‘Me? I’ve better things to do with my time. You mind and tell him what I said.’ With a surprising turn of speed, she withdrew inside and slammed the door.
Taylor said, ‘If that old bat thinks we’re passing on messages about a bloody cat, she’s another think coming.’
The look of contempt Murray gave him was worthy of Mrs MacFarlane herself. ‘Work it out. Why do you think we weren’t told what to ask him? We were meant to find out if he was here. And he wasn’t, was he? What does that tell you, sir?’
‘That he doesn’t think about his mother’s cat when he decides to go off on a little holiday,’ he said sulkily.
As he drove off, she said, ‘I’ll just contact the DVLA, then.’
He only said, ‘Hmph,’ but she chalked it up as another victory.
DI Drew Hay had a thin, crackly voice as if everything inside him had dried up. His hair was thin too, mouse fading to grey and combed in careful strands over the top of his head. His eyes were an indeterminate blue-grey and he was at present surveying DCI Strang with a jaundiced expression.
‘I’m entirely at a loss to understand why the powers-that-be should have decided that we weren’t competent to deal with whatever crops up on our patch. I’ve personally been doing that for the past twenty years.’
And in that time, apart from the odd domestic, how many major investigations had he even taken part in, let alone directed? Strang wondered. One of the prickly ones, obviously.
‘Oh, I can quite sympathise,’ Strang said smoothly. ‘It’s the old story – budget cuts, I’m afraid, and this lets us bring in the extra skills when needed without funding them year-round. But I’ll be relying on you and your lads a lot – there’s no substitute for local knowledge.’
He finished with a placatory smile that had no effect. Hay glared at him.
‘And how do you expect my detectives to have local knowledge when they’re not local? Most of mine were moved to Wick and the few they’ve sent up here won’t ever have set foot in this place.’
That was a definite blow. ‘Right, I can see that. You don’t know anything about a man called Niall Aitchison, by any chance?’
‘No. Sorry.’ The satisfaction with which he said that didn’t suggest he was.
‘Right. We’re waiting for DNA results, but a witness report suggests that Aitchison, who has a connection with Forsich, has been missing for a week from his job in Aberdeen. I have a team up from Edinburgh going to check on a local address we have for him. I’m going myself to the cottage where the body was found to hear how the operation there is going. Would you like to accompany me?’
Hay got up. ‘I’ve too much work of my own to attend to without intruding on what has been deemed to be your investigation. Whatever the chief constable may think, this is no rural paradise. Crime is still a thriving business and with a brutally diminished staff I have plenty to keep me busy.’
‘I’m sure. But I can draw on whatever manpower I may need?’
‘I understand you have that authority, Chief Inspector. But I have a job to do as well, a job that is my first priority, whatever the high heid yins may decree.’ With a curt nod he got up and walked out.
Strang pulled a face at his back. The good news was that he wouldn’t have a resentful Hay peering over his shoulder and making carping remarks, but the bad news was that if he wanted local CID backup, endless difficulties would obviously be made. He’d have to rely on the team from Edinburgh; he just had to hope that Angie had found him good ones. He hadn’t stopped to check this morning before he left the hotel.
At least Lothian, the uniformed sergeant he’d been speaking to earlier, seemed young and keen. He’d arranged for him to escort him to the crime scene and he was presumably waiting for him now.
As Strang left the interview booth, the door of the hall opened. The man who came in wasn’t prepossessing – paunchy, blubbery-faced – and the woman behind was slightly built with pale skin and hennaed hair.
With a sinking feeling he recognised her as Livvy Murray, so nearly his nemesis on Skye. She’d been in uniform then, a loose cannon, and even though she’d made it into CID now, she had minimal experience. Gee thanks, Angie, he muttered inwardly, then went forward with a smile.
He didn’t look exactly pleased to see her. But then, Murray hadn’t chosen to come and work with him either and her hackles rose just a little bit.
She introduced Taylor, then hurried on. ‘Sir, we’ve just been at Niall Aitchison’s house. There was no one in and we established with a neighbour that he went off last Saturday in his car and she said he’d never been back. She’s properly ticked off because he’s left her looking after his cat, that was his mum’s.’
Strang looked amused, for some reason. ‘So, he had a cat after all, then. Oh, sorry, nothing. That’s interesting – it may be very significant.’
‘You didn’t tell us what we were to ask him if we found him, sir.’
Taylor’s tone was accusatory, and Murray stared at him. He still didn’t get it, even after what she’d said before, and he certainly didn’t get Strang, who had raised his eyebrows and was giving Taylor a look that would have made Livvy squirm if it had been directed at her.
‘The objective was simply to establish whether or not he was there. That’s answered it, which is in line with information received that he might possibly be the victim. We have a very strong witness who’s been concerned for a week that he hasn’t been responding to her calls and emails – it’s out of character, apparently. He has a flat in Aberdeen and CID there applied for a search warrant last night, so we can hope for DNA evidence shortly.’ He thought for a moment and then said, ‘Right – get on to Aberdeen and ask them to arrange for Bruce Michie of Curran Services to go and view the corpse, Sergeant. If he can identify, it would be quicker. And there’s a computer free over there – log in and read the reports that have come in so far. Once you’re both up to speed I’ll brief you on the next tasks. I’m going now along to the croft where the body was found, and I’ll be back shortly.’
Taylor turned obediently. Murray hung back. ‘Would you like me to come along, sir? Might be helpful getting statements or something.’
The long, cool look he gave her was familiar. She’d sounded too eager, almost needy. She wanted to kick herself.
‘Thanks, Livvy, but I’d rather you familiarised yourself with the background too.’
As he turned away, a uniform came forward and Strang said, ‘Right, Sergeant, lead on.’
Bitterness swelled in Murray. She’d thought that now she was CID she’d be involved with whatever was going on, but it looked as if she’d be held at arm’s length just as much as she had been when she’d been a PC. She knew that whatever the official version might be she’d messed up last time, in Skye, and though he hadn’t said anything she was pretty sure he was disappointed she’d been allocated. He wouldn’t have taken to Taylor either – who would? What you saw was what you got.
It wasn’t her fault. And she’d been sent with a job to do; she wasn’t going to let him get away with shutting her out, any more than she had last time. Only this time she’d show how much she’d learnt and she wouldn’t make any of the stupid, impulsive mistakes that led to disaster. Certainly not.
CHAPTER NINE
The croft house was up a stony track just off the narrow road that ran past Fergus Mowat’s farm. It had a commanding position not far from the top of a steep rise and there was a small area at the front, once a garden but now untended, full of rank grass and nettles. At the back there was a concreted yard where weeds grew through the cracks, and a small, tumbledown shed.
PS Lothian parked the SUV beside it and they both got out. Strang slung his jacket into the back of the vehicle. ‘Not quite the weather I’d expected up here,’ he said. ‘Quite oppressive.’
Even in his white summer uniform shirt Lothian looked hot. ‘We’re not used to it, sir. Nice for a bit but it’s gone on so long it feels a bit weird.’
With th
e warm, humid air and the low, constant hum of insects, it seemed more like Greece than the north of Scotland. Uncanny, uncomfortable. Strang walked around the cottage, looking at the gaping window spaces and at what was left of the corrugated iron roof – just one panel still precariously balanced on walls that were crumbling away. A home where people had lived and loved, now no more than a relic of a bygone age. He would have found it depressing, even without the image in his mind of the dead man with the great black birds gathering.
The front of the building was still protected by Do Not Cross tape, but the SOCOs had done their work and left. Strang ducked under it and studied the door, now closed. The wooden bars had been nailed across it in workmanlike fashion but, as Kirstie had said, the nails no longer held. He pulled it back and stepped inside.
It smelt dank, earthy, but there was little to see apart from stone debris. If there had been any signs of any previous occupation, they would have been cleared away and he would have to study the photos to see how it had been – one drawback of the clever new SRCS system. It would only be occasionally that he would be in a position to see a body at the scene of crime.
He stepped back out again and looked around. A couple of hundred yards below and off to the right was a solid-looking farmhouse in grey stone with a huddle of well-kept outhouses round about a wide stockyard. ‘Mowat’s farm?’
‘That’s right,’ Lothian said. ‘He’s the one found the body.’
Strang turned his head. ‘If the door was shut, no one would look inside. But suppose the door was left standing open … You could see it clearly from the farm, or from the track, of course. Or even from the road, right?’
Lothian nodded. ‘And Mr Mowat walks up this way pretty much every day to check on his sheep, he said.’
‘So, if you knew that, you could be pretty certain that he would notice if the door was standing open?’
‘Aye, likely. But look, that’s him going across the yard now. Do you want to ask him yourself?’
‘Fine. I’m finished here, anyway.’
As they went back to the car, Strang stopped, looking at the track that ran on past the croft house. ‘Where does that go?’
‘On to the moor – I think there was an old shepherd’s bothy up there. Then it just ends up in the bogs, I think.’
If you were transporting a body – and, Strang suddenly realised, in broad daylight at this time of year when there was no helpful darkness – you’d want to bring it in at the back so the building itself concealed you from anyone on the road below. And you’d have a fine vantage point to check that you were unobserved as you dragged the body in the door at the front. ‘Get someone to check that out for me, can you?’ he said as they bumped down the hill to park in the yard.
Fergus Mowat came across to meet them and was introduced to Strang. He was burly and greying, with bright blue eyes like his daughter Kirstie’s. ‘How’s it going?’ he said.
‘Early days yet, sir. Look, I’ve read your statement and I don’t want to drag you all through it again. There’s just a couple of things. Do you own the property?’
Mowat shook his head. ‘The old folk died twenty years ago, and the family had no use for it but neither did I. So, it’s just been left.’
‘But the door has always been kept shut – is that right?’
‘Absolutely. Nailed shut. The place is a death trap – falling stones, rusty metal – that bit of the roof that’s left could go any time. You don’t want bairns scrambling about there and hurting themselves – or vandals breaking it up for the fun of it, either. Once they start that kind of thing they’d be looking round for something else to trash.’
‘So, you could be guaranteed to notice if it was standing open?’
‘Oh aye. Apart from anything else, I’d be feart the sheep might wander in and get trapped if the wind blew it shut again.’
‘I can see that. Mmm. One other thing – I take it you didn’t recognise the man?’
‘Recognise him? I … well, I have to say I didn’t really look much. He was in a right mess with those damned birds, and it was just a tramp—’ He stopped. ‘Here, hang on! You’re not saying that I might’ve?’
Strang hesitated. He had no direct confirmation yet, but he had little doubt now that it would come soon. He was going to risk it. ‘Mr Mowat, I would ask you not to discuss this with anyone else. Do you know Niall Aitchison? Is it possible he could be the man you saw?’
‘Niall Aitchison?’ Mowat was struck dumb for a moment. ‘But … but he was dirty, stinking—’
‘His build?’ Strang suggested.
‘His build – well, I suppose …’ He frowned, as if trying to recapture the scene. ‘He’d dark hair – muddy, but …’ Again, he stopped, and Strang waited patiently. At last he said heavily, ‘I take it you’ve a reason for asking me that?’ When Strang nodded, he went on, ‘I certainly can’t say it was Niall. Like I said, I didn’t look at his … face.’ He gave a little shudder. ‘But the rest – yes, could be.’
‘Thank you. I know this isn’t easy for you. How well did you know Mr Aitchison?’
‘Known him since he was a wee boy, though it’d probably be more accurate to say I knew who he was. We were never friends and our paths didn’t cross – he’s a good ten years younger. And after the business with Pat Curran …’ He shook his head.
‘Yes, I know there was ill feeling about the collapse of the drainage business—’
Mowat snorted. ‘Ill feeling? That’s one way of putting it. Curran slithered away and left half the village to fight for what they could get back – and it wasn’t much.’
‘You?’
Mowat grinned. ‘Not me. I’m too canny. Sleekit, that was what Pat was – all Irish charm but I wouldn’t have trusted him to shake my hand if I wasn’t holding the other end. Plenty did, though, and it was Niall who was the mug left here to pick up the pieces. Made himself a lot of enemies … Oh—’ He stopped with a little gasp.
‘Mr Mowat, we’re not jumping to any conclusions. Identity still hasn’t been established. But is there anyone—’
‘Anyone? There’s just about everyone, even his own sister.’
‘And she is?’
‘Morven Gunn. Runs the Lemon Tree cafe. Look, I’m not saying—’
‘Of course not. We won’t be taking things any further until we have more confirmation. Don’t worry about it.’
But as Strang thanked him and they drove away, he could see from Fergus Mowat’s face that he was worrying that he’d said too much. That was the trouble with rural communities; they tended to hang together in a neighbourly conspiracy. It was one he was somehow going to have to infiltrate.
Ailie Johnston, summoned to the boss’s office at ten o’clock for the second day running, gave a sigh of annoyance. Bruce Michie knew perfectly well that this was the busiest time when the urgent requests and problems piled in, all demanding action immediately and preferably yesterday. She was pretty sure she knew what it was about; being busy had kept her from thinking about Niall but now her stomach was churning again as she walked along the corridor.
She could see he was ill at ease. He looked up and licked his lips before he said, ‘Ah, Ailie. Good,’ and he was fiddling with the paperweight on his desk, a miniature oil rig sitting on a heavy granite base.
If he’d called her in to pat his hand, he could forget it. Nursemaid duties weren’t covered in her job description and she didn’t try to hide her irritation. ‘Yes, Bruce, what is it? The phone’s going crazy this morning—’
‘Yes, yes. But the thing is, I’ve had a call from the police. They’ve asked me to go and – well, view the body.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, “oh”. They’ve jumped straight to the conclusion that this is something to do with us, thanks to …’ He didn’t finish his sentence.
He didn’t need to. Ailie could feel herself turning red, though she’d nothing to blush for. ‘If it isn’t Niall, I’ll apologise for causing a fuss. But if it is,
they would find out anyway.’
He always backed off from confrontation. ‘I know, I know,’ he said hastily. ‘It’s just … Well, anyway, the thing is I’ve got this big meeting this morning—’
‘With Ron Barclay, yes. I’ll phone and postpone it.’ She got up.
‘No, no. The thing is, we’ve a major decision we need to take, the sooner the better. I was just thinking, maybe you could go instead. You knew Niall better.’
‘What? You’re joking! Not a chance.’ She folded her arms and glared at him. ‘They asked you, it’s you they want.’
Michie had come out in a light sweat; he produced a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead with it. ‘I-I don’t like these things,’ he said feebly. ‘He was – mutilated, you know.’
‘Yes, of course I know. You think it would be my idea of fun? You think because I “knew him better” I’d be fine with looking at—’ she gulped, ‘what happened to him.’
‘No, no, of course not. It’s just … well, you told them about us having that wee disagreement. To be honest, you dropped me in it, when I told you it was nothing. They’ve probably got me down as a suspect now and—’
Ailie looked at him with horror. ‘You’re not saying you’re afraid you might give yourself away?’
The handkerchief came out again, wiping forehead, upper lip, back of neck. ‘No, of course I’m not effing saying that. The thing is—’
‘There seem to be an awful lot of “things” that it is. No, Bruce, do your own dirty work. You know where to find me if you’re wanting to sack me but if not, I’ll get on with the work I’m paid to do.’
Michie might be sweating; Ailie felt icy cold. There was that old superstition that if the murderer approached the body of his victim, it would start bleeding again. She didn’t believe it – but did Bruce?
When DCI Strang and PS Lothian got back to the incident room, DC Murray jumped up from the computer terminal and came over to him with a piece of paper in her hand.
Carrion Comfort Page 11
