Carbon Copy by Ian McKercher

Author:Ian McKercher [McKercher, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781999108113
Published: 2019-10-27T22:00:00+00:00

-17-

Morning After

Frances woke suddenly, a nasty taste fouling mouth and nostrils. She was lying in her bed, shoeless but fully dressed, a feather comforter tucked chin-high. She blinked several times to overcome a wooziness and then checked the time. It was 6:56 a.m. Careful listening detected only the ticking clock and distant street traffic. She propped herself up on the edge of the bed, stood unsteadily, then shuffled to the bathroom to scour her face and brush her teeth.

A hurricane had ripped through her apartment. The walkin closet contents were flung asunder. Her jewellery box was upended on the dresser and her mother’s wedding ring and a silver filigree brooch were missing. The bathroom medicine cabinet was open and the drawers of the vanity were stacked on the counter, contents in disarray. Books had been torn from shelves, and paper was strewn on the polar bear rug in the study. Kitchen cabinet doors were splayed wide. Her dining room credenza had been opened, but the liquor stock did not appear diminished. In the living room, cushions were upturned on the sofa and wing chairs.

Shaken, unsure, and feeling violated, she called Inspector Hollingsworth. “Do you have a minute? The Culloden File would benefit from your immediate attention.”

“When and where?”

“Your earliest convenience at my apartment.”

“Put on the coffee. I’m on my way.”

Frances filled the percolator and slumped into a kitchen chair as it bubbled into life. She was frightened and dispirited, wary of touching anything. At least her headache was gone. In eight minutes flat, the doorbell rang.

“I came home early from the charity gala,” she explained to the inspector as she took his coat and hat. “Had a fivealarm migraine. Scotty Meldrum was sailing before the wind and didn’t really need me after his speech. Bank employees were busy taking purchase orders, so I slipped out. I opened the apartment door, snapped on the hall light and was kicking off my boots . . . ”

“When suddenly . . . ”

Frances cowed him with a beady stare. “When suddenly, I was grabbed from behind. A gloved hand clamped a foulsmelling rag over my face and my arms were cinched to my sides. My scream was muffled under the choking cloth. I saw whirling spirals and passed out. I woke up twenty minutes ago in bed, fully clothed.”

“Is the smelly cloth still around?”

“Not that I noticed. Let me get you the face cloth I just used to wash up.”

The inspector sniffed. “Chloroform.”

Frances poured coffee for them both and led a tour.

“My, my, my,” said the inspector.

“What do you make of it all?”

“Apartment-rifling is outside my area of expertise. I’m more the spies-and-dead-diplomats type. We might benefit from a professional assessment.”

“Sergeant Scobie? He doesn’t like dames, remember?”

“I think he’s warming to you, but why not go right to the top?” Inspector Hollingsworth took a notebook from his breast pocket, looked up a number and dialled on the kitchen phone.

“Mr. Courchene? My name’s Hollingsworth, from the RCMP. I’m doing some research and was wondering

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