‘I’m hoping I might be back later on but if it takes longer than I think, you’d better try for Lilian Sinclair – she should be back home by then. Get her separately from her husband and then push him for an account of their movements on the Saturday too. Watch out for agreed statements there.’
Murray nodded. ‘Right. Nothing more from Francesca?’
‘I don’t think so, unless you’re looking for confirmation of something her mother said.’
He noticed with approval that she had dived into her bag and brought out a notebook to jot down her tasks. As she wrote, he went on, ‘But no flights of fancy, now, Livvy. Stick to the script, OK? We’ll have to pack in as much as possible. I spoke to DCS Borthwick and she’ll be expecting us back in Edinburgh very soon.’
Murray looked dismayed. ‘Back in Edinburgh? But we can’t possibly have tied this up in that time—’
‘No, but anything else can be done by the lads here.’
‘But Craig Davidson says the CID’s rubbish!’ she wailed. ‘There’s only the inspector and a couple of DCs. And we won’t have the chance to follow up on anything we might get from the interviews tomorrow.’
‘It’s all about money – isn’t it always? We’re just too expensive to keep on site in our luxurious accommodation.’
While they were sitting there the blue-purple clouds had thickened, puffing up into a mass that was slowly spreading. The sky was looking threatening now and a chill little wind had started blowing in off the sea.
Murray rubbed her bare arms. ‘I should’ve brought my sweater. Can I get you the other half, boss?’
Strang shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got work to do tonight.’
She walked back to the high street with him but when he turned towards the hotel she muttered something about a pub where one or two of the Thurso lads sometimes went and said goodnight.
He was glad she’d made some friends, at least. It could be pretty lonely for her on a job like this, without even Taylor to talk to – though she’d made it pretty obvious that she preferred her room to his company.
Being on his own had never been a problem for Kelso. His service as a sniper had made him self-sufficient and it had been Alexa who had driven their social life. While he missed her desperately, he didn’t miss the evenings he’d often spent talking to people he’d nothing in common with. Now he’d pick up a pizza and when he’d got through his work he’d settle down with a book and a nightcap from the bottle of Scotch he always stashed in his bag.
As he waited for his pizza he found himself thinking about Murray again. She’d obviously developed a sense of ownership about the case and was bitterly disappointed at the thought of being dragged away.
He could see it from JB’s point of view – she was under money pressure all the time. They had managed to establish a time frame for Aitchison’s murder and by the end of tomorrow he could hope to have statements about the movements of the persons of interest and a plan for the follow-ups needed. The trouble was that they still seemed to be skirting round the elephant-in-the-room situation: the body being moved from the murder site to the cottage. It simply didn’t make sense and it would rile the hell out of him to leave without at the very least finding a theory to explain it.
What Strang was always saying to Murray, that motives weren’t their business, was only true in part. He was laying it on thick with her because of her tendency to fall in love with a theory and then look for confirmation. But, of course, managing to work out the ‘why’, especially on this point, would be a major step forward.
The Flow Country was an ideal place to get rid of a body. If you chose an area where there was no footpath you could just walk away with a reasonable hope that if it was discovered it would be years later, by which time there wouldn’t be much left.
In theory, that was the smart thing to do. The most favoured method of disposal, burial, more or less ensured preservation but leave a body out in the open in some very secluded spot and Mother Nature, with her army of undertakers – the predators, the insects, the maggots – would do the job for you.
Unless, of course, you chose a peat bog. Mummified bog bodies going back to the Iron Age have been discovered in Europe; perhaps that would have been Niall Aitchison’s fate. So had the murderer, perhaps, returned to the site and seen what was happening – and then moved it? Why?
Suppose that, for some reason, you only realised later that you needed proof of death. If a body wasn’t found, getting a legal declaration of presumed death could take years and until then Niall’s property, including the crucial shares, would be frozen. But why the cottage? Why not lay the body at the roadside where it was bound to be discovered? It was a new line to consider.
But it was true that he could consider it just as well from Edinburgh. There were a couple of things he wanted to do himself but there wasn’t much excuse for staying here after that. There were lab reports still coming in, admittedly, and it was possible he might have to make another visit. He’d be glad enough to get home, though.
His sister Finella was on his mind. He’d even, to her surprise, given her a ‘social’ call last night which was unusual when he was working. She’d immediately assumed he’d phoned to say something had gone wrong that she would have to break to their parents – his practice since teenage days – and when he’d said he’d nothing to confess, she’d been puzzled.
‘Just wanted to touch base,’ he’d said. ‘You OK?’
‘Oh,’ she’d said. ‘Yes, absolutely fine.’
But he’d detected a hesitation and her voice was flat. ‘That’s good then. I just wanted to say we’re almost at the stage where the local lads can take over, so it shouldn’t be long before I’m back.’
‘I’m glad. That’s good.’ There had definitely been relief in her voice but immediately she said, ‘It’ll get Betsy off my back – she’s always on about when she is going to see Unkie.’
‘I’ll give you a call when I get home and brace myself for a session of playing slave.’
He’d kept it light, but he was more worried than ever now. Something was definitely wrong, but he wouldn’t get it out of her over the phone.
Yes, in some ways it would suit him to get back to Edinburgh, particularly if the remarkable spell of weather was breaking. The north-east coast was famed for the savagery of its climate and courtesy of the jet stream they’d been lucky to have seen it in such a benign mood – even if Kevin – Kevlar! – probably didn’t see it quite like that.
It was very late when Morven Gunn got back to Forsich. For the last two hours the journey had been under lowering skies, with dark clouds driven briskly on a north-east wind. Her mood was stormy too. She had left with such high hopes this morning when it had looked as if it was all going her way, as if at last she had actually achieved – perhaps not justice, but the recompense she believed was her due.
From the start she’d understood that Niall might have a will, of course. But even then, by rights any will he made would have left her, his only sister, at the very least their mother’s house – the mother who had gone completely over to the enemy despite her own grandson being murdered. As Niall, the traitor, had done.
It was Niall who’d encouraged her to invest in Pat Curran’s business. Admittedly, he hadn’t told her to borrow against the house she’d kept after the divorce from Gary’s father, but when it was all going so well it had seemed foolish not to capitalise on its success. But she’d never even have thought of it if it hadn’t been for Niall, who claimed he was doing her a good turn. So, he owed her.
Not that he saw it that way. He hadn’t even agreed to give her more than the ‘bairn’s part’ of their mother’s estate, enforced by Scots law. She had thought she hated her brother as much as she could, but she’d been wrong. After that refusal the impotent fury she had felt had festered like a boil needing to be lanced. He should pay for what he had done to her; that would only be justice.
And when she’d got the message to ph
one Bruce Michie she believed it had all come right in the end. There was only one reason he could want to contact her: either Niall being a young man hadn’t yet made a will or he had, but with belated shame had made her the beneficiary. She knew about his shares in the business and if Michie wanted to buy them back she was ready to drive a hard bargain.
Morven hardly noticed that Bruce Michie was wracked with embarrassment as he told her what her brother had done, with a halting apology for dragging her all this way for nothing. He didn’t tell her who had benefited instead of her, but he didn’t have to. She knew.
It struck her as viscerally as a knife blow and her scream had expressed an agony of shattered hopes. Then the tempest of rage took her, and she had flung herself from the room and down the stairs to reception, blindly knocking a woman out of the way so hard that she fell back into one of the chairs there.
As she returned to her car she didn’t notice the curious stares that followed her as she passed, muttering curses like some crazy woman and shaking with anger and the frustration of realising that though she might wish her dead brother would rot in hell, there was nothing she personally could do to ensure it.
As Morven drove off there were blasts on the horn from other motorists, but she barely noticed them. It was only when, in a moment of blind impatience, she pulled out to overtake a car that was dithering and found herself nose-to-nose with a juggernaut that she realised that rage could be as dangerous as drunkenness. She swerved back to her own side of the road with her heart thumping and drove on more cautiously.
It was pouring now, heavy silver curtains of rain that glittered and dazzled in the headlights. The sweep of the wipers was becoming mesmeric and she was lightheaded with exhaustion and hunger too; she hadn’t eaten since seven o’clock this morning and had spent more than nine hours on the road already – for nothing.
It was Curran’s spawn Gabrielle who filled her mind, Gabrielle with her bloodstained hands and black heart; Gabrielle, who should never have felt able to return to Forsich. Knowing that she was there, just down the road, seeing the insolence that allowed her to leave flowers on Gary’s grave, had been fuelling her anger and she’d given her fair warning that if shame wouldn’t drive her away, worse would follow.
But Niall, her own flesh and blood, the little brother she’d loved and looked after once, had played traitor again. Now her future panned out before her in merciless clarity: her days spent slaving in the cafe to pay the rent on it and on the miserable hovel she had to call home while Gabrielle could move into the cottage Morven had grown up in, glorying in her ultimate, total triumph.
She was tired, so tired! Morven’s eyes drooped and, feeling the car swing across the road, she startled awake, wrenching at the wheel. She saved herself from disaster, but she was close to the end of her tether now. She opened her window wide, letting the stinging rain and wind buffet her. She must get herself home safely and sleep, then in the morning she would make her plans. After everything, this wasn’t going to be the end.
The time had come for justice to be done and for Gabrielle Curran to pay for her sins.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kirstie Mowat splashed along Forsich high street in a thoroughly bad mood. The rain was unrelenting, her fashionable parka was soaked right through, she had slept in and her mother had stood over her while she ate a piece of toast. Now she was late, and she’d get a bollocking from Morven too.
The cafe was open, one of their regulars was in already and there was a smell of bacon cooking. As Kirstie came in, pushing back her hood, he looked up and said, ‘Don’t worry, dearie, it may never happen.’
‘You think?’ she said bitterly and went on through to the little kitchen at the back. She could feel the atmosphere before she even opened the door: brooding, like that odd heavy feeling you get before a thunderstorm.
She braced herself and went in and said, ‘Sorry I’m late,’ as she waited for the thunderbolt.
Morven, buttering a roll, didn’t look round. ‘I’m docking your wages,’ was all she said. ‘Make a cup of tea and take it out to him.’
Kirstie did as she was told, with a nervous glance over her shoulder as she went. It wasn’t like Morven to hold back. She busied herself with folding paper napkins and when Morven came out with the bacon roll she stole a glance at her face. Kirstie wasn’t particularly imaginative but as she looked the image that came to mind was one of those primitive African masks, rigid with an ugly emotion she couldn’t read. There was something quite frightening about it and she was glad when a few more customers arrived.
It was quarter past nine when a young woman wearing a yellow oilskin jacket came in. Somehow, she didn’t look like the normal clientele and when she took off her hood to expose dark red hair and asked to speak to Morven Gunn the penny dropped, even before Morven appeared from the kitchen to be shown the warrant card.
‘DC Murray,’ she said. ‘Could I have a word?’
Kirstie held her breath. She’d seen Morven erupt before when the police dared to intrude and with the funny mood she was in today, anything could happen.
Instead, with a zombie-like calm Morven said, ‘Yes, of course. I’d rather you came across to my flat, if that’s all right.’ She took off her apron and turned to Kirstie. ‘I won’t be long. Just say breakfast is off but there’s scones there if folk are wanting them.’
The two women went out and the silence that had fallen in the cafe was broken by half a dozen voices. ‘Here, Kirstie, do you know what’s going on?’ one of them asked.
She thought of telling them Morven was being arrested, just for fun, but thought the better of it. ‘Me? How would I know? Anyone wanting a scone?’
It was a horrid little flat, DC Livvy Murray thought, as Morven Gunn unlocked the front door for her and she stepped straight into the living room. It ran across the front and it was narrow like a railway carriage and cluttered so that she had to weave her way through between occasional tables and overstuffed chairs that looked as if they were accustomed to more spacious surroundings. But the covers were grubby now and the cushions limp and shabby. There was a damp, fusty smell of stale air that made her want to throw open the window, despite the rain.
She had last seen the woman giving vent to a tirade about the hapless PC Davidson and she’d been steeling herself for a violent reaction, verbally at the very least. Morven was looking terrible this morning, the shadows under her eyes so dark they looked bruised and her eyelids thick as if she hadn’t slept, so it was disconcerting that she was so calm, waving Murray to a seat in the corner and sitting down on the couch herself.
‘Did he complain?’ she said.
Murray was puzzled. ‘Did who complain?’
‘Did he not? I thought it was that man, Michie.’
‘Bruce Michie? What would he have to complain about?’
For the first time, there was a spark of emotion. ‘God knows. But folk do.’
‘Am I right that you had a meeting with him yesterday?’
Morven’s face was blank again. ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘He asked to talk to me.’
‘About?’ This was heavy going. Murray saw Morven’s hands tense into fists; she was finding it hard to maintain the appearance of being unruffled.
‘He had an idea that I might have inherited my brother’s shares in Curran Services.’
‘And had you?’
For a moment her control slipped, and she spat out, ‘No!’
‘And who did?’
Her nails were digging right into her palms now and her jaw was locked rigid. ‘He … didn’t tell me,’ she managed.
‘Upset, were you?’
‘Yes!’ Again, that flash of anger. ‘I may have raised my voice a bit, but I was hurt. Wouldn’t you be? Your own brother, who knew you’d lost everything, your home, your son—’ She choked on the word.
Murray softened her tone. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. That was a great tragedy.’
If she was ho
ping to draw Morven into talking about it, she was out of luck. The shutter came down again and she only compressed her lips and nodded, without saying anything. Mindful of her mistake with Gabrielle Ross, Murray wasn’t about to raise the subject of blame for Gary Gunn’s death unless Morven did.
And, apparently, she wasn’t going to. She was back in control, saying calmly – too calmly? – that it had been an overreaction and she realised afterwards that Niall had been entitled to do what he liked with what was his. ‘I was disappointed, of course, but I’ve rebuilt my life already without any help from him.’
Morven might be saying the right things but her whole demeanour was screaming something completely different. It looked as if it was almost killing her not to let rip. But so far, she had managed, and Murray moved on.
‘This is just a routine question. Can you tell me your movements on the Saturday before last – the 24th?’
Morven gave a short laugh. ‘Same as they are every Saturday. Closed up the cafe after the lunch service, at two o’clock, then came back here. I don’t remember exactly but I probably went along to the Spar. I usually do.’
‘You didn’t go anywhere in your car?’
‘No, I came back here to rest. When you work as hard as I do you get tired. You probably won’t know about that.’
That was a glimpse of what Murray reckoned was her normal aggression. The rest was an act, for whatever reason, and she was nettled into saying, ‘You didn’t walk up to your son’s grave? It’s a lovely place on a hot summer day.’
The mask slipped. ‘Oh my God, you’ve gone snooping there too? Is nothing sacred? Get out my house – you’ve had all you’ll get from me.’ She stood up, looming over Murray, who got to her feet quickly.
‘I’d finished, anyway. Thank you for your cooperation.’ She tried not to scuttle like a frightened rabbit as she left.
She didn’t hear Morven give way at last to the rage she had been suppressing, because her head was buried in one of the shabby cushions to stifle her screams.
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