Carrion Comfort

by Aline Templeton

  Lilian stared at her, then sank onto a chair. ‘Good grief, I hadn’t even thought of that. I don’t know who will be arranging it. We’ll have to find out somehow.’

  ‘Lilian? Where are you?’ Malcolm Sinclair appeared in the hall. ‘Oh, there you are, sweetheart! I’ve missed you.’

  She went to be embraced. ‘It’s good to be home. I got up at crack of dawn and the roads were quiet, but it’s a long way.’

  ‘How was the meeting?’

  She brushed aside the question. ‘Oh, fine. But Malcolm, Fran here was asking about Niall’s funeral. Do you know anything about it? I think she feels that it might give her some sort of closure.’

  Sinclair hadn’t noticed his stepdaughter sitting there and when he did he looked uncomfortable. ‘Oh, that could be ages, Fran. The police will have to agree to release—’ He realised he was about to say, ‘the body’ and coughed instead. ‘Well, it may take some time.’

  ‘But who will be arranging it?’ Fran demanded. ‘He and his sister weren’t speaking.’

  Sinclair looked more uncomfortable still. ‘Well, his lawyers, I suppose.’

  Lilian looked at him narrowly. ‘Malcolm, there’s something wrong, isn’t there? What is it?’

  He looked from one to the other then said awkwardly, ‘Look, this is only a rumour. But they’re saying his cleaner had a phone call from the lawyers saying that … er’ – he ran his finger round his neck to loosen the collar – ‘Gabrielle will be her boss now. He’s left her everything.’

  The women were transfixed. Then Francesca gave a great wail. ‘That bitch – she’s done it to me again! I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her! Oh, it’s not fair!’ She collapsed face down on the sofa in a tempest of tears.

  Just then the doorbell rang.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DCI Kelso Strang got into the car, putting the phone back in his pocket. ‘Change of instructions,’ he said tersely to the driver. ‘Dyce airport, please.’

  Detective Chief Superintendent Jane Borthwick had not been happy. ‘I think we need to talk. I want you down here for a review.’

  ‘Right,’ he had said hollowly. ‘Is – is there a problem?’

  ‘Have you read the Press and Journal today?’

  ‘Not read, exactly. I did catch the headlines as I passed through the airport.’

  ‘We need to talk through the next press statement. The media are on our backs already, so we have to thrash out what we can give them. As it happens, the chopper’s still in Aberdeen so if you go to the heliport now I’ll clear a space late afternoon. Then it can take you back up tomorrow morning.’

  It clearly wasn’t the moment to mention that he wanted to do another interview first. ‘On my way, boss,’ he had said and now he was trying to think through what he would be able to offer her. Livvy Murray should have done at least one of the interviews by now – two, if she’d been lucky in finding people in.

  She sounded cheerful when she answered the phone but when it got right down to it there didn’t seem to be much there to soothe an anxious DCS.

  ‘Morven Gunn was seriously weird,’ she said. ‘She was trying to seem calm and normal, but it came over as sort of rigid, like if one wee titchy thing went wrong she’d fall apart and go completely radge. Oh, she said she was OK, right enough, and that Niall didn’t have to leave her anything if he didn’t want to – oh, and that she didn’t know what the will said. Like I believed her! She didn’t come out with anything we didn’t know already, though – got quite aggressive at the end too.’

  ‘Right.’ He hadn’t seriously thought anything would come of it. ‘Did you see Fergus Mowat?’

  ‘Yes, and Rhona as well. Wanted to help, but there wasn’t a lot that was useful. He did say that it looked as if whoever put the body there must have known the door wasn’t really secured.’

  ‘That ties in with what we said before – that a passing stranger probably wouldn’t have even registered that the cottage was there. What are you doing now?’

  ‘Just going to grab something to eat. Are you going to get back soon? If not, I’ll go and see if I can get hold of Mrs Sinclair.’

  ‘Fine. Do that, and then I’d like you to put in reports on the interviews ASAP so the DCS can see them by the end of the afternoon. Emphasise the positive – it’s all going to hit the fan any minute. The Press and Journal has done a big spread on it and we’ll have the tabloids onto us any time now. She’s asked me to go on down to Edinburgh – I’m on my way to the heliport – and they’ll bring me back first thing tomorrow.

  ‘So, after you’ve done that, go back to Gabrielle Ross’s house. I’m hoping that her husband will be back by then and she won’t even answer the door – doubt if you’re flavour of the month where she’s concerned. And even if she is prepared to speak to you, I don’t want you to interview her – that’s something I want to do myself. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Ideally, it’d be Ross you have to deal with. Make an appointment for me to see him and Gabrielle there late morning tomorrow. Any worries and you know I’m always at the end of the phone. All right?’

  ‘No problem, boss.’ She rang off, sounding very upbeat, which made Strang nervous. This was giving her a lot of responsibility and he hoped it wouldn’t go to her head. Still, it was out of his hands.

  He bought a copy of the Press and Journal at the airport and depressed himself further by reading it on the trip south. The one bright spot on the horizon was that he’d have a night at home and once JB was finished chewing him up and had spat him out he could phone Finella and see if she was on for a drink.

  On the phone to Strang, Murray had been feeling fairly pleased with herself. At last she was getting the sort of respect from him that she’d always wanted; overnight at least she was sort of in charge of the murder investigation. It was only when she thought of the implications that she began to get cold feet. It was all very well for him to say he was at the end of the phone, but he was also in Edinburgh. The saying, ‘Be very careful what you wish for because you just might get it,’ came forcibly to mind.

  She just had to follow instructions, and hope for the best. There was a lot to get through; she’d no time to go back to the incident room in Thurso for her break, so she bought a sandwich in the local Spar in Forsich instead and ate it in the car on the way to Westerfield House.

  When she rang the doorbell, she was aware of a movement beside the curtain of the room to the left of the front door, the sitting room she had been in before. She couldn’t be sure who had peeked out, but she had the impression it was a woman and there was an appreciable pause before the door was opened by Lilian Sinclair. She was looking flustered and as Murray stepped into the hall she saw Malcolm Sinclair leaving through the door that led to the surgery. She could also hear the sound of someone sobbing from the direction of the staircase – Francesca Curran, most likely.

  Lilian greeted her warmly. ‘Do come in. I remember you came with the inspector but forgive me, I don’t recollect your name. Of course, we were so absolutely shocked at the news about poor Niall that I wasn’t taking anything in. Malcolm said you would be wanting to talk to us again, but I’m afraid he’s had to go back to the surgery – it overran this morning. Now, come this way.’

  Murray introduced herself again as they went back into the sitting room. On one of the sofas, the cushions that were so neatly primped on its opposite number were disordered and squashed.

  Lilian noticed Murray’s glance and sighed. ‘Oh dear. Perhaps you heard my daughter crying. She’s been quite distraught lately. I think Malcolm told you the position with her and poor Niall.’

  ‘That’s right. I can see she’d be upset.’

  ‘Indeed, we all are. Now, what did you want to ask me – but wait, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a cup of tea, coffee?’

  The condescending lady of the manor, recollecting her social duty to the serfs. Trying not to grind her teeth visibly, Murray said, ‘No thank you. I’m
a bit pushed today. Can you tell me your movements on Saturday 24th June?’

  If she’d hoped to dent Lilian’s self-possession she was out of luck. ‘Oh dear, is that when poor Niall was actually killed? I didn’t know.’ She said it as if ‘poor Niall’ was the man’s name. ‘Actually, that’s very straightforward. Malcolm’s off on a Saturday and we always like to do something together. For the last three weeks of this wonderful weather we’ve been walking – that Saturday I remember we went up round St John’s Point, for the views, you know? It was really stunning. Then we had lunch in the tea room at Castle of Mey – very good, you should really try it, Constable Murray! Then we came back for a nice relaxing evening here. Malcolm works so hard it’s important that he eases up at the weekends.’

  Murray had taken out a notebook and scribbled an entry. ‘You were all very close to Mr Aitchison, were you?’

  Lilian sighed. ‘There’s a lot of history there, Constable Murray. I don’t want to bore you—’

  She was clearly expected to say, ‘I’m sure you won’t.’ She said, ‘Carry on.’

  ‘All right, then. You need to understand that it all stems from my ex-husband, Pat Curran. He came here and started up a drainage business – oh, I suppose it must have been almost thirty years ago. I was a local girl and he was so unlike the boys I knew here – much older, of course, and that seemed sophisticated to me at the time. He had the sort of dreams that would never have entered their heads. And he had charm – oh, in bucketloads! Charm was Pat’s stock-in-trade.’ She sounded bitter when she said that. ‘Of course, my mother was horrified – “just a jumped-up Irish navvy” she used to say. Naturally, I didn’t listen. I didn’t see the rough side of his character until much later.’

  ‘Rough side?’

  ‘Oh, he didn’t actually hit me. I’d have walked out there and then. I’m not the sort of woman who puts up with physical abuse.’

  Murray wondered what ‘sort of woman’ it was who did, in Lilian’s eyes. Weak, powerless perhaps? So that made her strong and powerful – and perhaps she was.

  Lilian was going on, ‘He was so coarse, mocking anything I did to try to live a civilised life. He even moved us out of the village to that terrible shack my daughter is so fond of, right by the works so that he could bring the mud in and expect to sit down at the table in his filthy dungarees – “I’m fecking going out again, so what’s the point?” was all he’d say when I talked about decent standards. And I could see it rubbing off on my daughters.

  ‘He drove a wedge between me and my girls. We’d been more like sisters than mother and daughters before, you know. But Gabrielle could do no wrong in his eyes so of course whatever I said was ignored as she got older. She was a very difficult teenager and very … well, I hesitate to say this about my own daughter, but very hard. And, of course, Francesca was hurt and jealous and that got between them too. You know, Constable Murray, that’s my great private grief – that my daughters don’t get on.’ She pulled out a handkerchief and sniffed delicately into it.

  Murray wasn’t paid to listen to Lilian Sinclair’s private griefs – whether genuine or not. ‘Mr Curran was very successful at first, though, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was smart, no doubt about that. But he financed the business expansion on the back of people in the village and then when it all failed off he went to Aberdeen, taking my older daughter with him and leaving poor Niall here to clean up his mess. Even his own sister was bankrupted, and it drove that family apart too – Pat Curran’s poison at work again. You know poor Morven hated Niall – absolutely hated him—’

  Then she stopped, putting a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that! Of course, I really don’t mean—’

  ‘Of course not,’ Murray said dryly. ‘But you were divorced by that time, right?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Lilian sighed again. ‘I just couldn’t take it any more. Malcolm had recently come as doctor here and I was just living on my nerves. He listened to me – so kind, so understanding, just such a wonderful man. Quite simply, we fell in love. Perhaps it was selfish of me – and Gabrielle certainly blamed me, no doubt about that. But Pat, quite honestly, didn’t care. He let me go without a backward look and since then I’ve discovered what a real marriage is like. I’m a lucky woman, Constable Murray.’

  ‘I’m sure. But your family’s relationship with Mr Aitchison—?’

  ‘I’d known Niall since he was a little lad – such a solemn wee thing, bless his heart! Very much an afterthought, fifteen years younger than Morven. When Pat took him on at seventeen he was around the house all the time, so he more or less grew up with the girls. Then thanks to Pat he was ostracised here, and I was sorry for the boy – told him we were there for him any time he wanted. He was very good to his mother, you know, but she wasn’t what you’d call lively company.’

  This was enlightening stuff. ‘So – this was when his relationship with Ms Curran developed?’

  ‘Poor Francesca certainly thought so.’ Lilian’s lips tightened. ‘But I always knew that Niall preferred Gabrielle – all the young men did – and now, apparently, he’s left her everything in his will.’

  It was useful to have confirmation. ‘I see,’ Murray said. ‘But I hear Mrs Ross isn’t very well at the moment?’

  ‘She’s had a very difficult spell and she needs some time to get over it, that’s all. She’s very lucky that she’s like me, with a good husband. David would walk over hot coals for her.’

  Lilian spoke very firmly, and it was clear there wasn’t going to be any useful gossip about that. With three reports still to compile, there was no point in prolonging the interview and Murray got up.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Sinclair. Will the doctor be in the surgery now?’

  Lilian gave a little laugh. ‘Oh dear, how very Midsomer Murders! You’re going to have to corroborate my “alibi” aren’t you?’ She made quotation marks with her fingers. ‘I’ll take you in.’

  With Murray at her heels she went across the hall to the door Sinclair had gone through just as Murray arrived. The waiting room was empty now and the receptionist was tidying up the desk.

  ‘Malcolm’s working in his room, is he, Cathy? I’m just taking Constable Murray through.’

  She went to the far end and opened the door and Sinclair looked up from some paperwork and got up. ‘I’m just about finished, sweetheart. I’ll be through for lunch in a minute – oh!’

  ‘Constable Murray, darling – you may recall. She just needs you to confirm that I wasn’t telling porkies when I said that we went walking the Saturday before last – remember? See you soon. Goodbye, Constable Murray.’

  She’d given him a firm nudge there. Annoyed, Murray said, ‘I’m sure you were entirely accurate. Can I just have a brief word, Dr Sinclair?’

  From Sinclair’s expression, he’d have liked to say, ‘Forget it!’ Instead, he said, ‘As long as it’s a brief word. I’m running late already.’ He didn’t ask her to sit down.

  ‘Mrs Sinclair’s told me what you did. For the record, can you just confirm it?’

  He looked hunted. ‘Saturday before last – we’d have been walking. Leaving here after breakfast, lunch out somewhere, back here in time for tea. All right?’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Well, that would be the day we went to John o’ Groats and walked towards Duncansby Head. Fantastic views of the Stacks that day – you should go, Constable!’

  Murray held her breath. Had he forgotten what he was supposed to say and was about to demolish his wife’s alibi?

  He was going on, ‘They’re these very dramatic geological formations – piles of rock, out to sea. Very interesting and well worth the effort of the walk, I assure you – good exercise, too.’

  Murray took out her notebook. ‘May I just jot that down, sir?’

  ‘I hope you can write at dictation speed, then,’ he said grudgingly, as if he hadn’t wasted time already giving her a lecture on the local landscape.
‘We set off after breakfast, about eleven, I suppose.’ Then he stopped. ‘Oh, hang on! You said the Saturday before last, did you? The 24th? I’m sorry, I was confused. I was describing what we did last Saturday. You were talking about the one before, weren’t you? That was when we went to St John’s Point. We’d hoped to see the Merry Men of Mey – that’s a sort of tidal feature, Constable, can be quite dramatic, but we couldn’t see anything much. Perhaps it was the weather. We got good views, though. And then we had lunch at the Castle o’ Mey tea room – you get a very nice lunch there, you know.’

  Yes, she knew. She’d heard his commercial for it before and she had three reports to type up. Profoundly disappointed, she cut him short as soon as she could without blatant rudeness and left.

  It was just after four o’clock when Kirstie Mowat came back to the farmhouse. Her mother was working at her desk in the kitchen and her father was sitting at the table doing something fiddly to the handle of some shears with baler twine when she came in. She took off her sodden parka, shaking it as if that would make any difference.

  Rhona looked up. ‘Take it over to the Aga. It needs to dry out – I told you it would be useless when it rained at the time you bought it.’ Then she saw that her daughter’s lip was trembling; she’d obviously been crying already, and she jumped up. ‘Oh, sorry, Kirstie, I didn’t mean to upset you! What’s the matter?’

  Fergus swung round. ‘What’s happened? Have you been crying, pet?’

  ‘Well, like – yeah!’ she said, trying at an offhand manner even while the tears were rolling down her cheeks, but when her father stood up she cast herself into his arms and sobbed.

  ‘Here – you’re freezing cold,’ he said as he patted her back. ‘Come and get warmed up while you tell us what’s been going on.’

  Kirstie allowed herself to be led to the chair by the Aga and began a mop-up operation with the wodge of tissues Rhona had shoved into her hand.