Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Read online

  Russell sat down again on the backwards facing chair and lowered his chin onto his forearms which he had crossed atop the back. "Are you sure Fionna didn't say anything about what she was doing that night?"

  Will took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I don't know. I—I saw her just before I went home to eat dinner and study. Sometimes we eat dinner together, sometimes we don't. We didn't that night. I think she had something to do, but honestly, I didn't ask. And that—" he paused, "that was the last time I saw her."

  He took in a sharp breath and lowered his face to his hands. The lieutenant waited a few moments before reaching out and clasping Hopkins' shoulder.

  "We're almost done, lad," he said soothingly. "I've only a few more questions."

  Will raised his head and nodded. "Right," his voice cracked. "Go on."

  "Did you see her at all on Saturday?"

  Will cocked his head, a look of surprise on his face. "No. I— No."

  "Okay. And did you make any attempt to contact her either Friday evening or any time Saturday?"

  Will's eyebrows knitted together. "No."

  Russell leaned back and then stood up with a slap on the back of the chair. "All right then, Mr. Hopkins. You're free to go," he announced. "But, uh, don't leave Aberdeen without telling us first, all right?"

  Will looked at the lieutenant, a puzzled expression on his face.

  "If we need you to answer any more questions," Russell explained innocuously, "we'll not want to waste time trying to track you down in London. You were very close to Miss FitzSimmons. Hopefully you can help us catch her killer."

  "All right," Will agreed as he stood up and walked to the door.

  "Mr. Hopkins?" the lieutenant called out just as Will's hand touched the door handle.

  "Yes?" Will turned back.

  "Is there anything else we should know?" The conversational tone had once again drained away from Russell's voice, leaving behind the cold, serious inquiry of a police lieutenant. "About this weekend? About you? About Fionna? Anything at all?"

  Will Hopkins turned back to the door and thought for a moment.

  Finally, without turning around, he replied simply, "No," then pulled open the door with a metallic clank and walked out of the interrogation room.

  * * *

  "The wee bastard's lying." Russell exhaled the smoke through his nose and crushed the butt in the ashtray before reaching for another cigarette.

  "Most likely," Inspector Cameron agreed. He peered through the four small window panes that looked into the interrogation room. A two-way mirror would have been too obvious. "But that doesn't necessarily make him a killer."

  Sgt. Willis chimed in from his seat in the back, near the door. "He seems the most likely suspect."

  Cameron didn't even turn around, but Russell took the bait. "How do you figure, Mike?"

  "Well, it could be a domestic violence situation."

  Russell frowned at this suggestion. This time it was Cameron who responded, but still without turning around.

  "Willis," he sighed, "have you ever heard of a domestic violence situation that involved a ritual killing?"

  Sgt. Willis actually thought for a moment before answering, "No."

  "And Willis," Cameron still faced the trick window. "Are you aware of any connection, domestic or otherwise, between William Hopkins and Annette Graham?"

  "Well, no," Willis admitted. "But what about what Dr. Wood told us?"

  "We don't even know," the inspector finally turned around, "if Hopkins knew about that."

  Cameron was unable to continue, however, because just then a young female officer opened the door to the observation room.

  "Lieutenant Russell, your next suspect is ready."

  Cameron looked again through the window as a large man with thick red hair and a neatly trimmed red beard was escorted into the room. The man then lumbered over to the table and plopped down with an air of practiced boredom.

  "And who is this?" Cameron inquired.

  "That would be the deceased's brother, Sean Michael FitzSimmons," Russell explained, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray.

  Cameron frowned. "Seems an unlikely suspect," he opined.

  "Perhaps," Russell acknowledged, "but he's got a criminal history as long as my arm. Ulster faxed it over this morning. Battery, assault, battery, arson, battery, battery, battery. The lad's got a right temper, he does."

  "Hmmph," Cameron observed enigmatically.

  "Well, in any event." Russell pulled the door to the hallway open. "It can't hurt to talk to him."

  The door closed behind the lieutenant and Cameron repeated his "Hmmph," this time to himself. Sgt. Willis considered for a moment trying to make some sort of insightful comment, but thought better of it and instead returned to his perusal of the crime scene photos.

  * * *

  "Good morning, Mr. FitzSimmons."

  Lt. Russell's voice hung on the word 'mister' just long enough to show he didn't mean it. The reassuring, conversational tone he had used with Will Hopkins was entirely absent.

  Sean FitzSimmons looked up at the stocky old policeman who had just walked in, but he didn't reply. He appeared unimpressed.

  "I suppose you know why you're here?" Russell went on.

  Sean held the lieutenant's gaze for a moment, then looked away, arms crossed.

  "C'mon now, lad," Russell coaxed. "Your sister was murdered. Don't you want to help us catch her killer?"

  Sean continued to stare at the window to his left.

  Russell stood up straight. "All right, mate, if that's the way you want to play it, so be it. Where were you the evening of Friday last?"

  Still no reply.

  "What about the evening of September twenty-seventh?"

  Sean turned from the window and flashed a puzzled look at the policeman.

  "That's the night the first girl was murdered," Russell explained. "Perhaps you can explain to me why your initials were found all through her diary?"

  Sean FitzSimmons just shook his head as a bemused smile crossed his face. He turned away again.

  "C'mon, FitzSimmons!" Russell slammed two practiced fists down on the table, inches from his subject. "You're making a mistake! Your sister's been murdered—butchered! We've got to eliminate everyone as a suspect. So just give me your damned alibis and help yourself out, lad!"

  "Go to hell," Sean finally said, his temper evident just beneath his angry growl. "I'm not new to this. You bloody well know that. And I've done this enough to know that you don't drag people in here just to eliminate them as suspects. The only reason I'm here is because you think I had something to do with Fionna's murder. Well, thanks to your occupation of my island, I was born on British soil and I hold a British passport. So I think I'll just invoke my rights under 'Her Majesty's Royal Bleeding Government' and tell you to go to bloody hell."

  Russell stood up slowly and smiled. "Aye, you're not new to this," he agreed. "And aye, I know it. But laddie, Her Majesty's Royal Government's done away with your right to remain silent. Silence in the face of questioning can now be used to infer guilt."

  Sean's eyes narrowed at this new information.

  "Aye, it's true," the lieutenant assured. "And you've your own bastard Fenian brothers to thank for it, too. Nothing like a few hundred I.R.A. bomb attacks to motivate Parliament to loosen up the restraints on the thin blue line."

  Sean kept his narrowed gaze locked on the police officer.

  "So if you insist on ignoring my inquiries, all I have to do is turn my questioning around a bit and you'll be signing your own arrest warrant."

  Sean just stared at him.

  "So then," the lieutenant started again. "Where were you Friday night starting at about six o'clock?"

  Sean looked away to the window, then raised both hands, palm in, his index and middle fingers raised and separated—the British equivalent of the American middle finger. One hand was directed at Russell, the other at whoever was watching them through the window. />
  "All right then, mate," Russell's voice sounded tired, but betrayed just the slightest bit of anger. "Have it your way."

  He pushed the second chair out of the way and leaned over the table, his meaty hands gripping either side and his face only inches from the obscene gesture still being raised to him.

  "You were with your sister, Fionna FitzSimmons, the evening of Friday last, correct?"

  Sean ignored him.

  "Right," Russell continued, "and in fact you were the last person to see her alive, is that not so?"

  Silence.

  "I see. And it's true, is it not, that you bleeding killed her, didn't you, FitzSimmons? You garroted her then gutted her like a fish! Didn't you? Didn't you?!"

  Sean exploded from his chair and grabbed the burly officer by the collar. "How the bloody hell can you say that?!" he screamed. "Some filthy bastard kills my sister—my bleeding pregnant sister—and you accuse me?! Me?! How dare you? How dare you?!"

  Russell didn't say or do anything; he just stared his quarry in the eye.

  Sean stared right back, green eyes burning. Then he pushed the lieutenant away and let go. "Go to hell." He dropped again into his chair.

  Russell sighed as he fixed his collar. "Now you've done it, lad. You lost your cool. And you up and said something you oughtn't have done."

  Sean looked up at the policeman, puzzled.

  "See, lad," Russell leaned in to explain. "You let out that you knew Fionna was pregnant. But I know I didn't tell you that. No one knew she was pregnant, 'cept the coroner—and whoever the bastard was who killed her and sliced her open to pull her bloody womb out."

  Sean's eyes flashed. "Fionna bloody well knew it, you idiot! And she bloody well told me about it! Christ, man, think! And it was that English bastard, Hopkins!" Sean slammed a fist onto the table. "He wanted her to get a bleeding abortion! Said it would ruin his career! Just like a bloody Englishman. He wanted her to just up and murder my bleeding nephew!" He stopped and looked up at the ceiling, clearly pained by his next thought. "And she was bloody well considering it, too." He exhaled audibly, then looked the lieutenant in the eye. "Now they're both dead. So I guess he got his bleeding wish."

  Russell stood silently for several moments, his eyes trained on Sean FitzSimmons. Finally he stuck a thumb toward the door.

  "You can go, lad."

  Sean pushed away from the table and crossed angrily to the door.

  "But," Russell warned, "don't leave Aberdeen without our permission."

  Sean pulled open the heavy metal door. "Go to hell."

  * * *

  "That went well," Cameron observed wryly.

  Russell had barely set foot back into the observation room before he lit up his cigarette. "Oh, aye? I hadn't noticed."

  "He seems the most likely suspect," offered Willis.

  Ignoring him, Cameron and Russell continued their conversation.

  "Now what?" the lieutenant asked.

  Cameron frowned slightly and pushed his hands into his pockets. "Now we talk to more witnesses. We hope the boys in forensics find something. We pound the pavement." He paused, as if uncertain himself. "Whatever it takes."

  Just then the door to the observation room opened and in walked Elizabeth Warwick, a satisfied smile spread across her countenance.

  "Got it," she announced simply and handed a document to the inspector. "Finally."

  "What is it?" Russell asked. Willis too had risen from his seat.

  "A birth certificate," Cameron explained slowly, not looking up from the paper.

  "For a little girl," Warwick continued, "baptized 'Mary' but who ended up being adopted by Donald and Jacqueline Graham of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, Canada."

  Cameron read aloud from the document, "'Father: Unknown. Mother:'"

  He stopped and looked at Warwick, confident that she had already made the arrangements for their imminent trip to the woman's home. "'Mother: Lucille MacLeod.'"

  19. The Sins of the Parents

  "Good show, Elizabeth," Cameron complimented from the passenger seat of the unmarked police car hurrying through the streets of Aberdeen. "It's good finally to be getting somewhere with this investigation."

  Warwick smiled. Cameron only used her first name when he was particularly pleased with her. "Thank you, Inspector." She was savvy enough not to return the familiarity.

  "Speaking of which," he went on. "Any luck tracking down that girl on the answering machine tape? Mavis Decocteau?"

  "Maggie Devereaux," Warwick corrected as she turned onto a side street. "No, not yet. Based on her American or Canadian accent and the FitzSimmons woman being a student at the university I'd thought she was likely a student too. But the university office can't find any record of her."

  "Well, keep looking," Cameron encouraged as Warwick pulled the car to a stop in front of a rather nice green house in the rather nice Aberdeen neighborhood. "I'm sure she'll turn up in no time."

  * * *

  Maggie picked up the platter with the two remaining oatcakes and carried it into the kitchen.

  "So how come Iain didn't join us for breakfast?" she asked. "It is Monday, after all."

  "Ah, well, Iain knew your uncle would be spending his weekend driving all over the Grampian Highlands," Aunt Lucy explained as she took the platter from Maggie. "So he and Alex agreed that Iain would go straight into the shop this morning while Alex got a wee bit extra sleep. Hence the late breakfast as well."

  "Well, that was nice of Iain," Maggie observed.

  "Aye, well, Iain's a good lad." Lucy slid the oatcakes onto a waiting plate and stuck the platter under the running water of the sink. "And it doesn't hurt that once Alex and I get to the store, Iain gets to leave for the day. We gave him tomorrow off, too, in exchange for having had to work all weekend alone."

  "Well, then, that was awfully nice of you, too." Maggie looked back at the dining room. "I think that's all the dishes."

  "Good. And I'm almost done here." Lucy placed the platter on the drying rack next to the sink. "Then we'll be heading into the store. Why don't we give you a ride?"

  Maggie paused. "I'd planned on riding my bike..." she began.

  "Nonsense," Lucy interjected. "It's almost November." She peered out the kitchen window as she wiped her hands on her apron. "And it looks like rain. Bad enough you got caught in that downpour Friday night, I don't want you coming down sick because you're bicycling this time a year. When is your meeting with Prof. Macintyre?"

  "Uh, eleven." Maggie decided to just accept the ride. It was getting pretty cold for bike riding at that.

  Her aunt looked at the clock in thought. "Why don't we try to leave in about fifteen minutes. That'll get you there a bit early, but we don't want to make Iain have to wait too long. Go get your things together and I'll rouse Alex from the couch."

  "Sounds good," Maggie agreed and she turned toward the stairs.

  Just then came a sharp knock on the front door.

  "Do you want me to get that?" Maggie asked. The front door was right by the stairs she was about to climb.

  "Eh, no, lass. That's all right." Lucy's face showed the cautious curiosity of one whose door has unexpectedly been knocked on. "You go and get your things. I'll see who it is."

  So Maggie hurried past the front door with its unknown visitors and bounded up the stairs to pack her bag for a day's worth of studying.

  Behind her and moving more slowly came Lucy MacTary, smoothing back her short black curls as she strode purposefully to the door. Upon opening it, her heart sank.

  "Good morning, Mrs. MacTary." Inspector Cameron's voice was formal as he held up his badge and identification. "Inspector Robert Cameron, Aberdeen Police. This is Sergeant Elizabeth Warwick. May we come in?"

  Lucy nodded slowly, her mouth twisted up into a tight, pained smile. "Aye," she said as she stepped to one side and motioned the police officers into her home. "I suppose I've been expecting you."

  * * *

  Maggie surveyed the books scatter
ed across her bedroom. She was going to pursue an afternoon at the reading room after her not-much-progress meeting with Macintyre and a quick lunch at The Boar and Thistle. She began to gather up the books she would need: both dictionaries, the books she had bought at Sinclair's shop, and of course, the Dark Book. This last, but vital, volume had ended the previous day perched atop her dresser on the far side of the room. As she passed the vent in the floor, she couldn't help but overhear voices downstairs. And as her hand grasped the black leather spine of the book, her ear noted that the overheard conversation had an odd tone to it—one not caused by the metallic echo of the air duct, but rather one which betrayed a hint of fear. Maggie pulled the book to her and crouched down to listen.

  "—ank you, Inspector," Maggie heard her aunt say.

  Inspector? As in the police?

  Lucy's voice continued.

  "I'll save you the trouble of having to ask," she started, her hand held firmly by her husband seated next to her on the living room sofa. "Annette Graham was my daughter."

  Inspector Cameron nodded across the table at Lucy and Alex MacTary. It was a practiced nod, one designed to impart both thanks for the information and encouragement to provide more.

  "I'd expected," Lucy continued, "to receive a visit from the police sooner. Once—Once it happened. I suppose I should have come forward right away, but— And then, you didn't come by, and I thought—" She let out a frustrated sigh. "I didn't know what to do."

  Alex put a reassuring arm around his wife, who lowered her head into his chest.

  "Yes, well, it took some time to obtain Annette's birth certificate," Warwick explained. "She was adopted—well, you know that—and so it took a bit of work to get the Canadian authorities to release the records."

  Lucy looked up. "Yes, of course," she squeaked, her dry voice barely audible.

  Cameron leaned forward. "Why don't you tell us about it, Mrs. MacTary?"

  Lucy glanced at her husband and squeezed his hand, both in thanks for his support and in apology for what would come next. "Right. Well, I was seventeen. He was twenty-two. His name's not important, but he was a student at the university. He seemed so worldly and mature. And I was so young. Well, things ... happened." She paused again and closed her eyes. "And I got pregnant. But he wanted nothing to do with the child. Or me anymore." She sighed at the painful memory and opened her eyes again. "There was never any question that I'd keep the child, but—well, my parents didn't want a scandal. So I contracted 'the nine month flu' and went to visit an aunt and uncle in Nova Scotia."