Cold in the Earth

by Aline Templeton

  Despite her best efforts, the interview was well under way before Fleming arrived. At the sound of the door opening behind her Laura Harvey turned her head.

  It was a shock. Fleming had pigeonholed her as the typical English rose: fair-skinned, blonde, good-looking and very self-assured. Today her blue-grey eyes were swollen to half their size and her skin was puffy and raw from the salt of tears; she was obviously in a fragile state. You could not doubt the genuineness of her grief and there was no sign of the cool control which had made Fleming suspect calculation. Indeed, a look of definite alarm crossed her face as she recognised the new arrival.

  Fleming had come with the express intention of using her presence to apply pressure; it was a bit like lifting a sledgehammer and looking down to see the hapless nut in pieces already. Unfortunately dematerialising wasn’t one of her skills, so she did the next best thing by refusing a chair at the table and standing in the farther corner of the room, just out of Laura’s line of sight.

  MacNee was positively cooing, smiling benevolently the while – not a pretty sight. ‘So this was how it came about that you discovered your sister’s connection with Chapelton?’ He indicated a newspaper article which was lying in front of him on the desk. ‘Max Mason contacted you?’

  Laura nodded and MacNee, with a glance at his boss, handed the article to her. As Laura went on to describe their meeting and the story Mason had told her, Fleming skimmed through it.

  It was good, quality-feature journalism, given added force by the personal dimension. Fleming looked at Laura with new eyes; it came through very clearly that she had still believed her sister was alive and there didn’t have to be any other reason for following up the line of enquiry offered to her. The families of Missing Persons always did, even on slighter evidence than this.

  DC Nisbet had been listening intently, her sleek dark head on one side. Now she cut in, ‘But you had no suspicion when this body was discovered that it might be the explanation for your sister’s disappearance?’

  Laura was wearing a black sweater with a turquoise and black silk scarf looped round the neck; she began to fiddle with the fringe. ‘Not until I saw the gold chain.’ She paused. ‘You didn’t find her ankle bracelet, did you? She always wore that too – it had a little gold dolphin on it.’

  MacNee looked at Fleming, who shook her head. ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her voice was low and still husky from crying. ‘I suppose I should have thought of Di but I – I just didn’t.’

  Fleming waited for MacNee to pursue that, but he only nodded sympathetically. Reluctantly she stepped forward and saw anxiety flare again in the other woman’s eyes.

  ‘Laura, why didn’t you mention your sister either to me or to Sergeant MacNee when he spoke to you yesterday?’

  ‘It didn’t occur to you, maybe?’ MacNee suggested helpfully.

  Fleming shot him a look of intense irritation. Laura began, ‘Yes, that’s right,’ then catching Fleming’s eyes on her, faltered. ‘No, it isn’t really. Of course it occurred to me when you asked me why I was here. It’s absolutely true that I’m doing an article on foot-and-mouth for the Sunday Tribune, of course. But if I’d told you about my sister there would have been questions and questions and questions when it wasn’t relevant at all. Max seemed so positive it was his mother—’

  Still keeping her gaze fixed, Fleming said, ‘It’s not that there’s something you don’t want us to know, is it? Because if there is, this would be a good time to tell us. We’ll find out anyway.’

  Laura shook her head vehemently. ‘I’m sure there must be things I haven’t told you – my head feels so thick and stupid this morning – but it’s not deliberate.’

  This time Fleming allowed herself to be convinced. She moved on. ‘So – am I right that your family had no contact with your sister after she left home? No idea what sort of relationships she might have had with anyone up here?’

  ‘There was that one phone call to say she was all right but she didn’t even say where she was. All I know is what Max told me. He said his aunt had rows with her and his cousin fancied her, but then I’m pretty sure Max had a crush on her himself. She was . . . very attractive.’

  ‘And Jake Mason? Was he attracted to her?’ Nisbet asked.

  ‘Max didn’t say so. When they were out in Pamplona – I told you about that, didn’t I? – it was his father who told Dizzy to get in touch with him if ever she needed a job. But I don’t know.’

  ‘Fine. Now, was there anything else, boss?’ The glance MacNee gave Fleming was a little nervous, she thought – as well it might be! ‘No,’ she said. ‘I think Laura’s had enough for today. Thanks very much. This can’t have been easy.’

  With evident relief Laura got to her feet. ‘I was afraid you might be going to charge me with obstruction or something.’ She managed a shaky laugh. ‘I’m sorry if I wasted your time, or if I’ve been less than completely coherent today. I think I’m probably in shock.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ Fleming agreed. ‘We’ll arrange to have you taken back to the hotel and there’ll be someone there to control the Press – you’ll be under siege later, I’m afraid. Someone will be in touch with you to talk about what to do.’

  Laura grimaced. ‘It does make bad even worse, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Try our job!’ MacNee said with feeling. ‘Now, if there’s anything else you think of, however daft – an impression, even, anything that strikes you as maybe a bit out of kilter – share it, will you? Here’s my card.’

  Laura took it. ‘There is one thing,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t know if I should even mention it—’

  ‘Yes.’ All three police officers spoke at once. ‘Definitely,’ Fleming added.

  ‘It was just – well, Max told me that Scott Thomson was working at Chapelton when he left home so he must have been there when my sister disappeared – was killed. He was behind the bar when Max told Conrad who I was and when I went out a few minutes later he gave me a really strange look. Not – not pleasant.’ She gave a half-humorous shudder. ‘That’s it. That’s all, and it’s a pretty subjective judgement, of course, to say it was a strange look. I was very tired and probably making too much of it.’

  MacNee scribbled something down in his notebook and Fleming said, ‘You can leave the evaluation to us. You’ve told us he was at Chapelton at the significant time, which will save us having to find out. Keep thinking. Sometimes it’s some minute observation that’s the key to the whole thing.’

  As the door shut behind Laura, Fleming turned wrathfully on MacNee. ‘And what the hell was that about, Tam? Since when have you started suggesting excuses to someone who’s being questioned?’

  Nisbet grinned. ‘Oh, you missed all the best bits.’ She mimicked a Glasgow accent. ‘“Now don’t you worry yourself, we’re no’ as bad as we look! You just sit down here, Laura – you don’t mind if we just call you Laura?” Tam MacNee doing the kid-glove treatment – they’ll never believe it down the pub!’

  Stubborn under the combined assault, Tam protested, ‘You’d only to look at her today to know she was a poor wee soul. “Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman,” as the Great Man says.’

  He was howled down. ‘I’m setting up a fines box for Burns quotations,’ Marjory declared. ‘Ten pence for a phrase, fifty pence for a whole verse.’

  With a flourish Tam produced a £1 coin and gave it to her. ‘There you are. That should cover the next couple of days. Though by rights it should be you that’s paying for the privilege – cheap at twice the price.’

  Brett Mason’s expression, which had seemed frozen in a state of perpetual affront, changed to signal fury. She sat bolt upright, her bulky frame overflowing the small chair which was the only seating in her bedroom.

  Forced to perch on the bed, DC Nisbet wasn’t happy. She was aware of having been offered up to this interview as a sort of sacrificial lamb and her position did nothing to uphold the majesty of the law
which she felt she might be required to invoke at any moment. All she’d asked the woman was whether she’d been at Chapelton at the time Diana Warwick disappeared and you’d have thought she wanted to know her knicker size.

  ‘This is – this is outrageous!’ Brett declaimed. ‘Has it come to this – that I have to defend myself against a charge of murder?’

  ‘No, madam,’ Nisbet said patiently. ‘This, as I explained, is merely a preliminary enquiry to get as much background as we can.’

  Somehow she managed to calm Brett down then lead her through the facts, with only the occasional exclamatory diversion. She even persuaded her to admit she remembered the weekend when Warwick had disappeared, if only because she’d had to start looking for another housekeeper, though she insisted she couldn’t remember who else of the household might have been there. Truth or expedient amnesia? Nisbet wasn’t quite sure.

  It had gone better than she could have hoped so far. Now, unfortunately, she had to move on to the more delicate questions about relationships and personalities. ‘She was a very attractive girl, wasn’t she?’ she began, as she thought, uncontroversially, and was quite unprepared for the vehemence of the response.

  ‘Little tramp! A slut around the house – hadn’t the first idea about running a gentleman’s establishment, spent all her time throwing herself at anything in trousers.’ Tiny flecks of spittle appeared at the side of Brett’s mouth. ‘The number of times I spoke to my brother about her, wanted to sack her, but oh no! he wouldn’t hear of it. I even sacked her myself once and he actually overruled me! And of course, after that there was no holding that trollop, once she knew Jake had taken her part against me, his own sister—’

  She stopped suddenly as if she had only just heard what she was saying. She produced a handkerchief to wipe her mouth but her eyes above it were wild and staring.

  Nisbet tried not to make it obvious that she was measuring the distance to the door. The woman looked as if she might lose it completely at any moment, but this was useful stuff. She went on carefully, ‘Was there a relationship between her and your brother?’

  Brett tossed her head and laughed unconvincingly. ‘My brother? Have a relationship with a woman of that sort? Certainly not, any more than my son would, for all that she did her best to ensnare him, flashing those big blue eyes, oh-so-innocent, getting him to help her, setting him to dancing to her tune! Oh, I had to put a stop to that, I can tell you!’ She was talking louder and louder, hectic colour appearing in her cheeks and her eyes becoming almost glazed.

  Nisbet swallowed hard. ‘How did you do that, Mrs Mason?’ She put the question as gently and neutrally as she could, but the other woman reacted as if she had been brought to her senses by a slap in the face.

  She looked confused for a moment. ‘What – what are you suggesting? Young woman, if you are taking my words to be some sort of admission of guilt . . . I spoke to her, that was all. Is that quite clear? Told her to leave my son, and my brother, alone. Told her she should go before she caused more trouble. And I was glad when she did. Glad! Why shouldn’t I be?’ She glared at the detective; the white foam had appeared again at the corners of her mouth and her impressive bosom had begun to heave.

  ‘I – I see.’ A storm was clearly about to break and Nisbet couldn’t see how she could avoid it. Oh well – two steps to the door, three at the most . . .

  ‘So you had a row with her, then?’

  Brett crumpled dramatically in her seat, then burst into noisy sobs. ‘I won’t be bullied in this way! You invade my room, you insinuate the most dreadful things, you victimise a helpless woman! Oh, you’ll pay for this, I tell you.’

  Despite the affecting sounds there were no tears. The handkerchief was wielded to great effect but this time the eyes were hard and spiteful. ‘My son is your superior officer – what do you think he’ll have to say to this? And your commanding officer too. You’ll be the one with questions to answer by the time I finish with you. Now, get out of my bedroom before I summon someone to have you thrown out.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ Nisbet got up and went to the door. ‘I shall pass on your complaint to Detective Inspector Fleming.’

  Outside, she sagged against the wall of the corridor. Complaints were always a nuisance though in this context she reckoned she could rely on Big Marge to sort it out.

  But that woman really was something else! Were her admissions naïve or was she so totally unbalanced she didn’t know what she was saying? There was one thing certain – the next interview would have to be conducted in controlled surroundings. And she’d taken her punishment; someone else’s turn next time.

  Tam MacNee was interviewing too, in the back corner of the dining-room away from the cameras of the Press gathered outside. Screens had been put around one of the Tudor-style dining-room tables though these couldn’t, of course, filter out the constant noise of telephones and conversations.

  Across from him, sitting on one of the imitation wheel-back chairs, Scott Thomson’s face was pale under the flaming red hair and his disabled arm lay awkwardly across his knees, but he was leaning back in a pantomime of ease, his lip curled in a sneer. ‘It’s aye the same with you lot – something happens, do you lean on the toffs in the big house? Not a chance. You’re away to pin it on the farmhand who has to work for his living.’

  MacNee surveyed him without enthusiasm. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the man had been at the whisky; he could smell it on his breath and hear it in the faint slurring of words and see it, too, in the cocky attitude of the man. Oh well, drunks were never a problem, you just got your retaliation in first.

  He leaned across the table, sticking his chin out aggressively. ‘See, you, let’s get this straight. A girl’s dead. Are you saying we shouldn’t try to find the bastard that killed her? Or do you just want us to lock folk up because they’ve got money and you’re pouring the money you’ve got straight over your throat?’

  Assailed by raw belligerence, Thomson recoiled, then sat up in his chair. ‘I didn’t – I wasn’t—’ he stammered.

  ‘Right. You didn’t. You weren’t. Let’s start again. You were stockman at Chapelton when Diana Warwick came to work there?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Just a lassie.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘It was years ago, right? She wasn’t there long anyway.’

  ‘Where did she stay? In the big house?’

  MacNee saw the man hesitate, as if trying to calculate what would be made of his reply. ‘Come on, come on. It’s not that difficult,’ he hustled him.

  ‘No. There’s a flat the housekeepers live in.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  Again the hesitation. ‘Above one of the steadings.’

  ‘And where did you stay?’

  He licked dry lips. ‘Stockman’s flat.’

  ‘Don’t waste my time. Next door, was it? Neighbours? Were you married then?’

  ‘So what if I wasn’t?’

  ‘Good friends, maybe?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  MacNee could see he was nervous. That was the easy part – he’d done his best to make him nervous, after all. Working out if there were other reasons too was the hard part and getting him to open up about them if there were was the hardest of all. Intimidation had worked so far. It usually did.

  He leaned forward again. ‘Will you not take a telling? I’m here to find out about Diana Warwick and the more you jink about trying not to give me the answers the more suspicious I get. Next step’s having you in for questioning under caution.’

  It was amazing how fear could sober you up. There was no slurring of the words now. ‘OK, OK. She was – trouble. There were always kind of –’ he searched for the word – ‘goings-on around her. She had something—’

  ‘Sex?’ MacNee suggested brutally.

  Thomson gave a short laugh. ‘Oh aye, sex right enough. But it wasn’t just that. She kind of – dodged people, if you get me. Drove them da
ft, not knowing where they were. There were always quarrels.’

  ‘Who was she sleeping with?’

  ‘Everybody. Nobody. You tell me.’

  ‘You?’

  Again he laughed harshly. ‘Me? Her and me? See my hands?’ He turned his good hand palm uppermost to show the scars of outdoor labouring. ‘You think a woman like that would so much as let me touch her – even when both of them worked? His mouth twisted in bitterness. ‘But them up at the big house—’

  ‘Jake? Max? Conrad?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Were there comings and goings to the flat at night?’

  ‘Not that I ever saw.’

  But. He didn’t quite say it; the word hung on the air, though. ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘Say? I said it.’

  MacNee changed tack. ‘What did you think when you knew who Laura Harvey was?’

  He was taken by surprise. ‘Think? Well, nothing.’

  ‘Don’t muck me about. You were rattled, weren’t you? Giving her funny looks?’

  ‘Who told you that? I – I was just interested, that’s all.’ He had started to sweat.

  MacNee moved in for the kill. ‘Look, Scott, I’m not wanting to get you in trouble. Did you have a thing going with her?’

  ‘I told you! I’ll swear on the Bible . . .’

  MacNee laughed. ‘You may have to, at that. Your best bet’s not to try to be too smart.’

  ‘I know that—’

  ‘So what was it you didn’t say just now?’

  The man groaned. ‘If I tell you, will you believe what I say’s all there was to it?’

  ‘I’m not in the guarantees business. Sook it and see.’