I heard the dog bark I knew it had to be. Is everything all right? There’s been no sign of Gerry and his boys the last few days.’

‘Their work seems to have come to a halt. Again.’

‘It’s lucky you’ve got someone reliable to do your kitchen.’

‘So you keep telling me. I’ll be down in a minute.’ Zoe turned around and grasped the top of the ladder.

‘No. Stay there and I’ll come to you.’ Neil had been crossing the room as they spoke and was now directly below her. He put his foot on the bottom rung and started to climb.

Deeming it unsafe to risk both of them on the ladder, Zoe retreated inside the tower and waited for him. It would not be the first time he had been up there, after all. He and Peter had helped her clear the old horse-riding tack in exchange for the saddle stands, which had turned out to be made of solid oak.

‘You shouldn’t be climbing ladders on your own,’ Neil chided as he entered the room.

‘I managed, thank you.’

‘Well, I’m here now to make sure you get down safely.’

‘I don’t need any help.’

‘Of course not. And if the ladder slipped and you fell, you’re a doctor so you’d be able to put yourself back together again.’

‘Now you’re mocking me.’

‘I’m just concerned.’ He moved closer to her. ‘Would it be an adequate defence to say that when you’re the eldest child you’re expected to look after the others? It’s a habit I find hard to break.’