The Cracked Spine (18 page)

My bold inner rebel patted me on the back.

 

FIFTEEN

If I had my bearings correct I thought the police station was located down the hill on the Royal Mile. In fact, we were close enough to the water and coastline that I saw a currently unpopulated beach at the end of the road and small, foamy, dark waves hitting the shoreline. The station was inside a small, old brick building with a clock tower rising up its middle turret. The sign above the door said, “Monticello Police Station.”

We were taken inside where I was directed to sit on a reception area bench and wait.

Hamlet had calmed some from his initial fear, but he was still intimidated by being hauled off by the police. He'd gone willingly, but still, going with the police was always scary.

The station's architecture was like a lot of other buildings I'd seen, medieval, probably Roman, which I thought was just ornate enough to be regal but not enough to be froufrou.

Even the simple wooden bench I sat on was old, probably crafted in the early 1900s. Its two seat spots were worn shiny and dark but the rest of the lighter-colored wood looked old and tired. “Jessie loves Billy” had been scratched into the armrest next to me. I wondered how someone had managed to deface police property as a number of police officers sat so close, each of them taking their fair share of turns to glance in my direction.

Soon after we arrived and Hamlet was taken down a hallway, Inspector Winters appeared from behind a wall that extended back from a pillar.

“The young lad told me you're from America and that you just arrived. Welcome tae Scotland. Coffee?” he said as he offered me a Styrofoam cup.

I didn't like either him or the taller, skinnier Inspector Morgan, and my protective sensibilities for Hamlet had been quickly armed. But I didn't think I should decline the offer of coffee.

“Sure. Thank you.”

I took the cup and Inspector Winters sat down beside me on the bench. There was plenty of room, but I suddenly felt crowded and I moved over a little.

“What do you think of our fair country? How do you like Edinburgh?” he said.

“So far, I like the country and the city, though I haven't seen much of it yet. Jenny's murder has made the first part of my experience heartbreaking.”

“I'm certain,” he said.

Inspector Winters looked around the station, toward the space behind the front reception desk. I looked too but didn't see anything interesting so I turned my attention back to him. He smiled, almost shyly. I wondered if I was being set up for something, though I couldn't imagine what it might be.

“I'll tell you now that I don't suspect either Edwin MacAlister or the young lad we brought in of killing Jenny MacAlister.”

“Oh, well, that's good. I'm glad to hear it,” I said, but I didn't really believe him. “Then why did Hamlet have to come in?”

“My partner isn't of the same mind. He thinks that someone at The Cracked Spine was involved.”

“Why?”

Inspector Winters shrugged, his beefy shoulders somehow moving in what seemed like slow motion.

“There are reputations to consider,” Inspector Winters said. “You might not be aware of them yet since you're new tae Scotland, but there's a MacAlister reputation, and the lad currently being questioned has a sketchy history.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said after I swallowed a gulp of the lukewarm coffee.

“Aye. Legend has it that one night Jenny MacAlister took off from the family estate with a carload full of all sorts of treasures. Gold candlesticks and the like being among her haul. Or so the story goes. I suspect it was something less impressive, like some small trinkets or just money, but the story of a big bag bursting at the seams with invaluable treasures works better. Anyway, she ran off and sold everything for drugs. That was it. Right then and there she turned into an addict. Of course, we all know that there's more tae her story of becoming what she became, but again, the story's better with some extra drama added.”

“Legend? Edwin, Jenny, their family, they are all so well-known that there are legends about them? There are stories? People talk about them?”

“Aye. You've come tae work for one of our better-known citizens. You didn't know?”

“He's not known of at all in Kansas.”

“Well, maybe not by you, but I bet someone else there has heard of him.”

“Maybe. Go on,” I said.

“All right. Jenny was both disowned and disinherited by her parents. In fact, so much so that when they gave everything tae Edwin, they included lots of legal caveats that prevented him from giving her even one single pound or he shall have tae forfeit the whole lot tae the Scottish government.”

“That's strange.”

“Aye, 'tis, but his parents were wealthy beyond imagination and they had pull with everyone in Scotland.”

I nodded, as the close relationship of politics and money in both my home country and my new one were almost boringly redundant. Some things were the same the world over.

“It was shortly after Jenny's departure that her parents set everything in motion and they died shortly after that. If only Jenny had behaved herself a few more years, she would have been set.”

“Or just a rich addict,” I said.

Inspector Winters looked all around and then leaned a little closer to me. “It's said that he—Edwin MacAlister—has a secret room full of things Jenny stole, both from her parents' house and others. It's said that he opened The Cracked Spine so he could find a way tae give her money without breaking any of the legal obligations his parents put into place, that the old woman who works there cooks the books—och, I suppose that's not a good expression tae use for a bookshop—knows how tae work the numbers so that she hid the money Edwin gave Jenny.”

“I see,” I said. I took another sip as I thought back to the moments before Edwin and I left the shop for the auction. Rosie seemed befuddled by Edwin including Jenny in the auctions. Was she stumped at how to work the numbers or was it something else?

Inspector Winters sat back. “Has he shown you the room?”

“No, I don't know anything about a room like that,” I said. “I think it's just all fodder … wait, you all call it blether. It's all blether.”

“Aye, I think so too,” he said with a wink.

“What about Hamlet and his sketchy past? What did you mean by that?”

“He had a rough childhood, has a record from those days. My partner is convinced that Hamlet's past run-ins with the law make him a prime suspect in Jenny's murder. He was at her flat the night before she was killed, and we … my partner thinks the lad is hiding something. Would you know if he's hiding something important?”

“No, nothing. But. What kind of run-ins, specifically?” I asked.

“Can't say. It would be against the law for me tae tell you. Maybe someone at the shop will tell you.” Inspector Winters smiled. I didn't want to like him. His trickery was poorly executed, but I sensed that he hadn't tried all that hard to trick me into anything, just manipulate me to seek some of my own truth. I appreciated the style more than any strong-arm techniques he might have tried.

“Excuse me. I need tae get back. Call me if you feel a need tae share anything important with me.” He stood and handed me a business card before he moved through a short swinging door. He looked back once more and tipped an imaginary hat my direction before disappearing down the hallway.

Shoot, I liked him. And though it might not be a bad idea to have a police officer as a friend in my new city and country, I didn't want to like him right at this moment.

I looked around. There were officers on the other side of the swinging door, but they didn't seem interested in what I was doing. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the note from Ingy along with some of the small pieces of purple paper. Carefully I put the small pieces back into my pocket and then unfolded the note.

As Birk had instructed Ingy to do, she'd listed the addresses and phone numbers of Monroe Ross, Genevieve Begbie, and Birk Blackburn. Ingy's handwriting was wobbly but clear enough. She also added some lines at the bottom of the paper. It said:
Ms. Begbie will be giving a lecture late this afternoon at the university. She's an expert on vases, or some such silliness
.

The note also listed the time and location of the lecture.

Just as I was tucking the note back into my pocket, this time into a pocket without the small pieces of paper, Hamlet appeared from behind the wall and pillar. He looked no worse for the wear. There was no visible evidence that he'd been interrogated or waterboarded. He looked somewhat put-out, but not harmed or harried at all.

“Hi,” I said as he came through the swinging door. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.” He looked back toward the now empty hallway. “Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee and tell you what happened.”

I didn't know if I was more excited about his release or the chance to spend some time talking to him privately.

“Sounds good to me,” I said.

We hurried up the Royal Mile, through intermittent rain, to a café called Leaftide. Its tall front windows were lined with green paint and the door was old-world wood. The inside was small but still roomy enough that Hamlet and I could find a table in a back corner and not feel cramped or eavesdropped upon. Inside it smelled like coffee and vinegar, a combination I wouldn't have guessed to be as appealing as it was. The outside smells had reminded me of a Kansas storm, fresh and sharp with ozone—until we'd passed through a pocket of sea air that had wafted up the hill. I'd never smelled such a thing and I knew I would remember it and forever tie it to the memory of the day I went with Hamlet to the police station.

Hamlet ordered us both coffees and some pieces of a chocolatey cheesecake that were delicious and light, each bite melting on my tongue.

“They asked me about Edwin and about my friendship with Jenny. They asked why I visited her the night before she was killed,” Hamlet said. “One of the inspectors was mostly quiet and then left the room, but the other one, Inspector Morgan, thinks I was somehow involved in Jenny's murder, I'm sure. He doesn't have any proof, and I didn't do anything tae Jenny so he won't find any proof. I don't think he'll stop looking though.”

“What did they want to know about Edwin?” I asked.

“They think he knows more than he's telling. He is, but I didn't tell them about the Folio. I wouldn't have, even if Edwin and Rosie hadn't asked me not tae, but not for the same reasons they have.”

“What are your reasons?”

“Tae protect Jenny. Edwin's been good to me. I care deeply about him and Rosie, but neither of them seem tae want tae protect Jenny's reputation as much as they want tae protect the people involved with the auctions. I care about
her
too. She told Edwin she hid the Folio. What if she did something worse than hiding it?”

“I did sense that Edwin wasn't sharing all his reasons for not going to the police, Hamlet. Maybe he really is thinking that way too. But, I guess I need to understand why Jenny's reputation needs protecting. What could she have done with the Folio?” Honestly, I wondered how her reputation could be more important at this point than the extremely valuable Folio. She was gone, sadly, but finding the Folio should now be a priority. She wasn't my family though, and I hadn't known her so I didn't have any warm and fuzzy memories to counterbalance the bad things I'd heard, and I was probably judging too much.

“I don't really know,” he said, his youthfulness now showing in his wide eyes for the second time since I'd met him. “But I think that we, as the family we are, need tae do whatever we can tae protect Jenny's reputation, at least until we know the truth.”

I nodded, hiding my disagreement. “What do you know about the members of the Fleshmarket Batch?”

“I don't know who they all are, but I know some of them. Birk comes into the shop, a couple others have been Edwin's friends for a long time.”

“Were many of them friends with Jenny?”

“Oh. I don't … oh, aye, Jenny was friends with some of them, but that was years ago.”

“Wasn't there a romance or something? Broken hearts?”

Hamlet's eyebrows came together. “Aye, there was, but that was a
long
time ago. I suppose I've heard the stories, but it was before my time. Monroe Ross and Genevieve Begbie, those are the names that come tae mind. I don't know all the details.”

“Do you think that maybe one of them, or both of them, could have still been angry enough to hurt Jenny?”

“No, that was … a long, long time ago,” he repeated.

“Right. But Edwin was bringing Jenny back into his life, into the business. Maybe there was some buried resentment rearing its ugly head?”

“I don't think so,” Hamlet said slowly.

“What do you think happened to Jenny?”

“I don't know, but it had tae be one of the drug people in her life. There were plenty. The building she lived in is full of trouble.”

I didn't know if Hamlet knew I'd been to Jenny's building so I didn't ask about the quiet I'd noticed. “She wasn't sober? The building holds temptations?” I asked.

“Aye. And Jenny had been sober for some time, though I don't think she was the night I visited. I didn't tell Edwin. It seemed like the wrong thing tae say as he was telling us about her murder.”

I nodded. “Why did she live where she lived?”

“I suppose a desire tae live the way she wanted tae live no matter what Edwin wanted. You have tae understand how bad their relationship was not all that long ago. It was venomous bad. Edwin found a way tae pay her bills, but she didn't want him tae. She resented it. Finally, he worked behind the scenes, talked tae her landlord and asked him tae call directly if there were rent issues. Edwin's getting older, Delaney. I truly don't believe he's ill, but his hiring you and his attempts tae heal the relationship with his sister are ways of putting his life in order, I think. He should never have given her the Folio. Never. He knows that. It was … just his
big
way of doing things.”