Carrion Comfort

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Sir, we’ve got the number from the DVLA. Shall I pass it on to uniform to put out a bulletin?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Good work, Livvy. Where’s Kevin?’

  ‘Kevlar, he likes to be called.’

  ‘Kevlar? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Like the body armour, you know? “Strong enough to stop a bullet.” That’s what he says.’

  ‘I … see.’

  ‘I just call him “sarge”, if that helps,’ she said, deadpan.

  He managed not to smile. ‘Not a lot, Livvy, as you well know. Where is he anyway?’

  ‘Taking a break. Catering’s arrived.’

  There was a burst of laughter as he looked round. Taylor was clutching a bridie and the woman pouring tea had just said, ‘Cheeky monkey!’

  Strang walked across. Taylor swung round as he approached.

  ‘Hello, sir. Let me introduce you to Mairi, tea lady extraordinaire.’

  ‘I’m sure. Hello, Mairi. Just coffee please. Thanks. Kevin, if you don’t mind eating while we work, there’s a couple of things we need to get on with.’

  He picked up his mug and went back towards Murray, looking round for somewhere he could hold a briefing.

  The hall was busy with uniformed officers going to and fro and the screened-off cubicles were in operation; at least they’d found some witnesses ready to come forward. There was one woman he noticed, a big, raw-boned, sour-faced woman; her body language was belligerent, and she was being escorted across to Sergeant Lothian by an anxious-looking constable.

  ‘This lady wants to make an official complaint, sir,’ he said.

  It was a phrase they all dreaded. Strang saw Lothian square his shoulders and pin on the sort of hopeful smile that suggested goodwill. ‘How can I help you, madam?’

  It all came out in a torrent of rage. ‘Help me? You can help me by sorting out the officer who came barging into my cafe and terrified a minor to the point where she fainted, causing serious damage to my property – and then gave me cheek, I may say. That’s him, over there, standing behind that silly wee moustache.’

  Strang followed her gesture and saw the young constable who had brought Kirstie to him earlier, shrinking into a corner as if impaled by her pointing finger. The moustache was, indeed, the only distinguishing feature in his plump face.

  Lothian looked as if he was having a problem in reconciling the image of threat and intimidation with the mild reality, but he said very properly, ‘If I may just take your name, madam, we’ll find somewhere where we can formally log your complaint.’

  ‘I should think so too. Morven Gunn. I’m the proprietor of the Lemon Tree cafe.’

  Strang studied her with considerable interest as there was a little flurry finding a vacant space. Niall Aitchison’s sister. And it wasn’t hard to figure out who the ‘minor’ was, or even why she might have seen a routine question as a threat; he’d sensed at the time that something was going on there that neither the constable nor Kirstie had wanted to mention.

  He stepped forward. ‘Do you mind if I sit in on this, Jack? I’ve got a bit of background that might be useful.’

  Lothian gave him a look of relief. ‘Oh thanks, sir. That would be great. Do you want to take it yourself?’

  ‘No, you do the formal bit. I’ll observe and chip in if there’s something I want to ask, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Any time.’

  As he waited for Mrs Gunn to be installed in a cubicle, he looked round. Murray was standing at a tactful distance, awaiting instructions, but she’d stationed herself so she could hear every word. Taylor, on the other hand, had drifted off and gone back to chatting up the tea lady. Strang suppressed a sigh. The sergeant was clearly going to be a liability; he’d have to rely on Murray and hope that lessons had been learnt in the last year.

  ‘Go and talk to that constable, would you, Livvy? Just a casual chat – find out his side of the story. Don’t get involved, just listen. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘And would you ask Kevin when he can tear himself away to go along to the hotel and arrange a room to be an office for me. I can set up my laptop so tell him not to let them charge us for anything elaborate – just a table, a few chairs. I don’t want to make demands on the Thurso police station but there’s no privacy in this place – anyone can eavesdrop.’ He put emphasis on ‘anyone’.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.’

  She didn’t look abashed. In fact, she looked smug and Strang knew he’d tacitly authorised that with what he’d said about Taylor. It hadn’t been wise; there was clearly bad blood there already and even if from what he’d seen of ‘Kevlar’ – Kevlar? – it was hard to blame her, Livvy didn’t need encouragement.

  Gabrielle Ross became gradually aware that the phone was really ringing, that it wasn’t somehow part of her confused dream. She’d no idea what time it was; she felt awful.

  Her mother’s voice at the other end of the phone sounded concerned. ‘Are you all right? You took forever to answer the phone. I was just checking that you remember it’s Francesca’s day off and I’m not in the Shelter shop till later so we’re going to the Castle of Mey cafe for lunch? I thought you’d be here for coffee first.’

  Gabrielle squinted at the clock by her bedside. Half past eleven, for heaven’s sake! ‘Yes of course,’ she lied. It was becoming harder and harder to get a grip on reality – what she knew and didn’t know. ‘I just slept in a bit so I’m running late. What time are we leaving?’

  ‘You know as well as I do how long it takes to get there. But your voice sounds very croaky. You’re not ill, are you?’

  ‘No. I’m fine. Be with you in half an hour.’ She put down the phone before her mother could interrogate her any more.

  Her throat was indeed rough. It was raw and painful; she had vomited several times as she shovelled the offal out onto the ground across the road, boggy ground that had swallowed it up eagerly like some obscene monster feeding. She’d scrubbed the doorstep with bleach as if that could somehow sanitise the vile emotions that had prompted such malevolence.

  Afterwards Gabrielle had crawled into bed, taking another pill. She was taking too many these days and increasingly she felt she was spending her days in a kind of fog but blest oblivion, even for a few hours, was worth it.

  She wasn’t going to tell her mother. She wasn’t going to tell David, who would go into a protective frenzy. She wasn’t going to tell the police even though she could make a shrewd guess at whose car door must have slammed and roused her to hear those terrifying, stealthy movements around the house. Explaining why she believed that would mean going back to the time she did not want to think about, the accident for which she didn’t feel guilty, not in the least. And yet somehow, as if the acid of years of directed hatred had worn away her shield of justification, she was starting to feel it now, another addition to the load of misery that was driving her to despair.

  When Gabrielle went into the downstairs cloakroom, the little silvery knife was lying beside the basin. She’d got so used to finding everyday things in odd places that though she didn’t remember putting it there it didn’t surprise her; she’d found the idea of the little sharp blade cutting a scarlet line across pale skin coming into her mind more and more seductively. Would the letting of blood really bring some sort of relief?

  She picked it up. Just a little tiny cut, somewhere David wouldn’t see? She knew it would be painful, but if she hurt it would prove she was alive, not just a walking shadow of her one-time self. She held up her left arm to expose the armpit then took the knife in her right with a great, shuddering sigh.

  ‘You’re to go and arrange a room at the hotel to be an office for the boss,’ Murray said.

  Taylor was eating a chocolate biscuit. He gave her a dirty look. ‘Who says?’

  ‘The boss.’

  ‘When did he say that?’

  ‘When you were off chatting up your friend over there.’ />
  ‘And what are you going to be doing meantime? Dossing around here? I don’t think so.’

  ‘No, I’m to talk to one of the constables and report back.’

  ‘Why should you be doing that? You’re the skivvy, not me. Get along to the hotel and I’ll speak to him. Which one is he?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge – boss’s orders. Just a wee room, table and chairs. And you’re not to let them charge us for installing tech stuff – he just wants a bit of privacy and there’s not a lot around here. OK?’

  Taylor’s piggy eyes narrowed. ‘Got something going, the two of you? When you said you knew him, I didn’t realise you meant you knew him.’ He sniggered.

  She resisted the temptation to slap him, but her palm itched. ‘I didn’t,’ she said, as disdainfully as she could. As she turned and walked away from him, she still wasn’t sure that he’d obey Strang’s order, but she certainly wasn’t going to invite more discussion by looking back.

  There was an almost visible black cloud engulfing the young constable who was still sitting in the corner, looking as if Morven Gunn’s accusing finger had held him transfixed. He looked up nervously when Murray approached.

  She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Hi. I’m DC Murray – Livvy. What’s your name?’

  ‘Craig Davidson.’

  ‘My boss has asked me to have a wee chat. Tell me why Big Scary Lady is so pissed with you.’

  He didn’t quite smile, but he relaxed a little. He really was very, very young. She wasn’t exactly old, but she had to stop herself from calling him ‘sonny’. As she took a seat beside him, out of the corner of her eye she saw Taylor stomping out, throwing a darkling glance at her over his shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t do anything, except my job.’ Davidson was clearly aggrieved. ‘I didn’t barge in, like she said, just opened the door like you do. I was told to interview Kirstie Mowat at the cafe – she’s a waitress there and all I did was ask if I could have a word with her and she just took one look at me and then fainted. Don’t know what she’d done to have such a bad conscience. She came in here early this morning to speak to the DCI and she was putting on to him that she’d been going to come in of her own accord – oh yeah, sure she was! I didn’t get a chance to tip him off.’

  ‘He’s pretty smart. He probably realised. But what happened when she passed out?’

  Davidson groaned. ‘It was mega. Dropped her tray, knocked over a table, broken cups and spilt coffee everywhere. And the cafe was full too, and there were all these folk muttering at me like it was police brutality. Then the old bat started yelling at me, and when I said I’d still need to speak to the girl she went radge and someone began hissing. But I was only doing my job.’

  Murray could just picture him, burning with embarrassment but still dogged. ‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘What was the bit about giving her cheek?’

  ‘I didn’t! She ordered me to clear up the mess, but it wasn’t me made it, and I just said it was up to her. Didn’t go down well.’

  He gave a rueful grin and she warmed to him. ‘Lousy job sometimes, isn’t it? But I can’t see you did anything wrong.’

  ‘She’ll lay it on thick, though. Don’t know what the DCI will think – he’ll maybe believe her not me.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. I’m sure you’ll be OK. But it was kind of funny she turned on you like that.’

  ‘Nothing funny about it. Terrifying, more like. God help anyone who has to interview her, if that’s what she does when it’s just the waitress.’

  ‘Serious overreaction, wouldn’t you say?’ Murray thought for a moment. She’d done what she’d been tasked to do – find out Davidson’s side of the story – and there was no need to do any more. She glanced across, but Strang was still sitting in on the interview and she couldn’t resist. ‘Why were you to interview Kirstie, Craig?’

  ‘Her boyfriend made a statement yesterday, something about them being at the croft and seeing the man there. I was to ask her about it.’

  The statement had been one of the reports she’d read. ‘But she didn’t come forward till she knew we were on to her? So, did Big Scary Lady know all about it – was she protecting Kirstie, do you think, when she went for you?’

  Davidson seemed struck by this idea. ‘Could be, yeah. A bit OTT, otherwise.’

  ‘Maybe this is all about trying to scare us off? Sort of “mess with me at your peril” kind of thing.’ She was getting quite excited with her own theory. ‘Anything else you know about the local background, Craig?’

  He shook his head regretfully. ‘I’m not from round here. Forsich’s only a wee place anyway, and even if you were from Thurso you’d probably not know a lot about it.’

  That was certainly disappointing. But she did have an idea to play with now and she said, ‘Would you ask around, see if anyone knows anything? Just casually, you know, not officially or anything. Come directly to me.’

  Even as she said the words, she had slight misgivings. Strang had specifically told her not to get involved, but he needn’t find out. If Craig did come back with anything useful, she’d get the brownie points for grafting while Taylor mucked about. Knowledge was power. That was the theory, anyway.

  DCI Strang had drawn his chair into a corner to observe while Sergeant Lothian sat across the table from the complainer. He saw Morven Gunn’s eyes flick to his own face, then quickly away when she saw that he had noticed. Her glance was watchful, guarded: the blustering anger she had displayed earlier wasn’t in evidence now. Had it been synthetic, he wondered? And if so, why?

  Lothian was taking down the details when his own phone bleeped, signalling a text message. He looked at it. From the DI in Aberdeen, it read, Body ID’d as Niall Aitchison by Bruce Michie of Curran Services.

  Morven Gunn was watching him again, He kept his face impassive as he met her gaze, holding it until she looked away. Of course, she couldn’t possibly read his mind, but it was a strange feeling to be looking at Niall Aitchison’s sister, knowing that her brother was dead when she didn’t.

  Unless, of course, she did.

  CHAPTER TEN

  PS Lothian was no fool, DCI Strang noted with approval. With the details complete, he began the interview by saying blandly, ‘Now, I take it there will have been a number of witnesses to this but don’t worry about that at the moment, madam – I’ll get their details at the end.’

  It was a masterstroke: Morven plainly had failed to work out that the complaint wouldn’t stand on her evidence alone. She faltered, ‘Well … er … I couldn’t say who would have been noticing …’

  Lothian wisely didn’t point out that someone fainting as a result of police brutality was hard to ignore, only saying mildly, ‘Now, can you explain to me in your own words exactly what happened?’

  She began to detail her complaint but there was no doubt that he had cramped her style. The complaint faded as she went on: the constable had ‘walked’ in, not barged; all he had actually said was that he wanted to speak to Kirstie ‘which was intimidating’; the damage had happened as Kirstie fainted and knocked over a table. He had, admittedly, refused to clear it up but even she could see she was on weak ground there.

  Strang could read baffled rage in her face. She was casting round for something more damning; when it occurred to her, she burst out, ‘Anyway, he was acting illegally. Kirstie’s underage and her parents should have been present if he was going to question her. What are you going to do about that?’

  Strang caught Lothian’s eye, and at his nod leant forward. ‘Mrs Gunn, this obviously stems from your anxiety to protect Kirstie, doesn’t it?’

  Morven looked taken aback, then said, ‘Yes – yes, of course,’ in an unconvincing way.

  ‘You see, the constable was perfectly within his rights – there is no reason why an officer shouldn’t question her unless she was in custody, but I can understand that you might have been very concerned about it, particularly as it upset her so much at the time. Still, I was speaking to Kirstie myself this morning
and she was very ready to make the statement, so you’ll be relieved to know there isn’t a problem now.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ She gave him a darting glance and then looked down at her hands. ‘I … I didn’t realise that. Well, if Kirstie’s all right …’

  She hadn’t achieved what she wanted, whatever that might have been. He wasn’t surprised when she said grudgingly that she’d withdraw the complaint, as long as the constable was ‘spoken to’ about his behaviour.

  She was getting up. Strang hesitated, then said, ‘Mrs Gunn, could you sit down again for a minute. Am I right that you are Niall Aitchison’s sister?’

  She sat back down, a guarded ‘who-wants-to-know’ expression on her face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I have bad news for you. The body that was recently found near Mowat’s farm has been identified as your brother Niall.’

  He heard a slight intake of breath, but her face didn’t change. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. Are you all right? I can get someone to take you home—’

  ‘No need.’ Her voice was harsh. ‘As no doubt someone will helpfully have told you already, there was no love lost between us. The people you’ll need to break it to gently are Pat Curran’s women.’ She spat his name. ‘He took the brother I had, and the mother. They’ve both been dead to me for years.’

  She got up. ‘And now, unless you insist on detaining me against my will, I’m leaving. I’ve got work to do.’

  There were more questions – Curran’s women? – but in the circumstances, with someone who looked all too ready to complain about any lack of respect, real or imagined, it wasn’t wise to try to ask them. He said, ‘We will have to talk to you later, but not right at the moment.’

  By the time Strang finished his sentence, he was speaking to empty air. The two men stared at each other and Lothian gave a low whistle. ‘Well, what do you make of that, sir?’