And David Ross, swinging round with a knife in his hand, his face black with rage.
‘Put down the knife, Ross,’ Strang said coolly.
Murray was calling in backup as she came in and following his lead went very calmly to kneel beside Francesca, who had opened her eyes and was looking bewildered. Gabrielle, though, looked bad, her breathing little more than a rattle in her throat.
Ross grabbed hold of Lilian and yanked her to her feet, holding her to him with his arm across her neck and the knife touching her throat. ‘Back off, Strang. Let me go or I use this.’
‘Go where? The road has two ends; we’ve just blocked one end and the other end will be blocked long before you reach it. Harm Mrs Sinclair and they throw away the key.’
Ross had been glaring defiance at Strang; his head dropped for a moment, but then he straightened up, squaring his shoulders. Lilian was standing still in his grasp, barely breathing.
‘Oh, I know what this looks like, Inspector,’ he said with a weak smile. ‘The thing is, I heard a sound upstairs and when I came in Francesca had this knife in her hand, just about to kill her sister. I wrestled it from her and she fell and hit her head. I admit I stupidly panicked when you came in, but Lilian will tell you that was how it was.’
This was a man so overconfident that he still thought he was smart enough to get himself out of this. Should Strang pretend to go along? He didn’t believe that would work, with Ross still holding the knife at Lilian’s throat. Sap his confidence, then, show him how his so-clever planning had let him down, show how heavily the odds were stacked against him? It was a big decision. He judged Ross had not yet tipped into the unreason that overpowers self-interest, but it was close. He distributed his weight so that if it went wrong he could launch himself instantly, watching with an ex-soldier’s eye for the muscle twitch that precedes violent action.
Strang laughed. ‘Oh, you’re good, David. But your problem is the mistakes you’ve made already. Shall I tell you what they are? Could be useful in future, once you’ve put this behind you.’
Ross was listening, anyway. He hadn’t moved the knife away but Strang could tell that it was being held in a looser grip. In the background, he was aware that Francesca had sat up and that Murray had her arm round her, quietly shushing her as he went on, ‘The alibi, for a start – you thought you could say what you liked about when you were working on the rig because you don’t clock in or off, but they do record passengers on the choppers – you should really have thought of that, shouldn’t you? The devil is in the detail, you see.’
That went home. Ross blinked, as if confused, and Strang went on, ‘You weren’t altogether wise, either, to rely on other people keeping their mouths shut about your plans for selling off Curran Services – not once murder was involved. And any time now the forensics team will be checking for evidence on the path that goes from the drainage workings up to the loch. Did you remember to wipe your prints off the priest before you threw it away, I wonder?’
From Ross’s reaction, Strang could tell that he hadn’t. The man’s confidence was ebbing away before their eyes.
‘Details again.’ Strang shook his head. ‘And then, of course, the last time you attempted to kill your wife you made another big mistake. You wiped the poker, didn’t you, while my constable was out of the room? What was more natural than that there should be your prints on your own poker? You know, David, if it hadn’t been for that you might have done whatever it was you planned to do today before we got here. Bad, bad mistake.’
Ross’s head started shifting to and fro, like a trapped animal looking for escape. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not like that.’ The knife drooped, just a little, in his hand.
And Strang was on him, taking his wrist in an iron grip and twisting his arm up behind him, a bit harder than was strictly necessary so that he gave a yell of pain, just as they heard the siren of the approaching patrol car.
Murray was dialling the emergency number. ‘Ambulance,’ she said. ‘Top priority.’ She turned to Strang. ‘They’d better step on it. Gabrielle’s fading.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
She was swimming in deep, deep water, struggling to force her way to the upper air, up and up, striving to break the surface; at last it splintered, she came through it and Gabrielle was awake.
She opened her eyes, trying to make sense of what she saw. The white walls, the narrow bed – she was in hospital. Still? She put her hand to her aching head, felt the raised scarring on her cheek. But why was her throat raw, as if someone had scraped it with sandpaper? She felt muzzy and confused, nauseous too, and her mouth was parched.
She turned her head. Her sister was there, asleep in a high-backed chair. She looked pale and drawn, with dark circles under her eyes. Gabrielle had no idea what time it was; it was full daylight but just now that could still be the middle of the night. She levered herself up cautiously, giving a small, involuntary groan.
Francesca opened puffy eyes. She looked as if she’d been crying, Gabrielle thought, in a dreamy, detached sort of way. ‘Have you been crying?’ she said.
Francesca sat up, rubbing the back of her stiff neck and wincing. ‘Thank God you’ve woken up,’ she said, though she sounded weary rather than jubilant. ‘They did say you’d be all right but lately I’ve stopped taking things on trust.’
‘Right,’ Gabrielle said, but hesitantly. She was coming to, a bit, and things weren’t adding up. ‘Am I still in hospital? I thought I went home, or did I just dream that? I feel hellish – my throat’s absolutely raw,’ she croaked.
‘I suppose it would be.’ Francesca got up and poured her a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table. ‘This may help. Yes, they had to pump your stomach out last night. It was touch and go, quite honestly.’
‘Pump—?’ As she took that in, a feeling of shame washed over her. ‘Oh. Did I take an overdose?’
‘Not “take”. Were given.’
This was making no sense at all. ‘Given? Did the hospital get the dosage wrong, or something?’
Francesca shook her head. ‘You were at home. Do you not remember?’
Yes, that was right. Of course she was. She remembered – the tea, the rose on the tray. ‘Where’s David?’ she asked.
For some reason, Francesca seemed uncomfortable. ‘Detained,’ she said.
It was an odd sort of answer – detained where? – but her thoughts had moved on. She was remembering the scan, the Alzheimer’s verdict. It had been touch and go, Fran had said; why had they brought her back? Now it would all be to do over again. Tears of weakness and despair came to her eyes.
But Francesca had started crying again. ‘Fran, what on earth’s wrong?’ Gabrielle said, with a hint of impatience.
‘Everything! It’s so awful.’ She took out a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you when you’re still so ill.’
The adrenaline rush of fear seemed to clear her brain. ‘Nothing could be worse than trying to imagine what you’re talking about,’ she said with misplaced confidence. ‘Tell me.’
Even so, Francesca hesitated. ‘It’s … it’s difficult.’
‘Get on with it, for heaven’s sake!’ Gabrielle tried to arm herself. Danger could come from so many different directions.
It came out in a rush. ‘I saw David snogging Mum. I came over to warn you what was going on and when I got there, you were unconscious, and he had a knife, just going to slit your wrist. Then he grabbed me and swung my head against the door and I passed out. When I came round the police were there and he was threatening Mum with the knife against her neck. The inspector got it away from him and then more police arrived, and the ambulance took you to hospital. I thought you were going to die.
‘They’ve taken David away, and Mum as well. She knew about it – knew what he was planning to do. They think he murdered Niall too, because they wanted to sell out Dad’s firm and Niall wouldn’t agree.’
Every word was like a
blow to the head. Punch-drunk, Gabrielle heard her own voice saying, ‘No, that’s not right. Niall was going to sell us out,’ and realised that her sister was staring at her in shock.
‘You mean – you knew about this? Gabrielle—’
The world was disintegrating round her. There was nowhere to go, and since she was doomed anyway, what did it matter? ‘Can you tell the police I want to talk to them? Now?’ she said.
Francesca got up. ‘I think you’d better. I sat up all night at your bedside, afraid my sister would be lost to me as well as my mother. I’ve been living with monsters and if I never see any of you again it will be too soon.’
‘They’ve been singing like a wee pair of canaries,’ DC Murray said to PS Lothian as they sat at one of the tables in the incident room having a mug of tea. ‘They were screaming at each other last night when we were arresting them and now in the gospel according to Lilian Sinclair, David’s scheme to drive Gabrielle off her head was nothing to do with her. He’d been daft on Lilian herself for years, wanting her to go off with him but naturally she’d never meant to leave her darling Malcolm. If you listen to David Ross, Lilian’s hated her daughter all along and the dementia stuff was her idea for getting the money as well as the man. Their briefs keep telling them to shut it but they’re so hell-bent on shifting the blame it’s been like Glasgow Fair Saturday for us, just having to choose between the Big Dipper and the dodgems.’
‘Charming pair,’ Lothian said. ‘Has he admitted to the murder?’
Murray shook her head. ‘Not him. Flatly denies it, knows nothing, his alibi problems are just a bad memory. We’ll have to wait on forensics.’
‘They’re not enjoying it, I can tell you,’ Lothian said, looking out of the window at the teeming rain. ‘Came in last night filthy and sodden wet.’
‘The weather here’s something else. I’ll never complain about the wind in Edinburgh again.’
‘But the boss must be feeling pretty chirpy, I suppose?’
Murray shook her head. ‘Frustrated. One of these people who can’t be happy with pretty good – has to be perfect. They’re both swearing blind the cottage was nothing to do with them and he believes them. It has to be Gabrielle, and she’s off limits.’
‘Still don’t get why, anyway,’ Lothian said.
‘Beyond me. My last bright idea about that got shot down in flames.’
Lothian looked at her with interest. ‘What’s Strang like as a boss?’
Murray thought for a moment. ‘I sort of like him all right now. Well, I like him better than I did. He’s lightening up a wee bit – I suppose he was walking wounded last year with his wife getting killed in that accident. That’s where he got the scar, you know. I’m sure they could fix it up better, but I reckon he wears it like a black armband, so he’s got a way to go yet. And I always feel I’m on trial because I really want to get taken seriously.’ Then she paused. ‘I’ve screwed up a few times, right enough.’
Lothian smiled. ‘Very fair-minded of you.’
‘He’s mostly fair,’ she admitted. ‘But he doesn’t see I’m more useful than someone without an idea in their head. Wants everything done his way.’
‘Ever met a boss who didn’t? Come up with a reason why the body was put in the cottage and maybe that’ll impress him.’
She shook her head. ‘Looked a right eejit last time I tried. No, he’s on his own with this one.’
One of the uniformed constables who had been taking calls got up and walked over to the screened-off area where Strang was working.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ they heard him saying, ‘there’s a message from the hospital that Mrs Ross wants to speak to you as soon as possible.’
Murray was on her feet before Strang could say, ‘Thank you, Constable. Tell them I’m on my way.’
DCI Strang had a nervous fluttering in his stomach as he walked with DC Murray along the hospital corridor to Gabrielle Ross’s room. There was so much hanging on this interview, but he had no idea what sort of state the woman would be in. It was promising that she wanted to speak to him, but what did she want to say?
He had little doubt that with the information he now had he could break down any loyalty she might have towards her husband, but he’d no idea what she knew already, and he’d have to tread delicately, given her current fragile state.
‘We’ll need to take this one slowly,’ he told Murray. ‘Let her dictate the pace, no rushing in, trying to surprise the evidence out of her because we’re impatient to get this tied up – and that’s a warning to me as well as you.’
‘She’s key, though, isn’t she?’ Murray said. ‘And when she hears what that pair have been up to she’ll be ready to join the canary choir.’
‘We can always hope. This is the room.’ Strang tapped on the door and announced them.
Gabrielle Ross was in a truly pitiable state. The bruises from her previous injuries were turning greenish-purple and the scabs Morven Gunn’s scratches had left were puckered with dried blood. Her skin had the greyish-olive, greasy pallor that Strang had seen before in overdose survivors. She was sitting propped up on pillows, though, and seemingly composed, but her nervously twisting fingers suggested that it was only by a considerable effort of will.
‘You came quickly. Thanks.’ Her voice was hoarse, and it looked as if speaking was a painful effort. ‘You’d better sit down.’
Strang took the high-backed chair beside the bed and Murray a metal-framed one beside the door. ‘Are you feeling well enough to give a statement, Mrs Ross?’ he said.
She gave a short laugh, wincing as it hurt her throat. ‘You can probably guess how I’m feeling, looking at me. But I’ve had to do some hard thinking and I need to get this done now. Can you record it, or something? I don’t think my voice will hold up for very long.’
Strang nodded to Murray, who took out a small machine and set it up for recording on the table that straddled the bed, then retreated across the room. He sat back, hands folded, without saying anything and after a heavy sigh Gabrielle began to speak.
‘There’s something I should tell you first. They gave me a scan after I was attacked, and it showed that I have Alzheimer’s disease. By the time any case comes to court, you may not be able to rely on my evidence so it’s important that I tell you now.’
Strang and Murray exchanged startled glances. ‘Sorry to interrupt you,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think that’s right.’
She gave a small, bitter smile. ‘Sadly, I’m afraid it is. The doctor told my husband.’
‘Giving evidence to us, your husband said that you had become convinced you had the disease, despite his assurances that the scan was clear.’
Gabrielle gasped, her hand going to her mouth. ‘He couldn’t!’ she whispered. But then, with a visible effort she sat up straight and when she spoke again there was a steely edge to the husky voice.
‘I suppose after what my sister told me today, I shouldn’t be surprised. “You’ve been taken for a fecking sucker,” Paddy, my dad, would have said. He’d be ashamed of me – though David fooled him too.
‘Paddy was the most important thing in my life and when he died like that I started losing the place. I managed to set the house on fire, and then I lost our baby—’ She choked a little on that, but was preparing to force herself on when Strang said gently, ‘How did you set the house on fire?’
She sighed. ‘I had these stupid hair straighteners. There was a scarf on my dressing table and I must have put them too close to it and forgotten to turn them off and then the curtains caught. I smelt burning and rushed upstairs and the smoke got to me. A neighbour pulled me out but the baby … David was so good about it all, so supportive. I felt so guilty.’
There was a constriction in Strang’s throat as he saw her distress. Unborn babies were real children to their grieving parents, and he knew all about guilt too. He said quietly, ‘Can you be quite sure it was you who left the straighteners on?’
‘I’d been using them. I thought I�
�d put them off, but I couldn’t swear to it.’ Then she frowned. ‘You don’t think – oh God! What more has been going on that I didn’t understand?’
‘We believe that it was Mr Ross’s intention to convince you that you had increasingly serious mental problems. We understand that there was a sort of programme to cause you confusion – objects moved, put in strange places, that sort of thing.’
Her brow furrowed as she thought about it. ‘But – often it happened when he was away.’
How did you tell someone that her mother hated her enough to want to drive her crazy? As Strang hesitated, Gabrielle saved him the trouble.
‘Oh. My mother,’ she said bitterly. ‘She was in on this, wasn’t she? The towels – the little knife—’ She didn’t explain, just went on, ‘That was a hint, I suppose. I was to use it to kill myself – and I almost did. Stupid, or what?’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ Strang said. ‘You were under a lot of stress at the time.’
‘Oh yes. I was so confused. I even told a friend how sorry I was when David told me that her mother had died, but it was just a dream—’ Then she stopped. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or was it? I was convinced he’d said it, but – was that when it all started? The bastard, the total bastard! And I was so grateful for all his “loving care” that I covered for him. Well, I hope your machine is working and I’ll carry on as long as my voice holds out.’
She was, indeed, struggling with it but she was sitting bolt upright now, and her eyes were bright and hard. Instead of the battered, betrayed and humiliated victim, Strang saw the tough, able, chip-off-the-old-block that Ailie Johnston had described.
‘I want to tell you exactly what happened. That Saturday, David arranged to go fishing with Niall. He wasn’t much of a fisherman but he’d Paddy’s old stuff and I saw them set off up the path my dad always took. I was pleased David was getting out because he spent so much time fussing over me and it would be nice for him to have male company for a change. I thought I’d make supper for them, but then when I next looked out Niall’s car was gone. David hadn’t come back so I thought he must be having some luck with the fish. It was a beautiful afternoon and I thought I could go up to the loch and keep him company.’
Carrion Comfort Page 35
