‘We get a lot of them.’
She obviously wasn’t inclined to be helpful, but he persisted. ‘Three on that weekend?’
‘Yeah, could have been.’
The chef came back, saying Jeff – ‘He’s the boss’ − would be right down. Strang put the question to him but got nowhere with that either; the chef had nothing to do with the guests. He returned to the girl.
‘So, there could have been this party of three? Do you remember anything about them?’
She did at least admit she might have done. ‘It was them had another man come in later, when we’d really stopped serving but I’d to get him something.’
‘Hayley, you’re just confusing the officers.’
The voice came from behind them. A squat man wearing a black T-shirt proclaiming ‘Just another sexy bald bloke’ had just come out of the house and he spoke sharply. As Hayley shrugged, he said, ‘Jeff Baxter. What can I do for you? No problem about the licence, I hope?’
‘Just a couple of routine questions,’ Strang said, as usual. ‘Perhaps there’s somewhere we could talk?’
Somehow, he got the impression that the man wasn’t surprised by their visit. It would be interesting to see if he would admit to that once they were all sitting down at the table in the dining room he had taken them to.
He didn’t. He said, ‘Would you like coffee – a soft drink, maybe? Don’t suppose there’s any point in offering you a drop of the hard stuff these days?’
Strang agreed that there wasn’t but asked for water, and Baxter summoned Hayley with a bellow to fetch it along with a Coke for himself.
Baxter sat back in his chair. ‘What can I do for you then, Chief Inspector? Or do I know you well enough to call you Inspector?’ He gave a fat little giggle.
Strang ignored it. ‘It’s straightforward enough. Three men—’ Lothian without prompting had accessed the details on his phone and he gave the names.
Baxter listened, nodding. ‘That’s right. Bruce Michie and Tom Morrison are old mates of mine – been coming for years and a few months ago Chris Brady joined them. Come up now every few weeks for a lads’ weekend away from the ladies, God bless ’em. No one to tell them when they’ve had enough!’
‘When did they arrive?’
‘Oh, couldn’t be that specific. Two came in the late afternoon, as far as I remember, and one checked in nearer dinner time. Bruce was one of the earlier ones, and then Tom. Oh, Chris had a lot of catching up to do by the time he got here, I can tell you that.’
‘So, they came separately?’
‘That’s right. They all like to be independent – say you think the fish aren’t biting at Loch Watten, you can always head over to Loch Calder and see if they’re taking over there.’
‘Did they have much success?’ Strang asked. ‘I’d have thought it would hardly be worth taking a fishing weekend with the weather the way it’s been. The trout are never very hungry when it’s hot and the water level must be low too.’
Baxter looked vague. ‘Oh well, you never know. An excuse for a break, anyway.’ He definitely wasn’t comfortable.
‘Did they spend much time out there trying?’
‘Oh, I expect so. I can’t really say – I work, I don’t hang out with the guests during the day.’ He looked round impatiently. ‘Where is that girl? Hayley!’
Lothian, with a glance at Strang for approval, said, ‘What kind of fishing did they do, sir? Fly-fishing individually, or out in a boat together?’
Baxter was visibly irritated. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Both, probably. You’d better ask them. Oh, here she comes at last. Hayley, I don’t know how it can possibly take you so long to open a can and take a couple of bottles out of the chiller.’
As the girl handed them the water, Strang said, ‘Hayley, you mentioned another man who joined the party we were talking about, a bit later. Is that right?’
Baxter butted in. ‘Hayley, what did you have for your supper last night?’ Hayley looked blank and Baxter gave a short laugh. ‘Your average goldfish is a mental giant compared to her, Inspector. Can’t remember yesterday let alone ten days ago. There were only three of them together, though there were other guests in the hotel, so maybe one of those came in late.’
‘Is that right, Hayley?’
She looked sullen. ‘I dunno.’ Without waiting for any more questions, she went back into the kitchen.
Strang stood up. ‘I think that’s all for the moment then, sir. I’m grateful for your cooperation. Do you mind if we take the water with us?’
Baxter jumped up with alacrity. ‘Not at all, not at all. Be my guest.’ He showed them out, chatting volubly about the astonishing weather and how it was going to break any day now.
Back in the car, Lothian said wryly, ‘Pretty happy to get us off the premises, I thought.’
‘And who was Hayley’s man that Baxter was so keen to convince us didn’t exist?’ Strang said. ‘I think we need to get her for a chat when she’s not on duty.’
At last, Francesca retreated to her bedroom in a state of collapse. Gabrielle and her mother were in the smart little sitting room of her flat, the one Lilian had done up for her in a tasteful palette of grey and pink and which said nothing at all about Fran’s personality.
It had been a difficult afternoon. Sinclair had brought up the decanter of brandy and had plied Fran with it so that she went from hysterical sobbing into full suttee mood, acting as if it was only the lack of a funeral pyre that stopped her flinging herself upon it in self-immolation.
‘My life is over!’ she kept declaiming. ‘Niall was my future and now he’s gone, he’s gone.’
Gabrielle listened in silence, while inside she was screaming, It’s not about you, it’s about Niall! The brandy helped, in fact; she was feeling more and more removed from everything and everyone, as if she was watching them through a sheet of glass. Twice when her mother spoke to her she failed to reply because all of it seemed nothing to do with her.
Anyway, she didn’t want to talk now of all that Niall had been to Paddy and to her: totally loyal, endlessly supportive, warmth and kindness personified. She had always known he was in love with her, without ever expecting her love in return. She’d seen his pain in an unguarded moment when she’d announced her engagement to David, but even so he had stood as an usher at the wedding. He’d even told her that all he wanted was her happiness, and to be there at her side to see it. And he had been, he had been, until …
Yet here was Fran, playing the role of grieving widow and everyone in this make-believe world was behaving as if her imaginary relationship with Niall had actually happened. No wonder Gabrielle felt unreal.
Sinclair was worried about Lilian too. He was fussing round her like a mother hen and indeed she too looked in shock, staring straight ahead while Fran ranted on. The brandy did at last pull her together and she began on her own mother-hen act.
‘You go off and have a lie-down, darling,’ she said to Fran. ‘Grief is very tiring, and you need your strength. There are going to be difficult days ahead. Malcolm will give you something if you need it, but I think you’ll be able to sleep once you’re in bed.’
Clutching a box of tissues, Fran stood up and hiccupped her way to her bedroom. Sinclair, perching on the arm of Lilian’s chair, said, ‘What about you, my darling?’
She leant her head into him and gave a sigh. ‘Oh, I’m all right, truly. It was just the terrible shock.’
Gabrielle averted her eyes. She always did. Watching her mother snuggle up to the man who had replaced her father disgusted her. Each time it felt like a betrayal of Paddy all over again.
‘What happened with the police?’ Lilian was saying.
‘They won’t bother you, meantime. I’ve given them a bit of background about our friendship with Niall, but they know you’re away tomorrow – though I wonder if you should go, I really do.’
‘I wouldn’t, if I wasn’t the chair, but going would be less stressful than trying to cancel. Of course, I�
�m very upset but he was an old friend, not a member of the family, after all.’ She turned to Gabrielle. ‘But you were close, I know. We’ve all been worrying about Fran but are you all right?’
Gabrielle heard her voice as if it came from a long way off – ‘Yes, I’m all right. I’m always all right’ – and saw the others exchange a look.
‘Gabrielle, I think you should stay here. I don’t like the thought of you being at the house on your own. Malcolm spoke to David and he can’t get back till the day after tomorrow. You and Fran could be company for each other.’
If Lilian hadn’t been going away Gabrielle might very well have stayed; her own empty house, with all that had happened, wasn’t appealing. But sit around listening to Fran wailing all day? ‘Oh no, no,’ Gabrielle said. ‘I’ll go home. I just want peace, really.’
Sinclair stood up. ‘I’d better get back to the surgery. Do you need anything to make you sleep, Gabrielle?’
‘No, I have some pills still.’
‘Good, good,’ he said heartily. ‘Be sure to take them. You need your rest.’ He kissed his wife and went out, clutching the almost empty decanter.
Gabrielle got up. ‘I’m going to go now.’ She suddenly felt a desperate compulsion to leave and had to stop herself running to the door. She couldn’t stand this for a moment longer, this weird world of illusion where she felt so utterly detached. If she got out, perhaps she could connect with the real Gabrielle again. She picked up her bag and was heading to the door when she realised her mother was looking at her oddly.
‘What did they say?’
‘What did who say?’
‘The voices. You just said you were hearing voices.’
Gabrielle froze. ‘I didn’t say that. I didn’t hear any voices. I’m sure I didn’t!’
‘But—’ Lilian said, then, apparently registering her daughter’s look of shock, went on hastily, ‘No, no, don’t worry. I must have misheard what you said. Are you sure you’re fit to be on your own?’
‘Yes, of course I am. I just need to get away. It’s been difficult, with Fran and everything …’ She blundered her way out of the room, aware of Lilian following her down the stairs.
‘How much brandy did you have, darling? Should you be driving, if you’re confused …’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ She couldn’t stop herself bolting for the door as if she feared being recaptured then slammed it behind her and jumped into her car. Her head was ringing; were those voices that she was hearing, speaking in some language she did not understand?
There were several cars in the car park across the road from the Forsinard Flows RSPB visitor centre when DS Taylor and DC Murray got there. Murray got out, checking the number plates and pointed. ‘That one.’
It was a black Audi A3 and from the plate it was less than six months old – certainly not the sort of car you would leave unattended for days on end in normal circumstances. ‘I wonder why no one called in sooner? It’s just asking to be nicked.’
‘Wouldn’t mind nicking it myself. It’s a Sportback – great spec.’ Taylor bent down to peer in the window.
‘Don’t touch it!’ Murray said sharply.
‘I wasn’t going to! And anyway, loads of people probably have.’
‘Adding more prints won’t make that any better,’ Murray said over her shoulder, walking across the road to the centre.
It was a low, grey stone cottage that to Murray’s surprise was right beside a railway line, sharing the platform with the station. Inside, its walls were covered with the sort of information that the kind of people who spent all their time hiking about the countryside would want but which, frankly, left Murray cold. There was a video presentation running at the moment that showed a purplish, fleshy-looking plant shaped like a steel trap with spikes round the edges suddenly snapping shut on a fly crawling on its edge while a voiceover discussed the digestive process of the Venus flytrap that would strip the flesh and dissolve it into mush. It had a horrible sort of fascination.
‘Yuck, that’s gross!’ Murray said. ‘It’s like that Little Shop of Horrors film. I never knew plants like that really existed. Makes you feel sick.’
‘Don’t look at it, then.’ Taylor walked over to the desk where a woman wearing a blue RSPB T-shirt was pointing out something on a map to a young couple in shorts and hiking boots.
‘Miss!’ Taylor interrupted. ‘Could we have a word? DS Taylor, DC Murray.’
She looked annoyed. ‘Can I just finish explaining to these people where to go? Then they could get on with their walk.’
‘I’m afraid—’ Taylor began, when Murray broke in, ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll only take a minute. We can watch the rest of the film. Come on.’ She drew Taylor away.
‘And why would I want to waste my time with this? Murray, I’m warning you, you’re way out of line,’ he snarled.
‘Don’t think the boss would be happy about us antagonising people needlessly. Maybe it’s the way it’s done in Bathgate, but—’
She knew she was living dangerously and she was quite glad when she was cut short by the woman calling over, ‘I’m free now,’ as the young walkers left.
‘About the car, is it?’
Taylor took control, ready with his retaliation. ‘Yes. Why was it left unreported for so long? It’s a valuable car – why would anyone have abandoned it out here in the wilds?’
The woman looked flustered. ‘I don’t know! I wasn’t here all the time.’
‘But you did see it there earlier and didn’t do anything?’
‘Well, no. Why should I? It’s a public car park.’ She was gathering confidence. ‘People take the train in to Aberdeen or Inverness for the day sometimes and leave their cars there for when they come back.’
Taylor pounced. ‘Ah! For the day. But this, as far as we know, was here for a week, not just a day.’
‘How was I to know how long they’d gone to Aberdeen for?’
‘But on Saturday, you decided they wouldn’t have gone to Aberdeen for more than a week and called in?’
Taylor was sounding triumphant, as if some how he’d won an important point. Murray despaired of him. The woman was defensive now, ready to argue about it. She chipped in, ‘We’re grateful that you did, anyway. Do you by any chance remember the owner leaving it – a male on his own, probably, 5’8”, brown hair, brown eyes?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I didn’t see who left it there but no one like that came in here on that Saturday. We only had about half a dozen visits altogether. I suppose he might have gone round onto the platform without me seeing him, but there aren’t a lot of trains and I always glance out of the window when one comes in. There’s never more than two or three people on the platform and I certainly didn’t see him.’
Taylor drew breath to speak and she could read his mind: he was just about to ask why, then, she thought the car belonged to someone who’d taken the train and hurried on.
‘So, you know that the car was left on the Saturday – is that right?’
‘Yes. It was the only car in the car park when I left. I’m off Sunday and Monday and I noticed it when I came back last Tuesday.’
Taylor got his word in at last, with a look at Murray that dared her to interrupt. ‘So, what made you eventually decide to report it at the weekend?’
‘Just, it had been a long time, I suppose. And we’ve got a bit of a stroppy element around here, making protests and stuff because they don’t like what the RSPB is doing to bring more visitors in and they might do something.’
Taylor was looking interested about the stroppy neighbours. Before he could go off on another tangent, Murray said, ‘So if he didn’t come in here, and he didn’t go off in the train, why would he have parked here?’
‘People do, if they just want to go out on the Dubh Lochan trail or just to the Lookout Tower. There’s a boardwalk that takes you there and you can climb up and see the pattern of the Flows. It’s very pretty, you know, almost like a tapestry. You can see some
of those insectivorous plants you were looking at just now too, and there’s the birds as well …’
‘Thank you, madam,’ Taylor said firmly. ‘We’ve established that you didn’t see the man in question, so we don’t need to take up any more of your time. There will be a forensic team coming to take the car in for examination, tomorrow probably.’
Suddenly, the woman said, ‘Oh my goodness! Is it that man – the one who got murdered? And those ravens – what a terrible thing!’
They both made the sort of noise that neither confirms nor denies, then left. Taylor turned towards their car; Murray had already set off down the road.
‘Where are you going?’ he called.
‘I want to see where Aitchison went when he left the car. There’s the tower she talked about, look – it isn’t far.’
The Lookout Tower was a stark, modernistic two-storey erection clad in pale wood, almost like a guard post and totally out of keeping with its rustic setting. Murray had never been inspired with a desire to protect the countryside herself, but she could understand why those who did might have got a wee bit upset about it.
‘For goodness’ sake, what do you expect to see? The murderer’s footprints? By all account it happened over a week ago and that was before the body was moved. Let’s wait and see what Strang wants us to do.’
Murray paid no attention, striding off down the boardwalk that ran across the bogs and pools. ‘It’ll tell me what Aitchison might have been looking at. Maybe he arranged to meet his murderer here. It won’t take long. And anyway, I want to see one of these plants.’ Grumbling, Taylor followed her.
It was a quite extraordinary landscape, a world of water where such ground as there was, was half-water itself, treacherous in its solid appearance. In the heat the black, peaty lochans and pools glittered like so many mirrors, reflecting back the sky, and of course there were insects everywhere, buzzing, humming, even moving on the surface of the water with long, oar-like legs.
Sinister was the word that came to Murray’s mind. Step off onto one of those brilliant green patches and it would suck at your feet, drag you down and down into the muddy depths. Ugh! The hot, damp air seemed to rise to envelop her and she was beginning to regret having suggested this. Taylor was probably right that there wouldn’t be any fresh evidence. She’d have liked to see one of those plants before she gave in, though, and she was peering at the plant growth around the boggy hummocks as she went. She hadn’t seen anything at all like the huge, bloated thing on the screen.
Carrion Comfort Page 16
