‘The Manchester police are pursuing the investigation at their end. Our job is simply to check here for any possible sightings of the car and of course get on with a fingertip search of the area. Yes, Ryan?’
One of the younger PCs had put his hand up. ‘Is it a popular spot, ma’am?’
Fleming shook her head. ‘Not at all, so it’s pretty clean. Probably almost the last people walking round there would be the foresters planting the trees twenty years ago or so. Anything at all that is found is likely to be significant.
‘The other thing we’re hoping for is info from the public, but as I understand it there hasn’t been much – right, Jock?’
Sergeant Naismith, detailed to bring a record of calls, said gloomily, ‘Couple of nutters and the usual attention-seekers. Nothing useful.’
MacNee had been looking thoughtful. ‘I’ve just been wondering – can we be sure she was dead when she arrived in the area? If she was killed in Manchester and dumped from a car, the chances are no one saw anything. Middle of the night – you could go hours without a car passing along the Queen’s Way.
‘But if she was alive – well, she was a wee smasher. If we circulated the photo round hotels, bars, petrol stations, someone would remember her.’
Tansy Kerr chimed in, ‘And if we didn’t have a sighting after all that, we could be pretty sure she wasn’t alive when she got here.’
‘Right,’ Fleming approved. ‘I’ve got the photo here.’ She took it from its envelope and put it on the board beside the map. It was a shot which had clearly been carefully posed, showing a glamorous young woman with a cloud of dark hair and long-lashed, dark brown eyes, half-turned and smiling back provocatively at the camera.
There was a muted ‘Phoo-arr!’ from somewhere in the group around Allan and a few sniggers. Fleming frowned. ‘Think of her with a hole bashed in her head and you won’t find it so funny. You’ll see the video and stills tomorrow,’ she said tartly, but she was aware that, though faces had straightened rapidly, one or two sidelong looks were exchanged. There was a situation developing in the CID that she was going to have to tackle sooner or later, and she wasn’t temperamentally suited to later.
Capitalizing on what she knew to be a widely held belief that when Big Marge sounded sweet she was at her most dangerous, she said silkily, ‘Greg, I’d like a word with you afterwards,’ and saw the man sit up nervously as he said, ‘Yes, boss.’
‘So, Jock,’ she went on smoothly, ‘can you arrange for copies of this to be run off and distributed? Thanks. And I’m just posting a detail now for the fingertip search, but in view of the fact that we want to get this cleared off our patch as quickly and efficiently as possible, I think we can spare a few detectives to help. With the robbery wrapped up and the house-breaking lower on the priority list, there’s nothing that won’t wait. You’ll get overalls when you arrive.
‘OK? Any questions? No? Fine.’
Fleming scribbled the extra names on the list and stuck it up, aware of the sullen silence in the centre of the room, but aware, too, of discreet amusement among the uniforms. It wasn’t exactly a secret that detectives considered mundane physical police work beneath them, and it would give them a lesson about the unwisdom of tangling with Big Marge. She was heading for the door when it opened and Jon Kingsley came in, stopping as he saw her.
‘Oh – you’ve finished! Sorry, boss. The Super kept me talking about the petrol station case.’
She did wonder whether Donald Bailey, a stickler for proper procedure, had been made aware that Kingsley was expected elsewhere, but said only, ‘All right, Jon. I was just assigning details for the investigation of the Natasha Wintour case, but you’ll see the list up there.’ She indicated. ‘All the signs are that once we finish the search at the scene of crime we can hand over to Manchester.’
But Kingsley was looking past her to the board where the photograph was displayed. He said blankly, ‘What’s that doing there?’
‘It’s Natasha Wintour.’ Fleming was puzzled by his reaction. ‘Jeff Brewer brought it.’
He looked uncertain. ‘Is it not Davina Watt? Lives in Wigtown – or at least she did, a few years ago.’
A silence had fallen on the room. Fleming said, ‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Well,’ he took another look. ‘She’d short hair then, and I didn’t know her very well, but I’m pretty sure . . . I think she worked for a solicitor – they’d be able to tell you definitely. But yes, I’m sure it’s the same woman.’
With hypotheses crashing about her ears, she acted decisively. ‘Right. Tam, Tansy, Greg – my room. Come on, Jon.’ She swept out, hearing the buzz of astonished speculation rise in her wake.
Chapter 9
‘It’s only him that’s standing in my way,’ Rab McLeish said exultantly. ‘I reckon she’d be willing to talk. And maybe after another couple of wee hints—’
‘Rab,’ Cath Dunsire said despairingly, ‘you’re mental! You’ll get in trouble with the police.’
They were standing on the doorstep of the bookshop in Wigtown where Cath worked. The shop wasn’t busy; it was still too early in the day for the visitors who made Scotland’s Book Town a place of pilgrimage, and there were only a few people browsing among the yards and yards of shelves.
Rab laughed. ‘You think they’re going to want folk to hear there’s a problem? You know all the things that have happened already – kept quiet enough about them, haven’t they?’
‘You’re pushing your luck. And anyway, there’s no time for a campaign.’ She produced a copy of the Galloway Globe, folded open at the ‘To Let’ page, where she’d circled an advertisement in red. ‘There’s this one in Station Road – it’s not big, but it’s all we would need. And then later—’
He was shaking his head stubbornly. ‘Later’s no good. If we let up on them, later only means they would sell for so much that the next one’ll go for far more than I could ever pay, and then we’ll never be able to get back. I want the best for my kid, not some rubbish flat. And I’m making good money – you know that.’
‘I never said you weren’t,’ she cried. ‘But it’s not the sort of money they can make in Glasgow just by picking up the phone and making a deal. I know, I know,’ she went on as he opened his mouth to release a tirade, ‘it’s not fair. It’s not as if they had to work for it, like you do. They can go into a posh office and sit there all day and come back to their family at night when you’re sleeping behind your cab with two more days before you see your own front door again. But get real! There’s nothing – nothing – you can do about it.’ She was shaking.
Rab grinned, the macho male making light of the little woman’s worries. ‘Oh yeah? Stick around!’ He walked away to where the lorry was parked on a double yellow line.
‘I meant exactly what I said, Rab,’ Cath said quietly.
He turned as he swung himself up into the cab. He was still smiling. ‘Trust me! I’ll be back tomorrow.’
Cath stood on the doorstep watching him drive away, her hands folded miserably across her stomach. She had been sick this morning, as quietly as she could, but even so she thought her mother had given her a strange look when she came in for breakfast. Fortunately the phone had rung and she’d managed to empty a pot of yoghurt and a cup of coffee down the sink without her father, watching the sports news on breakfast TV, noticing what she was doing. She couldn’t rely on that every day.
It wasn’t going to work out, was it? She’d tried to get through to Rab and she’d failed. If she, and their future child, counted for so little compared to his stupid obsession, it wasn’t going to be much of a relationship. It was as if she’d been wearing distorting spectacles and now she had taken them off she could see the whole thing clearly.
He was totally unaware of what he had just done. He’d be back tomorrow evening, and she’d tell him then that this was the end. Of everything. And no matter what he said, she wouldn’t change her mind.
Cath went back into the shop. ‘Would it b
e all right if I took a few days of my holiday leave?’ she asked the owner.
‘Sure. It’s still early enough in the season – we won’t start getting really busy for another couple of weeks. But I thought you and Rab were going to Tenerife next month?’
‘Not any more,’ Cath said bleakly.
‘Right, Jon. Tell us about it.’ Fleming had a pad in front of her on the desk and a pen in her hand.
Kingsley was looking faintly bemused, which, to be fair, was hardly surprising. He hadn’t been in on any of the discussions earlier, hadn’t even heard the theory that there had to be some connection with the area for the body to be dumped here, so suddenly seeing a photo of a bonny girl you’d once known and having it sprung on you that she was the corpse would give anyone a bit of a shock.
MacNee and Allan had taken the two chairs in front of the desk and Tansy Kerr was perching on the table behind. Kingsley himself was standing like a teacher in front of a class, with them all gazing at him expectantly.
‘I – I don’t really know where to begin.’ He spoke with uncharacteristic diffidence.
‘How did you come to know her?’ Fleming prompted.
‘It was years ago, while I was still a student at Edinburgh. I got keen on sailing through some mates of mine who came from down this way. One of them was a member of the Yacht Club at Drumbreck when it was just a wooden shack and had some great weekend raves.
‘But the Glasgow mob muscled in and decided it wasn’t posh enough for them and they’d raise money to demolish it and rebuild, and after that we took to going to Portpatrick instead. There was some big fuss though – can’t remember the details because I wasn’t around but there was a scandal about the Hon. Treasurer embezzling or something. He was Davina’s boss. Imrie – no, Ingles. That was it – Ingles.’
That rang a bell. MacNee said, ‘Hang about – Keith Ingles! He was jailed for robbery with violence.’
‘That’s right,’ Allan chimed in. ‘Took money from the Yacht Club, bashed the cleaner over the head when she caught him at it. Got three years, as I remember it.’
‘I vaguely remember hearing about it at the time,’ Fleming said, ‘but no more than that. Tansy, can you nip down to Records and see if you can get the file? Thanks. Go on, Jon. Davina Watt.’
‘Ah, Davina!’ He gave a half-smile, then sighed. ‘Davina was – something else. She was a considerable cut above the usual local totty. When she came into the bar every man in the place would suddenly start trying to look cool.’
‘Fancy her, did you?’ Allan gave a suggestive leer.
‘Too right. Who didn’t?’ Kingsley had no hesitation. ‘But it was one of those “in your dreams” things. She wasn’t about to waste her talents on a student whose idea of showing a girl a good time was buying her a pint of lager.
‘Drumbreck was, and still is, full of people with so much money that they think – how shall I put it? – that the usual constraints don’t apply.’
‘Do you mean there’s a lot of screwing around?’ MacNee said with deliberate coarseness. Kingsley’s talent for putting plain facts in frilly drawers fairly got up his nose.
‘If you want to put it crudely, yes.’ Kingsley, leaning back against the radiator now with his ankles crossed, looked down at MacNee. ‘Davina was reckoned to put it about a bit – got herself quite a reputation for choosing targets with an eye to the main chance.’
‘A wee hoor, was she?’ MacNee seemed to have a mission to lower the tone.
‘More on a ruthless hunt for a meal ticket. Problem was everyone knew that; you’d hardly break up your marriage for her when she’d be off like a greyhound after an electric bunny if a better prospect turned up.
‘The last time we were down here there was a lot of talk about her and her boss – she’d moved in with him. Boring old git, he was – ticked us off once for having a pie fight in the bar – and he probably couldn’t believe his luck. But she wasn’t going to get the lifestyle she wanted to become accustomed to on a solicitor’s salary. Could be why he took the cash.’
Fleming had been scribbling notes as she listened. ‘He must have done his jail term, given remission. Anyone know where he is now?’
Kingsley looked blank; the other two men looked at each other then shrugged.
‘We can find out. When did Davina leave Wigtown?’
Again, Kingsley couldn’t help.
The door opened and Tansy came in. ‘Here you are, boss.’ She put a bulky file down on the desk.
Fleming looked surprised. ‘That was quick!’
Kerr simpered modestly. ‘There’s a new guy in Records. He was boasting in the pub the other night about this brilliant system he’s introduced so I told him to put his money where his mouth is.’ She paused. ‘I might also have suggested that a seriously brilliant response might just make you more sympathetic when it came to budget allocation. Not that I suppose it will.’
‘Bad things happen to people who tell wicked lies,’ Fleming warned her. ‘So you can go now and find out where Keith Ingles went on release. Shouldn’t be difficult – he’ll be under restraint until October so they’ll know where he is.’
Muttering that there was no gratitude, Kerr pulled a face and left.
Fleming riffled through the pages, then stopped to pull one out. ‘This is Davina Watt’s police statement. Pretty damning. Wouldn’t back up his alibi.’
‘Can’t have made him happy,’ MacNee said. ‘He’d be thinking that when she was his bidie-in she wouldn’t go into the box against him. What happened to the money?’
Fleming flicked through to the end of the file. ‘No recovery. You might wonder . . .’
‘Aye, you might,’ said MacNee.
‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ Kingsley admitted.
Allan had been frowning, deep in thought. ‘Here!’ he said suddenly. ‘You don’t think it could be her took the money, after all that? She’d maybe have got him to do it for her, then let him take the rap and went off with the money!’ He looked round with a smirk of satisfaction at being one step ahead.
‘Mmm,’ Fleming said, just as the phone rang.
MacNee couldn’t quite make out the words at the other end, but he could certainly hear the volume at which they were being spoken. Fleming was doing a lot of ‘Yes sir-ing’, and when she put the phone down she got to her feet.
‘That was the Super. Some bastard who was in the briefing-room has tipped off the Press and he’s just had a request for a statement about the revised identification of the body. I’m just off to the lion’s den.’
‘She’s for it now,’ Allan said with undisguised satisfaction as the door shut.
Kingsley grinned. ‘Maybe he’ll ask us to give her a few tips on effectiveness, Greg.’
‘Very funny,’ MacNee said. ‘As far as I can remember, your name was on the fingertip search detail. If there’s nothing else you can share with us about your acquaintance with Davina Watt, you’d better get out there now.’
He had the satisfaction of watching Kingsley leave with a very bad grace.
Donald Bailey did not move when Fleming came into the room. He had old-fashioned manners and his remaining seated was a bad sign. If she had needed any more pointers, he was scowling too, and tapping his fingers on the desk.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, before he could say anything.
‘So well you might be! What is it coming to, when I learn about major, indeed crucial, developments in a murder case from a secretary on the telephone, courtesy of the Scottish Sun?’
‘I was just gathering the information to bring to you, Donald—’ She tried to explain, but there was no stopping him.
She let it all flow over her. Was it the great J. P. R. Williams who had said that finding himself at the bottom of a rugby scrum, he just lay there and thought of happier times? Cammie would know . . . She barely heard what he said, though she was aware that the words ‘protocol – breakdown in communication – unsatisfactory – discourtesy’ featured. Still,
better out than in.
Eventually he ran out of accusations and subsided, glaring at her. ‘So what have you got to say for yourself?’
She explained, and saw the glare fade. At the end, he said, a little uncomfortably, ‘Oh, I suppose, in the circumstances . . . perhaps I overreacted, Marjory, but you can understand why.’
‘Of course, Donald. I’d have been livid myself.’
‘So what are you going to do to find the officer concerned?’ Bailey seized on the chance to redirect his indignation. ‘It’s quite intolerable! Disgraceful behaviour. Put him on a charge!’
‘First catch your hare,’ Fleming said ruefully. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better, but unless you can get authorization for me to apply red-hot needles under their fingernails, the paper isn’t going to tell me and whoever’s doing it isn’t going to confess. It’s a problem we’ve had before – a nice little earner for someone.’
‘Harrumph!’ Bailey said.
He was the only man she had ever heard utter that word, usually to signal his reluctant acceptance of defeat. Fleming moved on.
‘At least we now seem to have a clear line of inquiry. We’ll need people, probably from the office where she worked, to confirm that Kingsley’s right and do an official ID, of course, but it would hardly be surprising if Ingles bore her a grudge, particularly if she did in fact go off with the cash.
‘We’ll have records of what happened after his release, with luck might even pick him up for questioning today. I sent Kerr down to check it out. In fact, she may even have some info by now, if I can use your phone?’
They found Kerr for her. ‘Tansy? Did you get anything on Ingles?’
Fleming listened with growing satisfaction. ‘I see. Very, very interesting. Thanks.’ She put down the receiver and Bailey looked at her expectantly.
‘Well, you never know. This just might be one of the quickest wrap-ups on record. He’s working for the Forestry Commission, renting a house in the forest up above the Queen’s Way, less than a mile from where the body was found.’
‘Excellent, excellent!’ Bailey rubbed his hands together. ‘Press conference later this afternoon, once we’ve made the arrest?’
Lying Dead Page 13
