Carrion Comfort

by Aline Templeton

  A cluster of rudimentary sheds, mainly just wooden struts surrounded with chain-link fencing and roofed with corrugated iron, still held abandoned equipment and a couple of vehicles with wide, heavy-duty tyres. It looked as if someone had hoped that one day they might come in useful again.

  Strang went to the gate of one, closed with a bar and a heavy padlock, and shook it. ‘Lucky those are still here. There’s a lot of agricultural theft these days.’

  Murray was looking around her. ‘Probably not a lot of people come along here these days – oh, geroff!’ She started swatting frantically at a cloud of tiny black flies that were gathering round them.

  ‘It’s this humid heat. They’ve smelt our sweat,’ Strang said, marching briskly back to the car. He was waving his hands too. ‘You have to watch these little bastards – they have a filthy bite. And that’s a cleg now too.’ He flapped away a bloated-looking horsefly. ‘Had a bite once and my whole arm swelled up.’

  Back in the car with the air-conditioning on full, Murray examined her arms. ‘They’ve got me a couple of times,’ she said, displaying two small red spots.

  ‘Get some antiseptic onto them whenever you can. And we’ll need to find some repellent before we go anywhere near there again. Now, the doctor’s house – easiest thing is just to ask in the village, I suppose.’

  Morven was in a funny mood today, Kirstie Mowat thought, eyeing her boss warily. She’d been late opening up the cafe; having got up early to see the inspector, Kirstie had been putting in time, just hanging around till it was time to start work but then had found herself waiting on the doorstep for quarter of an hour.

  Morven never gave much away but she was never one to keep her bad temper to herself either. So, she wasn’t actually out of temper today, just a bit grim-faced, which wasn’t unusual, but today she looked as if she had something on her mind. Something dark.

  She didn’t even mention what had happened the day before, didn’t ask if Kirstie was all right. She didn’t, to Kirstie’s relief, ask why the policeman coming to look for her should have made her faint. She’d had the ‘bad-time-of-the-month’ excuse all lined up, in case she did, but it looked as if Morven had forgotten all about it.

  The cafe hadn’t been so busy today – just a couple of the usual suspects and three or four drop-ins. One lot were Americans and Kirstie made a point of being particularly charming to them – always great tippers, Americans – as she explained that the lunch wasn’t quite ready yet but was being freshly made right now. They seemed to like that.

  Weirdly enough, when she went back into the kitchen to see how much longer it would be, she heard Morven chuckle and when she went in her boss was setting a quiche down on the table with a broad smile. It vanished as she saw Kirstie and her face was grim again.

  You’d almost think Kirstie had imagined the chuckle and the smile. She knew she hadn’t, though.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Scottish baronial run riot,’ Strang said as he pulled into the car park at the surgery side of the Westerfield House. It wasn’t busy; there were just three or four cars outside.

  Murray didn’t like to say she’d no idea what that was, but it certainly was a toff’s house. Built of red sandstone, it sprawled over about half of a huge garden, with turrets everywhere you could stick a turret and half a dozen different roof levels. Oh, and a great enormous weathervane on the tower in the far corner that had a huge eagle with outstretched wings, looking as if he was trying to pick the whole thing up and not quite managing.

  ‘Can you imagine anyone doing this on purpose?’ she said. ‘It’s like Disney – the Beast’s castle.’

  ‘Height of fashion at the time, no doubt, and said “serious money” to anyone who looked at it. And then of course it’s been extended and extended at different periods – the surgery bit here is a lot more recent.’

  ‘Do we go to the surgery or the house, boss?’

  Strang thought about it as he got out of the car. ‘Surgery, I think. It looks as if consulting’s over for the day and if the news is likely to come as a shock to any of “Curran’s women” it might be as well to have a medical man on hand.’

  The receptionist was a dark-haired woman with an overenthusiastic perm. She didn’t look the type to be called Francesca, Murray thought, and anyway she was wearing a wedding ring. Mairi hadn’t said anything about the other daughter being married.

  She looked startled when they produced their warrant cards, but then said, ‘Oh – oh yes, of course. I’ll see if Doctor Sinclair is free to see you now. DCI Strang, did you say?’ She came out from the enclosed reception desk and crossed the empty waiting room to knock on a door at the far end.

  A voice said, ‘Oh, I see. Yes, certainly,’ and a tall man came out. He had probably been quite good-looking when he was younger, but the regular features were blurring round the edges a bit and his colouring suggested he was no stranger to the gin bottle. His pale-blue eyes were still quite striking, though, and the smooth dark hair had no sign of grey.

  His manner was self-assured – like a very sleek tomcat, thought Murray, who if he didn’t have the cream right at the moment was reckoning it would appear pretty soon. It was probably going too far to say he was faintly sinister, but she certainly didn’t like him.

  He came across the room to hold out his hand to Strang. ‘Chief Inspector Strang? Malcolm Sinclair. Come through and tell me what I can do for you.’

  He had ignored Murray completely. She trotted along behind like a puppy as he led the way into the consulting room.

  ‘This has come as a blow to the whole community,’ Sinclair said solemnly, sitting back and spreading his hands across a stomach that was starting to expand. ‘We’ve been very fortunate in that we haven’t been burdened with too many of these people in the past, but I suppose we have to expect urban problems catching up with us now they’ve started this ridiculous “Route 66” promotion to send yobs on motorbikes roaring round the coast road. I don’t know what they’re thinking of nowadays.’

  Pompous prat, Murray thought.

  He went on, ‘But what did you want from me?’

  ‘I’m afraid this wasn’t a rough sleeper, sir,’ Strang said. ‘In fact, it’s possible he may even have been one of your own patients – Niall Aitchison.’

  It seemed as if Sinclair hadn’t heard. It was a moment before he said blankly, ‘Niall Aitchison – are you sure? I heard it was a dropout who was dossing down in that abandoned cottage.’

  Strang shook his head and Sinclair went on, ‘But what in hell was Niall doing in that place? It’s been boarded up for years, ever since the old MacRoberts died. And how am I going to tell the girls? He was – he was in and out of the house here all the time. In fact, Francesca—oh dear God!’

  ‘Are any of the family here at the moment?’ Strang asked.

  Sinclair had got out a handkerchief and was mopping his forehead. ‘I can’t remember – let me think. Sorry – this has been such a shock. My wife has a committee meeting in Aberdeen – no, that’s tomorrow, of course. Sorry. Oh – oh yes, they should be, I think. There was some plan for the three of them to have lunch at the Castle of Mey cafe – nice little place, you know, attached to the Queen Mother’s Highland retreat. Worth seeing—’ He stopped. ‘Oh God, I’m babbling. It’s the shock. What time is it? Yes, we should just catch them. I must break it to them before they leave, and some idiot comes up and just blurts it out. This’ll go round the town like wildfire and my wife is very sensitive.’

  He jumped up and hurried them out of the room and across the waiting room, under the curious gaze of the receptionist, through a door that opened onto a hall that looked straight out of a Gothic novel. Murray, her existence still unacknowledged, followed them through.

  She’d be willing to put a fiver on Dr Sinclair not having known the body in the cottage was Niall Aitchison. If he had, and put up a performance like that, he wouldn’t be a GP in a wee town in northern Scotland. He’d be giving David Tennant a run for h
is money.

  Although, of course, she could be wrong.

  The sitting room where they found ‘Curran’s women’ reflected the hectic style of the exterior – a huge room with an inglenook by a monumental fireplace and alcoves, recesses and window seats built into the thickness of the walls. It had been decorated in a style that betrayed uncertainty, relying mainly on swagged curtains, multiple cushions and several vases of silk flowers to convey opulence.

  The manner of Sinclair’s entrance had been enough to convey alarm to the women who were sitting there; while he stumbled to find the appropriate words and they stared at him, Strang took the chance to observe them.

  The older woman, Lilian presumably, had honey-blonde hair and Strang knew enough to recognise an expensive tint. Even if her neat-featured style didn’t appeal to him personally he could see that she was quite attractive, and she certainly didn’t look old enough to be the mother of the woman sitting next to her – plump, mid-to-late twenties, thin mousy hair. Francesca or Gabrielle?

  His mental question was answered when he looked at the third woman, sitting huddled into the corner of the sofa opposite as if for protection. There was no doubt at all that this was the one with the problems; he could see the signs in the dark circles below the eyes and the heavy, slightly swollen lids. She looked as if she was doped at the moment and there were the signs of personal neglect as well in the lack of make-up and the hair dragged back into a ponytail – that had to be Gabrielle, who had lost her father and her unborn child in a short space of time and had failed to find the strength to cope with her grief. Strang knew all about grief and his heart went out to her.

  Sinclair had gone to sit beside his wife, wedging himself in awkwardly so Lilian and Francesca had to shift up to make room for him. He put his arm round her and held her close to him as he said, ‘Er … there’s something I have to tell you.’

  Lilian twisted to look up at his face. ‘Darling, what’s wrong? You’re frightening me!’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ He looked around the women. ‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid. The body they found the other day – well, I’m afraid …’ He stalled again and gave a helpless look towards Strang, who stepped forward.

  ‘I’m DCI Strang. I’m sorry to have to tell you that the victim has been identified as Niall Aitchison, who was I gather a close friend.’

  Utter shock registered on Lilian’s face. ‘But-but they said it was just a tramp!’ she cried. ‘Someone sleeping rough – Oh my God! How could it be Niall? That’s … that’s awful. Oh, Malcolm!’ She gave a sob, turning to bury her face in her husband’s shoulder.

  Francesca seemed to take a moment to understand. Then she screamed, a high-pitched wail that gathered in intensity. ‘It can’t be – not Niall! He was all I had left and that’s been taken away from me now too.’ She was struggling to get the words out. ‘And then, his eyes … I’m going to be sick.’ She leapt to her feet and rushed from the room.

  Gabrielle hadn’t said anything. Was she so spaced-out she hadn’t absorbed what had been said, Strang wondered, and then realised that tears were silently pouring down her face. She said brokenly, ‘He was … he was such a nice man. We owed him so much.’

  She was making no attempt to wipe her face. Murray, a silent observer, picked up a brocaded box of tissues lying on the coffee table and gave Gabrielle a handful. She looked at them as if she was uncertain what they were for, then put up her hand to wipe the tears.

  ‘What did Fran mean, his eyes?’ she said slowly.

  Lilian jumped up and came across to her. ‘She was just upset, talking nonsense. We need to go to her. Come along.’ She took her daughter’s hand and led her, unresisting, from the room.

  Sinclair stood up too. ‘I’m sure there are questions you are entitled to ask, Inspector, but as you can see it would be totally out of the question at this time. Perhaps you can come back once the ladies have had a chance to recover from the shock.’

  ‘Of course,’ Strang said smoothly. ‘But since we’re here, perhaps you could give us a bit more background about your family’s connection with Mr Aitchison. Clearly it’s been a close one.’

  For a moment he wondered if Sinclair would refuse, but then he said wearily, ‘Oh, I suppose. You’d better sit down. Do you want a drink? I need a brandy.’ Barely waiting for their refusal, he went to one of the alcoves which housed a lavishly equipped drinks trolley, picked up a decanter with a silver label that said ‘Brandy’ round its neck and a heavy crystal tumbler. He half-filled it, took a swig, then a second one, and topped it up before carrying it back to his seat on the sofa.

  Strang and Murray sat down on the sofa opposite. At a nod from Strang, Murray discreetly took out a notebook.

  ‘Your stepdaughter seemed particularly distressed,’ Strang said. ‘Did they have a relationship?’

  ‘Oh, wishful thinking, I’m afraid. It’s hard for her, you know. There is a positive dearth of really suitable young men around here and she was disappointed too over young David. He’d been around here a bit and it had been looking quite hopeful until of course Gabrielle appeared on the scene.

  ‘Spoilt brat, if you want my opinion, and hard as nails. Fran’s a good girl, always very loyal to Lilian, but Gabrielle, I’m sorry to say, takes after her father and quite frankly he was a complete bastard. Of course, to her he could do no wrong and she went off with him to Aberdeen without a thought of what losing her meant to her poor mother. And the moment she saw David, she just set her cap at him and stole him from right under Fran’s nose. She hasn’t a lot of confidence, poor girl, and that really knocked her back. Personally, I think that was what was behind it – a spiteful pleasure in taking something away from her sister. Not a nice person, Gabrielle.

  ‘And Fran—’ He sighed. ‘I doubt if there was ever anything at all between her and Niall – one of nature’s non-combatants, if you ask me, but well, you know, faute de mieux …’

  ‘Did I gather that Mr Aitchison was Mr Curran’s representative up here after the failure of the drainage company?’ Strang asked.

  ‘His patsy, you mean.’ Sinclair leant forward confidentially; the level of brandy in his glass had dropped considerably. ‘I’m not going to try to wrap this up in clean linen. Curran was a swindler but smart enough so no one could prove it. If you ask me, he engineered the bankruptcy so that Lilian got nothing – not a penny, after all she’d had to put up with all these years. And he was never man enough to face the people he’d sweet-talked into investing their hard-earned cash, so that poor old Niall was left facing the music. He couldn’t just run off and hide in Aberdeen – his mother was still living here, and he was a good son.’

  ‘What sort of a man was he?’

  Sinclair paused for a moment, thinking. ‘A decent enough chap, I suppose. Hadn’t the imagination to be anything but, to be frank. He got twisted by Curran to the point where it broke up his family – Mum supported him and the sister was left out in the cold having lost everything. It was tragic and she’s very embittered now, but it’s no wonder.

  ‘Niall was a lot more loyal than Curran deserved. It’s possible he carried a bit of a torch for Gabrielle – though for heaven’s sake don’t mention that to Fran. She’ll be crushed enough by this.’

  He looked at his watch and shifted restlessly in his seat. ‘Look, I’m worried about the girls – they’re going to be working each other up into a state. I really need to go and see what I can do to calm them down.’

  ‘One last thing,’ Strang said quickly. ‘You mentioned Gabrielle’s husband, David Ross. Where would I find him?’

  ‘Offshore at the moment, as far as I know. He gets called out to the rigs when they’ve a computer problem. We’ll get in touch with him and let him know what’s happened and tell him you want to speak to him. Now—’ Sinclair stood up.

  Murray tucked her notebook away and they left him to his unenviable task.

  The police had been in with Bruce Michie for some time. Ailie Johnston had shown them in
then retreated with some reluctance. It wouldn’t really do to be caught with her ear pressed to the door but once she was back at her desk she found it difficult to concentrate.

  There had been a lot of incoming phone calls lately from the two men she knew sometimes went off with Michie for boys’ weekends, fishing or doing a bit of rough shooting up in Caithness. She only kept his work diary so that was no help, but then she remembered, of course, that he’d told her he was going and afterwards she’d asked if he’d seen Gabrielle. That had definitely been the week before last. The Saturday when according to his neighbour Niall had gone up to Forsich too.

  Ailie knew them – Tom Morrison, whose company dealt with hydraulic repairs and Chris Brady, who was in the services industry like themselves. Most of Michie’s friends were.

  It had struck her before as odd that Michie should be pally with Brady, a direct competitor; he was a rather brash, overbearing man who had made the mistake of trying to patronise Gabrielle when he came to the office, officially to condole with her after her father’s death. He had come out with all but visible claw marks, looking shaken. Now she was wondering if there was some sort of conspiracy going on while Gabrielle was ill.

  That row between Michie and Niall: Ailie didn’t know what it had been about but there was no doubt that in any power struggle Niall would have supported Gabrielle. He was totally loyal to her, just as he had been to Pat – who had, Ailie was forced to admit, taken shameless advantage of that.

  She had left the door of her office open and now she heard someone coming out of Michie’s office and the police walk past on their way out. She looked round her desk for something she could use as an excuse to go and see Michie, but before she could find anything her buzzer went and she was summoned.