LITMIR.BIZ

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no result. After making a pot of tea, I sat at the kitchen table brooding. At half four, having had no better luck with a further try, I rang up the Dunoon Police.

      The officer who took my call, while very polite, made it quite clear they had their hands full at the moment but promised someone would look in on my friend as soon as they could spare the manpower. I got the strong impression that they wouldn’t be getting to it any time soon.

      In a bit of turnabout, I called Regina, and while she claimed she’d been awake worrying, she definitely sounded groggy. I rang off feeling distinctly un-guilty about waking her.

      The phone rang again shortly before nine.

      “Mr. Michael Quinn?” a voice asked in about as thick a Scottish accent as I’ve ever heard.

      “Speaking.”

      “And are you the Michael Quinn who rang the Dunoon Police earlier with concerns over the well being of a Mr. Angus MacDougall?”

      Finding the pedantic manner of the caller extremely irritating, I answered back sharply, “Of course I am, otherwise you wouldn’t have this number, would you?”

      “What gave you reason to be concerned about his welfare, sir?”

      “Angus didn’t answer his phone when I was certain he would be in. Has someone been up to his house?”

      Again the pause. “Yes, they have, Mr. Quinn.”

      “And is my friend all right?”

      “Did you have reason to suspect that he wouldn’t be?”

      I felt as if a cold wind had blown through me. “For God’s sake, tell me what’s going on!”

      “I would first like to ask you a question or two if I may, Mr. Quinn. Did your concern for Mr. MacDougall come from any fear that someone might wish to harm him?”

      “Why are you asking me that?”

      “Please answer my question.”

      I considered well before answering. “No, not really. I had just promised to call him, that’s all, and when he didn’t answer the phone after repeated tries, I rang you folks up. Now can you tell me what’s wrong with Angus?”

      “This is not normally something we like to do over the phone, you understand, but the constable dispatched to the MacDougall house found him dead in his sitting room.”

      I slumped back on my chair. Even though I had been expecting bad news, I had not been expecting anything like this.

      “Did he have a heart attack or something?”

      “We can’t be sure about the cause of death until we have the results of an autopsy.”

      “What? How?” was all I managed to get out.

      The voice on the other end now sounded more patient—probably from too much experience at this sort of news-breaking. “Take a few deep breaths, Mr. Quinn. When you’re ready to continue, I have a few more questions I would like you to answer.”

      “Anything.”

      “Very good, sir. Now, when did you last see or speak to Mr. MacDougall?”

      “I was at his home two days ago before returning to Toronto. He drove me to the ferry.”

      “And did you speak with him since?”

      “No.”

      “Why specifically were you to call him today?”

      My brain switched into high gear again. “I had borrowed his car, and it had got damaged. I was calling to find out how much the repair bill would be.”

      “You’re speaking of the blue Jaguar XKE, 1967 with damage to the bonnet, farside wing and farside window?”

      That was pretty thorough! “Yes. Why are you asking me all this?”

      “It’s necessary considering the situation.”

      Lack of sleep and tension, guilt, grief, whatever, caused me to snap, “Would you kindly tell me what’s going on?”

      The voice answered, not unkindly, “Our investigation up to this point has been very preliminary, but we’re treating this as a homicide.”

      I felt as close to passing out as I ever have, with one other exception. I took a few deep breaths before asking, “Your name is?”

      “Detective Chief Inspector Campbell, sir.”

      “I will be on the next plane leaving Toronto for the UK .”

      “A very wise decision, Mr. Quinn. It will save us a great deal of trouble.”

      After hanging up, I completely fell to pieces.

      Six

      I’ve never particularly enjoyed flying. There’s the interminable waiting at the airport, then there are the planes themselves: claustrophobic, noisy and uncomfortable. Between connecting flights, I had too many hours alone with my thoughts, none of them even remotely good. Angus’s death was clearly on my shoulders.

      Immediately after getting off the phone with the Scottish detective, I’d called my travel agent. In short order she’d booked me on a flight to Manchester, with a connection on to Glasgow which would get me in at eight a.m. the following morning.

      Regina’s first reaction to the horrible news had been a desire to accompany me, and I only just talked her out of it. If what we were surmising was correct, the bad guys could quite possibly still be around and on the watch for her. If they identified me, then there wasn’t much we could do, because I had to go.

      Everything that day took on an air of unreality. The last time I’d felt this detached from normalcy was five years earlier when my brother Bobby had suddenly passed away. No one expects a brother to die of a massive heart attack two days before his fiftieth birthday. My reaction to my mum’s call had been the same: I’d taken the first plane.

      Some people never learn.

      ***

      Far too early the next morning, I got into my hired car with a heavy heart and headed west for the Calmac ferry dock at Gourock. My mood was not improved by the fact that I’d have to brave crossing the Firth of Clyde yet again. The day was fine and clear, though, and I spent the twenty-minute ride with hardly a lurch of my stomach. That didn’t stop the dread creeping up on me as the boat neared the end of its journey.

      One of the ferry employees pointed me in the direction of the police station. I’d already arranged to meet Detective Chief Inspector Campbell at eleven a.m., which gave me time to find a café for a spot of breakfast, nothing more than a bap and a cup of tea, since my nerves were completely on edge.

      DI Campbell turned out to be a tall, slender man as overly fussy in person as he’d sounded on the phone. I gauged him to be in his midfifties, although that could have been due to the fact that he seemed so bloody dour.

      He didn’t greet me particularly warmly, considering that I’d flown across the Atlantic on short notice to try to help him. He did offer me coffee, though, which I accepted, although I don’t often drink the stuff. A good-looking female constable brought it in, then sat down in the corner with a pad and pen. Campbell took almost no notice of her.

      “Now tell me, Mr. Quinn, about your relationship with Angus MacDougall.”

      “Angus is... was one of my oldest friends. I was a member of a band when I was younger, and Angus was our road manager.”

      “The name of the band?”

      “Neurotica.”

      My statement elicited no reaction from Campbell, but the constable taking shorthand looked up inquisitively.

      “And what was the purpose of your visit earlier this week?” he asked next.

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