Carrion Comfort

by Aline Templeton

  As she was peering down, she noticed a small plant that weirdly moved to close its leaves together suddenly, and she recognised it for what it was. The Venus flytrap, when not subjected to serious magnification, was actually rather dull. The tower was a lot further away than it looked and the swarms of little flies were starting to gather too. Remembering what Strang had said about them, Murray was ready to admit defeat. If she was ordered back she was going to wear a hoodie with long sleeves and smother herself in Jungle Formula.

  She was just turning round when there was a yell from Taylor. ‘That bastard just bit me!’ He was flapping his hand at a huge fly that was soaring lazily out of reach and when he held out his arm she could see a red mark already forming.

  ‘Looks nasty,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, it does. Thanks very much – it’s your fault. I’m going back to the car.’

  Murray trotted after him meekly. ‘You should go in to the chemist when we get back to Thurso and get something for it.’

  Taylor only grunted as they drove off. Twenty minutes later they passed the abandoned drainage scheme site and then they approached Gabrielle Ross’s house.

  ‘Look!’ Murray exclaimed. ‘There’s a car there. I know it wasn’t there when we came past earlier, because I looked. Strang was wanting to speak to her when we came here before but there was no one in. We’d better stop and have a word.’

  Taylor slowed down reluctantly. ‘We weren’t told to see her.’

  ‘Yes, but if we don’t use our initiative we’ll just end up having to come back another time,’ she argued. ‘And I don’t like this place. There’s something really nasty about it.’

  ‘Yeah, the wildlife,’ Taylor said darkly, rubbing his arm. ‘It’s sort of sore itchy now, if you know what I mean.’

  He stopped, though, and she jumped out and went up the path to knock on the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Morven Gunn put up the CLOSED sign and locked the door of the Lemon Tree cafe. She had just gone through to the kitchen to finish up the clearing when she heard a knock and muttered imprecations under her breath. As if ten till five wasn’t long enough to ask her to put up with the public! Which part of the word ‘closed’ didn’t they understand?

  But the person standing on the doorstep now peering in the door was wearing a uniform, a plump grey-haired woman who when she saw Morven approaching smiled encouragement through the glass in the door.

  Grudgingly, Morven opened it a foot or two, holding her hand round the side ready to close it again. ‘What do you want?’

  The policewoman’s smile widened. ‘Hello, dear. Hope I’m not disturbing you. I know it’s been a terrible day for you, but I’m your police liaison officer – PC Barnett, but call me Margaret. And you’re Morven, is that right? Can I come in just for a minute, to see what support you’re needing?’

  Morven opened the door another few inches without saying anything and Margaret wormed her way through, looking around.

  ‘Oh, it’s a lovely wee place you’ve got here! I think you’ve just got yourself another customer!’ Unasked, she sat down at one of the tables, patting the seat of the chair beside her invitingly. ‘It can’t have been easy, working on today after hearing the terrible news. That’s so brave! Were you and your brother very close?’

  Morven sat down. She took a vindictive pleasure in saying, ‘No, we weren’t. I disliked him quite intensely. He’d been dead to me for years,’ and relished the look of shock on the woman’s face.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said nervously. ‘That’s … that’s sad.’

  ‘Not really. The way he behaved turned every decent person against him. Oh, no doubt they’ll all say the right things now, but I’m not hypocrite enough to claim that I’m sorry he’s dead.’

  Margaret obviously didn’t know what to say. Pink with embarrassment, she blurted out, ‘I … I suppose you won’t want bereavement counselling services, then.’

  Morven gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘You worked that out? Well done.’ Then her face changed. ‘They were rubbish anyway, these folk, when I really needed them. They know nothing – nothing – about true grief. And your lot know nothing about justice.’

  She stood up, her face bright with fury, pointing at the quailing constable like an avenging angel. ‘You’d better get out. I’ve no more time to waste on this. And take the message back to your boss to leave me alone, too. All right?’

  Margaret scrambled to her feet. ‘Right, right, of course, if that’s how you feel.’ She made for the door, then remembered her other commission. Feeling she was taking her life in her hands, she said, ‘Just one more thing. There was a message passed through asking you to phone someone. Can I give it to you?’ She fumbled in the pocket of her uniform and produced a note, holding it out with the nervousness of one offering a biscuit to a savage dog.

  Morven took it without thanks and the policewoman was barely out of the door when she locked it again. She looked at the note, then with a tight little smile tucked it into her pocket while she finished up in the kitchen and went home to the small, stuffy flat in the high street.

  The heat had built up inside. If she drew back the net curtain and opened the window to get what air there was, the passers-by could peer in – and they would, they would, particularly today. She switched on the fan that didn’t really make a great deal of difference, except that the hot air moved round.

  She sank thankfully into a chair, feeling limp with exhaustion. Whatever she might have said, the day had been a real strain and for a moment she leant her head back and shut her eyes, letting herself dream for a moment of the cottage with the pretty garden on the outskirts of the village. She could be sitting there enjoying the cool of the evening, under the apple tree she’d climbed as a child.

  It was so near she could almost touch it. Surely someone as young and healthy as Niall wouldn’t have got round yet to making a will – surely? And she could imagine what Mr Bruce Michie, of Curran Services, wanted with her, and it wasn’t to offer his heartfelt condolences – she’d heard about the way Pat Curran had left his shares. This could be her opportunity to shaft Gabrielle Ross. That would be some slight compensation, even if nothing could pay her out for what she did. Except an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

  Gabrielle Ross’s mobile had rung as she was driving home and she saw David’s number with a sinking heart. She didn’t want to talk to him – she didn’t want to talk to anyone – but she drew into the side to take the call. He’d spoken to her after Malcolm had told him the news, but she knew he wouldn’t leave it at that. She must sound calm, and not as if she was straining to hear voices that weren’t there.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m all right. I can handle it.’

  ‘It’s just—’ he said, and she interrupted him.

  ‘I know, I know. I don’t blame you. Coping with me if I completely lose the plot is a scary thought for all of you.’ She couldn’t help the edge coming into her voice.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Gabrielle! Stop thinking like that! Given what you’ve had to cope with, you’re amazing. I wish I could get back sooner but there isn’t a space on tomorrow’s schedule for me to get taken off. I don’t like you being on your own out there, though. Stay at Westerfield with your mother, all right? I’ll pick you up there when I get back—’

  ‘She’s away tomorrow. I’m not staying there alone with Fran while she performs a five-act tragedy.’

  ‘Oh. Can’t Lilian just cancel whatever it is? You need her—’

  Her control snapped. ‘No, I don’t! Stop treating me as if I’m an imbecile! Life’s hard enough without that.’ She could feel her eyes stinging.

  ‘Oh, my darling, I didn’t mean it that way, truly! I can’t bear it when you’re upset and I’m not there to do something about it.’

  She felt guilty and very, very tired at the same time. ‘I know, I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a hellish day. I’m just on my way back home to have a long bath and a bit of peace and then I’ll ha
ve an early night.’

  ‘You do that. I’ve spoken to the inspector in charge of the police investigation and he wasn’t a problem. He’ll wait to speak to you till I can get back, so you won’t be bothered now. Get a good sleep.’

  She was relieved about that. It would give her time at least to get her head straight before all the questions came in. ‘I’ll try. It’ll all look different in the morning, as Paddy used to say to me.’

  David laughed. ‘That’s my girl. Hang in there. Speak soon. Love you, sweetheart.’

  Gabrielle had driven on again and parked outside the house. She let herself in then stood in the hall to listen to the silence she’d been craving, but somehow the air seemed alive with her teeming fears and imaginings. She ran her hands through her hair in a despairing gesture.

  Make tea. That was what you did as a displacement activity for distress. Dragging her feet from sheer tiredness she went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. She made a little ceremony out of laying out a china cup and saucer instead of a mug and fetching an old brown teapot from the cupboard along with loose-leaf Earl Grey instead of a tea bag. As she was warming it up she could see the knife block out of the corner of her eye; the little knife was still there today, and she looked away hastily before it could send out those evil, tempting messages again, and poured in the boiling water.

  It was, indeed, a soothing activity. She laid out a tray and carried it through to the sitting room, set it on the table by the window then sat sipping her tea. At last she could feel her mind beginning to quieten, her scampering thoughts slowing down.

  Now, as she sat there, a car drew up outside and a man and a woman got out – the woman who had come that morning to Westerfield House.

  The police. Gabrielle gave a wail of purest dismay. This must surely constitute cruel and unusual punishment, after David being so reassuring. She couldn’t deal with questioning, not today. She wouldn’t answer the door – but they had seen her. They were standing on the doorstep waiting for her to let them in. Very slowly she hauled herself out of the chair and walked through to open the door.

  It was the woman who spoke, bright-faced, with dark red hair in a pixie cut. The man a few steps behind her was round-faced, bulky, and was for some reason staring at his arm as the woman said, ‘Mrs Ross? Could we have a word?’

  PC Margaret Barnett went back to the incident room in the village hall feeling considerably shaken by her encounter with Morven Gunn. She’d been encouraged to become a police liaison officer because of her kindly, motherly nature and she’d never before had a reaction like that from any of the families who had been victims of some sort of trauma. Admittedly, she’d no experience of dealing with someone whose brother had actually been murdered but most people who had lost someone close to them were more than grateful for her care.

  There was a shift finishing so there were quite a lot of officers milling around on their way off duty. A little circle had gathered round PC Craig Davidson, the banter all about his moustache, or rather its disappearance. He was taking it in good part but Barnett when she joined them took his side.

  ‘You leave him alone. He was picked on by that Mrs Gunn. She’s a fiend, that woman. I’m just back from there and I’m still shaking.’

  She had a fascinated audience for her description of the encounter. ‘The thing is,’ she said at the end, ‘I can’t imagine anyone saying that about their own brother. Oh, I’m not daft, I know there’s plenty folk don’t get on with their families, but they wouldn’t come out and say it like that.’

  ‘Especially when she’s a suspect,’ someone pointed out.

  ‘Who’s a suspect?’ PS Jack Lothian had come in unnoticed, with DCI Kelso Strang behind him.

  ‘Morven Gunn, Sarge. Margaret here went to see her to give her support and she got mauled.’

  Strang was interested. Barnett, a little bashfully, repeated what she had told the others already about Mrs Gunn’s opinion of her brother, then elaborated on what had been said afterwards.

  ‘From what she was saying, she seemed to be going back to something else that had happened, sir. It was about her having had a bereavement of some kind and she didn’t think it had been treated right. She didn’t say what it was, though.’

  Davidson cleared his throat. ‘I think I maybe know something about it. I spoke to one female this morning – she wasn’t very coherent, just sort of ranting, and then her husband stopped her. But she was accusing Gabrielle Ross of being a murderer and it was something to do with Morven Gunn.’

  Strang looked startled. ‘Gabrielle Ross? No more detail than that?’

  ‘Not really, sir. I’ve just put in my report. Oh, and I mentioned it to DC Murray at lunchtime,’ he added helpfully.

  Strang did not seem impressed by that. ‘Did you indeed,’ he said grimly. ‘Are she and Taylor back?’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t think so.’

  Strang turned to Barnett again. ‘Did Mrs Gunn say anything else?’

  Barnett thought about it. ‘Not really. Oh yes – right at the end she said to tell you not to bother her.’

  ‘Right. Thanks very much.’ He walked away, then came back to check who was going to be on duty and asked them to tell Murray and Taylor that he would see them in his office at the Masons Arms when they got back.

  ‘I-I don’t really feel ready to speak to the police,’ Gabrielle Ross said.

  The woman – she couldn’t remember her name – sounded very sympathetic. ‘I know. You’ve had a dreadful shock. But if we could just have a word with you, even for a few minutes …’

  And somehow Gabrielle was stepping back and there they were in the hall, with the woman introducing DS Taylor and reminding her that she was DC Murray, ‘since I’m sure you couldn’t remember it, with everything that was going on.’

  Then somehow, they were all in the sitting room and Murray had spotted the tea tray and said Gabrielle must drink her tea while it was hot and somehow, she was asking them if they’d like some too and Murray was thanking her and saying she’d just fetch a couple of mugs. ‘Kitchen through the back?’ she said brightly and disappeared, leaving Gabrielle with the round-faced, bulky man who seemed preoccupied with his arm.

  He said morosely, ‘Got bitten. Don’t suppose you’ve got any stuff for that, have you?’

  It seemed easiest just to say no, and he lapsed into silence. Then Murray was back again, pouring tea into the mugs and sitting down.

  Helpless as a trapped animal, Gabrielle waited.

  ‘You were all very fond of Mr Aitchison, weren’t you?’ Murray’s voice was warm and friendly. ‘Were you particular friends?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It went back a long way. He was my father’s right-hand man for as long as I remember.’

  ‘But your sister claimed he’d had a relationship with her?’

  Gabrielle had felt angry about that all day and she couldn’t let it pass. ‘No, of course he didn’t!’ she said scornfully. ‘Fran was desperately trying to build it up into something. I know he felt a bit hunted because she kept wanting him to take her out. Being Niall, he was too kind to say no. Niall was – always kind.’ She gave a little gulping sob.

  Murray said hastily, ‘I don’t want to upset you. Now, we believe he came to the Forsinard Flows visitor centre on the 24th June – the Saturday before last. Did he call in here on the way?’

  Everything went very quiet and inside her head the moment seemed to go on for ever. She didn’t know how long it was – three seconds, five? – before she heard her own voice, quite steady, saying, ‘No. Though I did go out for a brief walk, I think – yes, that’s right, so I can’t say whether he did or not.’

  ‘But you didn’t see him after that, any time that week?’

  ‘No.’ She didn’t know how much more of this she could take. ‘Look, I’m not really feeling very well. Can’t it wait?’

  Murray was immediately soothing. ‘Of course. We’ll be asking you to make a formal statement later on, so we won
’t take up any more of your time now. You look as if you’re needing a rest.

  ‘There was just one more thing. This may be distressing for you, but I think you should know that someone has accused you of murder – something to do with Mrs Morven Gunn’s son Gary? These rumours can be very persistent and unpleasant so maybe we can help you quash it—’

  Gabrielle felt stunned for a moment. This was like a nightmare, but she was awake – awake and furious. In the first spontaneous reaction she’d had for weeks, pure rage took over and she jumped up. ‘How dare you! You come here and repeat those lies to my face! Get out of my house – get out, right now!’

  Murray went pale. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I don’t care what you didn’t mean. Get the hell out.’

  The man had got up. ‘That’s enough, Constable. I’m sorry, madam. We’re on our way.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Murray was saying over her shoulder as he escorted her out in front of him. Gabrielle heard him say as they walked down the path, ‘Well, that was clever, wasn’t it?’

  She put her hand to her head. God, would the horrors of this day never end?

  Murray couldn’t blame Taylor for being livid. He wasn’t half as livid with her as she was with herself. She’d screwed up there, big time, and there wasn’t a chance that he wouldn’t grass on her to Strang. Indeed, he was enjoying himself outlining what he was going to say to the boss when they saw him – the way she’d bulldozed him aside at the visitors’ centre, then insisted on the ill-starred visit to Gabrielle Ross, not to mention dragging him out into the bog to get attacked by wild insects. ‘It’s swollen, look,’ he said, pointing.