Miss Fairmont and The Gentleman Investigator Page 9

  “As far as family is concerned, her dad’s a scientist, there’s an aunt, lives in Madison, and that’s about it. Background on the mother, well, Max wants to talk to you about that. But get this: I can’t find a record of marriage for her parents. They may not have been married when her mom gave birth to her.”

  Bobby glanced at the ceiling, picturing Grace sitting in bed, reading her mother’s diary. He would bet she didn’t know that.

  “What else?”

  “Couldn’t find much on the boyfriend. He must be a boring kind of guy. He’s a financial analyst with Baker and Hughes in Chicago. He brings down six figures easy, doesn’t really have hobbies. Just works and hangs out with Grace Fairmont. Oh, and something weird about the mother? The death notice appeared five years after she supposedly died in a car accident in the States. I tried finding out more but a virus kept attacking my computer. A symbol would pop up, a pinwheel, you know, the kind that kids blow on to make them spin around? Anyway, the virus would try to eat my hard drive.” He paused. “But it couldn’t get past Tabitha’s chastity belt. Max thought he recognized the symbol. Wait, he wants to talk to you.”

  Bobby was going to get an earful now. A real thrashing for cocking-up in less than twenty-four hours.

  “Bobby, how’s it going, mate?” Max inquired.

  “It’s been better.”

  “Tell me what’s happened so far. In detail.”

  Bloody hell, he had to relive the embarrassment of this morning?

  “Before or after I got arrested for stealing purple trousers?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Wish I were. I’m telling you, guv, this is the strangest twenty-four hours of my life. First Miss Fairmont is attacked on the train, then I sensed the man who picked us up at Waverly was a fake, not with British Transport Police. I got shot with pepper spray last night, then I get knocked unconscious this afternoon while being arrested for stealing purple trousers I didn’t even want. Don’t ask me to explain that one. Some people don’t have this much excitement in an entire year.”

  He didn’t dare tell him he’d lost a chunk of time this afternoon, that he couldn’t remember the few hours after the cops arrested him outside the shops.

  “Bobby, I’m afraid this case is more complex than we’d originally thought. It’s probably best if you bring the girl back to the States.”

  “She’ll never go for it, guv. She’s got something to prove to herself, something about her mother.”

  He thought about the few paragraphs he’d read in the mother’s diary, about the love that dripped off the pages. He could understand why she was so determined to walk in her mum’s footsteps and absorb some of her personal history.

  To be loved like that. With such completeness.

  But then, why did the mother leave? That’s what it sounded like from Eddie’s information.

  “It looks like Miss Fairmont’s mother was on a British Intelligence watch list of suspected PIRA terrorists,” Max said.

  “Bloody hell.” The Provisional Irish Republican Army.

  “I doubt Grace Fairmont is aware of this,” Max continued. “What also concerns me is the symbol that kept popping up on Eddie’s computer when he tried digging into the mother’s background. I recognized it as a code symbol used by British Intelligence. They were key players in the fight against terrorism.”

  Bobby absently sat on the bed and pressed his fingers to his eyelids. “So, the bloke who picked us up at the train station…”

  “Could be MI5 or PIRA. We can’t figure out why they’d be interested in the girl. The mother died years ago. Maybe MI5 thinks Grace knows something. It explains why the father has been so overly protective all these years.”

  “Do you think he knows?”

  “I’m not sure. Left him a message, hoping to get answers. Don’t mention this to the girl until we know more. The MI5 connection troubles me, but not as much as ties to the PIRA.”

  Bobby thought about the stolen backpack: stolen, then returned hours later. Was it a ruse by MI5 to plant a bug and track Grace’s whereabouts?

  “Do you think Grace is in danger, guv?” Bobby squeezed the phone. His protective instincts flared.

  “Hard to say,” Max admitted. “The mugging on the train could be a part of this, or just bad luck. If he’d been a hired assassin he would have killed her on the spot.”

  True. Harry Franklin, or whatever his name was, could have ended her life with one slice of a well-placed knife.

  A knife…across Grace’s throat. That beautiful girl…dead.

  “I need to check on her, guv.” Bobby hung up and raced to Grace’s room.

  What was he going to say? Tell her the truth? That her mum had been a PIRA terrorist, possibly under surveillance by British Intelligence? She idolized her mum and trusted her father. She wouldn’t believe a word coming out of Bobby’s mouth.

  He knocked on the door. “Grace? I need to talk to you.”

  Nothing. He glanced at the bottom of the door. Her room was dark. It was too bloody early for her to have gone to sleep. He knocked again. He had to tell her what they were dealing with, yet he wasn’t sure himself.

  He persisted, knocking a little louder this time. He didn’t want to alarm the innkeeper but couldn’t risk Grace’s safety.

  She still didn’t answer. Could someone have broken into her room? Kidnapped her? Killed her?

  No, if they thought she had information, they’d want to keep her alive.

  What about the inspector from earlier? Was he legitimate or a fake, planted by MI5? What did British Intelligence want with her? She didn’t even know her mother.

  Taking the stairs two at a time he started to think up reasons why he was going to ask Mrs. McCarthy to open the door. He found her in the small den watching news reports on the telly.

  “Hello, Mrs. McCarthy,” he said, as charmingly as possible, fighting back his panic. “I was wondering if you could check on my friend, Grace.”

  “Oh, she’s fine.” The older woman waved her hand. “Left a few minutes ago out the front.”

  Bobby rushed out the front door to the sidewalk and looked both ways. He spotted Grace walking rather quickly toward the heart of town. Where was she off to? Was she lured out of her room by a mysterious phone caller?

  It seemed more likely she was running. From him.

  A man approached her and she ducked into a pub. The man kept walking. Bobby followed her and tried to spot her blond hair over the top of the crowd in the pub. She went toward the back door and Bobby caught up to her, placing his hand to her shoulder.

  She spun around, her eyes wide with…fear? No, more like anger.

  “Blast, Grace, where are you off to alone? It’s dangerous. Don’t you understand how vulnerable you are, how easily someone could hurt you?”

  “Yeah, like you?”

  Chapter Eight

  Bobby let go of Grace’s shoulder. “What did you say?” Good God, she thought he was out to hurt her?

  “Are you and Harry Franklin working together to blackmail my father?”

  “Have you gone completely round the bend?”

  “Inspector Owen said there’s no record of you working at Scotland Yard.”

  “Owen? That twit doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s probably not even a real detective.” He reined in his temper.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We need to talk.” Bobby glanced at the roomful of pub patrons. Any one of them could be associated with PIRA or MI5.

  She took a step away from him. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

  “Only if you get back on a plane to the States.”

  “What? Why? What’s your angle now?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “My angle is to keep you safe. I’m not a criminal. I’m not working with Harry Franklin. Inspector Owen’s job is to get me out of the picture, probably so they can get to you.”

  “They who?”

  “Please.”
He motioned with his hand toward a booth. “Sit with me and I’ll explain.”

  She glanced around the room, probably feeling safe because she was surrounded by people, and slipped into the booth. Bobby ordered two pints from a waitress.

  “First, I would never hurt you, Grace,” he started.

  She cocked her chin up as if to say she wasn’t stupid. She knew he was lying.

  “I don’t know Harry Franklin,” he said. “Yes, I was arrested when I was a teenager—with a boy named Harry Smith. We were young and stupid and thought we could make a quick hundred quid by breaking into people’s homes and stealing valuables. I told you I was a bad kid, Grace. I never lied about that. We all have things in our past we’re not proud of.”

  She sat back in the booth, arms crossed in a defensive posture. He wasn’t getting through to her, not even scratching the surface.

  But he had to.

  “I just spoke with my boss, Max Templeton,” Bobby said. “He thinks you could be in danger.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Your mother may have been involved with the PIRA when she was younger.”

  “PIRA?”

  “The Provisional Irish Republican Army.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “She was young. People do stupid things when they’re young.”

  Like let their sisters get run down by a drunk motorist.

  Grace’s gaze drifted to her ale.

  “When our computer expert tried to get personal information about your mum he got stumped by a virus,” Bobby said. “A virus possibly linked to MI5.”

  “What’s that?”

  “British Intelligence. My boss thinks that British Intelligence officers might be keeping you under surveillance.”

  “Sure they are.” She shook her head.

  “I’m not kidding,” Bobby said, frustrated. What now? Tell her to call her father for confirmation? Bobby wasn’t sure Max had spoken to the client about this new development, and Bobby doubted she’d believe anything other than her father’s word.

  “I’m a science teacher, not a spy or a political figure,” she argued. “There’s no way British Intelligence would be interested in my boring life.”

  He sensed pain in her words, regret even.

  “You have to consider the fact that your mother’s activities have put you in danger.”

  “No. I don’t believe it. My mother was a loving, caring woman. She was not a terrorist.”

  “Think about everything that’s happened since you’ve been in the U.K. The mugging, the lights going out—”

  “Stop,” she said. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to leave here and you’re going to stay away from me for two reasons: one, if I see you again I’ll call Inspector Owen and press charges for harassment, assault and whatever else I can think of to keep you locked up long enough so I can finish my trip. Second, because I’ll use the spray again if you don’t. I didn’t tell you that was my dad’s concoction, did I? A mild form of a nerve gas he designed for the military. So unless you want to be using a seeing eye dog for the rest of your life…”

  “Grace—”

  “Enough. Stay away from me.” She stood and marched to the door.

  He’d done better when he’d lied to her and charmed her. She wasn’t a stupid woman, just misled and frightened.

  Right now, of him.

  And possibly of the information he’d just shared with her. Somewhere deep down, she had to consider the truth of his words. The reality of a loved one being a terrorist would shatter anyone’s world. It would especially shatter the world of a woman seeking answers about her mother…and herself.

  He got up and headed for the door. He’d follow her, keep to the shadows and do his job.

  Whether she liked it or not.

  THE PROVISIONAL Irish Republican Army?

  British Intelligence?

  Bull.

  Bobby was not only charming, but he could lie with such sincerity that she’d nearly believed him.

  Shaking off the chill, she headed back to the inn. She’d left earlier to find a public phone since her cell battery had died and the inn phone was just outside Bobby’s room. She didn’t want him listening in as she called Dad, then other inns to find another place to stay.

  Yet, before she could find a phone box and make her calls, she’d sensed someone following her, so she she’d ducked into the pub, filled with people for protection.

  That someone had been Bobby, with his outrageous tales and forced concern.

  She had to get to a phone and call Dad, had to confirm Inspector Owen’s suspicions. Then she’d call other inns. She’d made a mental note of inns she’d seen while shopping today. She’d start with them. She only planned to stay another day to wait for her credit cards.

  She found a phone box a block away from her inn and called Dad but got a busy signal. He didn’t be lieve in call waiting. “Focus on one thing at a time,” he’d lecture her. She noticed a small black car park across the street and turn off its lights. No one got out.

  “Great, now Finn’s got you spooked,” she whispered to herself.

  Pressing the receiver to her ear, she thought about Bobby’s wild accusations. Surely Dad would have known if Mom had been involved with a terrorist group, and he would have told Grace.

  Then again maybe not. Grace had nothing to hold on to but the faded memory of a loving mother. That’s why she felt so empty inside, as if a piece of her was missing. It was all starting to fade, to be lost completely.

  Grace was going through an identity crisis, plain and simple.

  The things that had once interested her—the opera and playing tennis with Steven—had become boring and routine. To some degree her relationship with Steven had become boring, as well.

  Which made no sense at all. He was perfect: solid, steady and he knew what would please her. Steven was the quintessential “perfect” mate.

  And she’d been the perfect daughter for Dad.

  Suddenly, in her mid-twenties, perfect didn’t seem as important as finding answers; finding herself.

  She needed her mom.

  Since that was impossible, the least she could do was walk in Mom’s footsteps, visit the places she’d been and somehow make an emotional connection to give Grace strength to do what she had to: strike out on her own.

  Kiss Daddy and Steven goodbye and start a new life somewhere away from them, at least for a while, until she felt like her own person.

  “My God, I’ve really gone…” She hesitated, about to say crazy but chose instead “round the bend.”

  She tried a few inns with no luck. She hung up the phone and decided to go back to her room. Bobby had to know she was serious about reporting him to the police if he attempted to speak with her again.

  The flare of a lighter in the car across the street caught her eye.

  It had nothing to do with her. The mugging was random, the lights going out were the result of outdated electrical wiring.

  What about Mom’s picture being stolen? Why steal the photo and not the locket?

  She was starting to fall under Bobby’s spell, starting to believe his outlandish story about Mom being a terrorist.

  You can’t run like your mother.

  The memory of the mugger’s words made her shudder. She’d thought it had been a case of mis taken identity, but if there was any truth to what Bobby had told her…

  No, he’s liar, a manipulator.

  And she had to take care of herself.

  She pulled out Inspector Owen’s card and called him.

  “Owen,” he answered.

  “Inspector, it’s Grace Fairmont.”

  “Yes, Miss Fairmont, how can I help?”

  “I confronted Mr. Finn about his true intentions, and he argued that I was in danger and that my mother had been a terrorist with the PIRA.”

  “Really?” he said.

  “He’s lying, of course. But the thing is, I can’t find another room for
the night and he’s staying at the same inn. He’s downstairs, but I don’t feel entirely safe.”

  “I’ll have him brought in for questioning.”

  “You can do that? Without me making a formal complaint?”

  “We can. I’ll send someone over right away.”

  “He may not be there. I left him at the Royal Oak Pub. I told him if I saw him again I’d press charges.”

  “I’ll post a man outside your inn. Get a good night’s rest.”

  “Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

  “Would you like me to send a car?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Be careful, Miss Fairmont.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  She hung up feeling a bit safer. She’d get to the guest house and lock herself in her room. Then she had to try and get a decent night’s sleep. What a joke. How was she going to do that with all this craziness going on around her?

  Buttoning her jacket she jogged down Newington Street with one thing in mind: reading Mom’s journal. Those pages held the truth, the truth about a loving mother who cherished her baby girl.

  Grace sighed. The country. She longed for it, ached to be walking in her mother’s hometown of Pitlochry, attend church, visit the sites like Loch Leven Castle and the battleground of Culloden. Mom described these places in her journal as if she’d hoped to take Grace there someday, yet, she almost made it sound as if she was describing the places for the first time, from a tourist’s point of view.

  There was no sign of anything unusual or threatening as Grace approached the inn. She went inside and was greeted by Mrs. McCarthy.

  “Is everything all right? Your father’s called twice,” the woman said.

  “May I use this phone?” Grace motioned to the phone on the cherrywood table.

  “Yes. An extra charge for overseas calls.”

  “That’s fine.” Grace picked up the receiver and made her call.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad, it’s Grace.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I tried calling you but—”

  “I was on the phone with the detective agency. They’ve uncovered some things, some disturbing things. I need to talk to you, Gracie.”

  No, she didn’t want Dad to tell her Mom was a PIRA terrorist under the watchful eye of British Intelligence. Grace wouldn’t believe it, not even from Dad.