Cold War - Jerome Preisler [74]
It appeared from the e-mail that the owner of an estate there named Cameron had been targeted for murder.
Until Ewie Cameron’s name was mentioned, Gorrie paid scant attention. Now he pulled over a pad and began taking careful notes. The man read four e-mails; only one was directly incriminating—it mentioned Cameron by name and gave a price for his death. But there was another one referring to a “trashman,” and still another advising that the job would not be considered complete until all complications were eliminated.
That one was dated two days ago. All were signed “CB,” and all had come from the UKAE computer system.
“I don’t know that these are authentic,” said Hernandez, “but we can help you find out. Scotland Yard will undoubtedly be in touch.”
“I’ll arrange for a detective to go to your Glasgow office,” said Gorrie. He wrote down the contact information, unsure who he could send who might actually understand how they had managed to come up with the information.
CB—Constance Burns, of course.
It was all suspiciously easy, just like finding the truck with a spot of blood still on the fender.
Gorrie hung up—then hit *69, which on their phone system redialed the number that had just been connected. On the third ring, a Yank picked up the phone.
“UpLink International,” he said. “How can I direct your call?”
“Is there a Mr. Hernandez who works there?”
“Hold on and I’ll connect you.”
“Thank you, but it won’t be necessary now,” Gorrie said, hanging up. He started a new folder for the UpLink information, then put it on top of the others at the side of his desk. The large clock on the wall read five minutes to eight.
He must not show up at home too late, he decided. This new business would hold off the higher-ups for some days, perhaps even win him more men. Russell would bristle when he heard Scotland Yard had been contacted.
Still, there was time to stop by Brown Glen Hall and see if he could find Christine Gibbon there.
She was not there, which didn’t surprise him terribly. And no one remembered anyone odd hanging around who might have overheard her running her mouth.
“Tourist types this time of year? Not many,” said the regular bar girl, Sallie, as she delivered a few Guinnesses to a pair of regulars near the dart board. “Haven’t had but a one these past few weeks. No monsters in our parking lot.”
“We’ve got a ghost,” said the bartender, as if making a pitch. “Two.”
“Aye, but you don’t advertise him, that’s your problem,” Sallie told him. “What we need is a good sighting or two.”
“Nice American girl a week or so ago, about the time you’re talking,” said the bartender. “Good-lookin’, if she’d put on a little weight up top. Needs titties. Wouldn’t kick her outta bed, though.”
“Nice arse, you ask me,” said an older man standing at the bar nearby.
“Christine Gibbon bent her ear that one night,” said Sallie. “Maybe she’s the one you’re looking for, Inspector.”
“I didnae say I’m looking for anyone,” said Gorrie.
“I don’t know that Chrissie bent her ear,” said the bartender. “The Yank paid for the drinks.”
“What’s happened to the wee boy, Inspector?” asked Sallie.
“They’re hoping a sister will take him.”
“Best thing for it.”
“Did anyone else listen to Christine Gibbon?” Gorrie asked.
“Only five of us ever here most nights, Frank,” Sallie said. “Until the winter ends.”
“And school lets out,” added the bartender. “That’s when business picks up.”
“You serving kiddies now?” said Gorrie.
“What I mean is, that’s when the tourists come up,” said the bartender.
“No one else unusual?” Gorrie asked Sallie.
“We’re not unusual enough for you?”
Gorrie hunched his shoulders and considered ordering a drink. But then he remembered his wife and her schoolteacher friend.
A schoolteacher in Scotland in March, the middle of the school year.
“Did Miss Gibbon mention a Cardha Duff?” he asked them.
“She might have,” said Sallie. “One of the girlfriends?”
“Describe the tourist, would you?” Gorrie said, instead of answering.
“Five-eight, curly auburn hair not very long,