When the trolley came round at half-past twelve, Fleming leaned back and stretched. ‘I got quite a lot of useful admin done there. What about you?’
‘Seven reports written,’ MacNee said with some satisfaction. ‘Here – there’s something to be said for a day out now and again. Fancy a beer and a sandwich?’
As they settled to eat, Fleming turned to the topic of the case. ‘We’ll need everything absolutely cut and dried. They’ll be irritated enough; we’re not wanting to give them the chance to accuse us of wasting their time.
‘First, Jeff Brewer. Will you take him or will I? We’ve not the time to do interviews together.’
‘You better. You had him like a hen on a hot griddle last time, so at the sight of you he’ll crack if he’s anything new to tell you. Anyway,’ he took a pull at his beer and winked at her, ‘someone’ll need to chat up the regulars and it’s not fitting for a lady like you.’
‘That was no lady, that was your boss. Still, you might as well. You’re a more convincing bar-fly than I am.’
‘Years of practice. So I’m trying to trace someone who can fill in some of the blanks, right? When she came to Manchester and why. Why she wanted to come back, if we get lucky.’
‘Try to avoid that Preston woman. Davina clearly wasn’t a friend of hers but she likes the limelight and you could waste a lot of time that way. See if there’s someone around who might be one of her mates. I’ll find out from Brewer if he knew of any girlfriends.’
‘And Brewer’s definitely off the hook? We’re assuming Ingles is our man, right, and we flash his photo about too?’
‘Right. We get through that asap and hope to be out of Carter’s hair and on the ten o’clock train tomorrow. I’m not comfortable with Greg being i/c under the Super while I’m away.’
‘If he is,’ MacNee said darkly.
They were travelling now through the outskirts of the city. Watching the spreading mass of streets and houses in drizzling rain, Fleming’s mind was elsewhere. She had spoken to Allan about the rift that seemed to be opening up in the CID, but he was the hardest type of person to deal with: he apologized where that seemed to be called for, agreed with her points, expressed himself full of good resolutions and left. He would then go on in precisely the same way.
It was all making her very uneasy. She had long ago come to terms with being a woman in what was still resolutely a man’s world; she could be as tough as any man when it came to it, but there was still a subtle male conspiracy which someone – Jon Kingsley, specifically – could tap into, encouraging a sort of jokey, patronizing condescension which was fatal to authority. Donald Bailey, though he would have given a shocked denial, was part of it too, and she was feeling very vulnerable just at the moment. And being away from the action at this stage was seriously bad news.
‘Could you put me through to DI Fleming, please?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the telephonist at the Galloway Constabulary Headquarters said, ‘I’m afraid she’s away today. Should be back tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ve got something to tell her that came up in the forensic examination at Keith Ingles’s cottage. We haven’t completed it, but this is information we felt she should have as soon as possible. Who’s in charge, then?’
‘DS Allan. Shall I put you through to him instead? I know he’s in the building.’
‘That might be best. Thank you.’
The hotel room was very large, very bare and, with the triple-glazing on the windows, synthetically quiet. Marjory could hardly remember the last time she’d had a night away in a hotel on her own.
She opened the door to the neat en suite bathroom, with pale stone tiles and shiny taps. The towels, white and fluffy, were in two piles on a rack; she had almost forgotten that towels in bathrooms came like that, instead of crumpled on the floor where people hadn’t picked them up. There were dinky little bottles too, with shower gel and body lotion. She could quite happily spend the entire afternoon in here.
Sadly, Tam would be waiting for her in the foyer and there wasn’t even time for a quick shower. She patted the smooth cover of the huge double bed and cast an affectionate eye on the large TV you could watch from it. ‘I’ll be back,’ she murmured as she went out.
When Fleming got out of the lift Tam was standing with his back to her talking to another man, of around his own height though more heavily built, and she recognized DS Tucker. That, at least, was good news. As the two men swung round with one movement to face her, she greeted him warmly and apologetically.
‘I’m sorry we’re treading on your toes like this. We have a Super who suffers from a sense of urgency. Your DCI can’t be very happy at having us wished on to you.’
Tucker grinned. ‘Oh, better today than yesterday, ma’am. We persuaded one of our little canaries to sing and the uniforms are out hoovering up most of our current problems right now. There’ll be another one along in a minute but at least that’s something wrapped up.’
‘Congratulations. I wish we could say the same.’ She turned to MacNee. ‘I don’t know if you’ve had time yet to fill Tommy in on what we’re wanting to do?’
‘Roughly.’
‘He’s sketched it out.’
They spoke together. Standing there side by side, they could, with a slight adjustment for girth, be Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Marjory thought with secret amusement as Tucker went on, ‘There’s a car and a driver been allocated, and I’ve seen to it that Brewer’s expecting you – at his flat, OK? Then I thought I’d tag along with Tam – two heads better than one.’
‘Good. I’d appreciate copies of interviews that have already been done too, if you could organize that. The other thing is car hire firms. Davina would have needed a car and we’ve someone checking out Carlisle, just in case she started out by train, but could someone run a check to see if she hired it here? Probably under her own name since we know she didn’t have documentation as Natasha. All right? Thanks. Shall we go, then?’
‘Oh, I’ve arranged for you to see DCI Carter first, ma’am. I know you’ve spoken on the phone and I thought you’d want to say hello.’
‘It’d be rude not to,’ MacNee added.
A sudden suspicion crossed Fleming’s mind, especially as the two men, looking like superannuated schoolboys, were regarding her with identically bland and innocent expressions.
‘That’s good,’ she said with all the enthusiasm she could muster, given that she would have preferred being told they were popping into the alligator pond at Manchester Zoo so that she could extend the hand of friendship to its inmates. ‘He’s expecting us now, is he?’
They were following her to the door when her mobile rang. As she fetched it out of her shoulder bag they withdrew to a polite distance, though they were inevitably within earshot of her side of the conversation.
‘Yes? No, really? That’s excellent news. Thanks for getting it to me at once, Greg. Congratulations!’ She was getting a lot of practice in feigning enthusiasm today; she’d be quite good at it shortly.
She hadn’t expected her new talent to be in demand again quite so quickly. Allan was still talking, giving her the news from the forensic team.
‘Do they really think so? That’s an amazing breakthrough, if they’re right. We’ll have to wait for official confirmation, of course, but that may just tie it up.
‘And of course you’ll ask Ingles – yes, yes, of course. You’d better go then. Thanks.’
Switching off the phone, Fleming rejoined the others. ‘That’s good news. They picked up Ingles in Stranraer this morning. And the forensic team have found what they’re pretty sure are bloodstains on a tarpaulin at the back of a shed by Ingles’s cottage.’
‘Mmm.’ Tam didn’t feel obliged to sound upbeat. ‘Who brought him in?’ he asked, then, looking at his boss’s face, added, ‘Don’t tell me.’
She refused to be drawn. ‘Yes, Jon and Greg have done a good job on this, and he tells me they have everything under cont
rol. He was just hurrying off to question Ingles.’ She smiled ruefully at Tucker. ‘Makes all this down here a bit redundant, from the sound of it. I hope we won’t waste too much of your time.’
Fleming led the way out of the hotel. From her personal point of view, it could hardly be worse; by the time she got back, Ingles would have been charged and her role in the case would be reduced to rubber-stamping. It wouldn’t do her any good, just at a time when she was feeling her authority so shaky. It was hard to decide whether what she would most like to do to Donald Bailey would involve boiling oil or red-hot pincers.
DCI Chris Carter glanced at his watch and frowned. His time was precious and there were about twenty-five things he’d rather do than donate ten minutes of it to an old battle-axe with heather in her hair who’d stooped to using coercion from above when he wouldn’t twitch into line. His Super had more years of service than he did and in Carter’s opinion held the job for that reason rather than on merit – as if seniority made a fool anything other than an old fool. He had been delighted to play Handsome Harry in response to the Scottish Super’s request, and ordering Carter to comply was the icing on the cake.
Big Marge, they called the woman, apparently, which told you all you needed to know. Tucker had been unusually silent about her, only rolling his eyes and saying she was ‘quite a lady’. But he’d been determined that Carter should meet her and not leave him to cope with her on his own.
‘The Super said we’d to show them every courtesy,’ he’d pointed out. ‘He wouldn’t be pleased if she complained.’
This unusual attention to official decrees suggested that Tucker was keen to spread the pain around. He’d pay him back for that later, Carter vowed as the knock came on the door and he got up from his desk, bracing himself.
The woman who came in was totally unexpected. She was tall, certainly, and not slight, but well-proportioned. You wouldn’t call her pretty, or even handsome, exactly, but she had the sort of face you could enjoy looking at, intelligent, with a humorous mouth and very clear hazel eyes. She was wearing a pale grey trouser suit which was at least as well-cut as the suit he’d bought for best from Austin Reed. She was also some years younger than he was.
Not only that, but she began by saying sorry.
‘DCI Carter? Marjory Fleming – Marjory. I can’t apologize enough for the situation you’ve been bounced into. I’m deeply embarrassed. All I can say in excuse is that it was my Super’s initiative: I did my best, but there’s no stopping him when he gets the bit between his teeth.’
She had a pleasant, low-pitched voice too, with a soft Scottish accent. What could he do, faced with such underhand tactics? ‘Not at all – our pleasure,’ he managed. ‘Come and sit down.’
He led the way to seats round a coffee table in one corner of the room. Tucker and MacNee had followed in on her heels – looking, he suddenly realized, expectant. Tucker must have known perfectly well that he was giving a misleading impression of the woman; was this a set-up? The demure expression of the two men was all the evidence he needed.
He could do charming too. ‘Good to meet you, Marjory. Look, I’m uncomfortably aware I’ve sounded a bit short on the phone. It’s no excuse, but we’ve been under pressure lately. Anyway, I’m sorry.’
Fleming met him more than half-way. ‘I’m sure I’ve been extremely annoying,’ she acknowledged, with almost cloying sweetness. ‘Let’s admit we both have despicable character faults and forget it.’
She had a very warm, attractive smile. He smiled back. ‘Forgotten. So what are we to do for you?’
‘This is the most embarrassing part. I’ve just had a call to say our chief suspect has been detained and we may even have the evidence to charge him. I’m horribly afraid we’re taking up your time needlessly, but since we’re here anyway we’ll go on with the programme Tommy has set up, just to tie up the loose ends, and then with any luck you’ll get rid of us.
‘My only concern is that it could be possible that instead of the woman travelling to Scotland, our man may have come and killed her here, which would of course change the emphasis. But we may be able to establish that one way or the other in the next few days.’
‘Right.’ He digested that; he’d mentally dropped the murder from his caseload. ‘On the balance of probabilities . . . ?’
Fleming made a see-sawing motion with her hand. ‘You never know, we might even pick up something conclusive today. I’ll keep you informed.
‘But you’re a busy man.’ She got to her feet and the men rose too. ‘Tommy tells me you’ve just had a good result. Congratulations!’
Carter ran his hand through his hair. ‘Hopefully. Still a lot to tie up, of course.’
‘We won’t take up any more of your time. Thanks for your help.’
She held out her hand. He took it, saying with a glance out of the corner of his eye at Tucker, ‘Good luck with your inquiries. I’ve enjoyed meeting you. I’ll make a point of seeing you again before you go.’
There was no mistaking the look of disappointment on the sergeants’ faces. In a spirit of pure mischief Carter said, ‘Had a bet on, did you?’
Tucker and MacNee looked at each other in consternation, stammering denials. Fleming burst out laughing.
‘You spotted it too! They’re so bloody obvious, aren’t they? Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but your cocks won’t fight. And some of us have work to do, once Tweedledum and Tweedledee have stopped playing silly buggers.’
She swept out, the two sergeants following sheepishly in her wake. Still smiling, Carter went back to his desk.
Chapter 12
The flat Jeff Brewer had shared with Davina, or Natasha as he still called her, was a one-bedroom box in a twenty-year-old block. The furniture was cheap, chain-store stuff and the place showed signs of recent neglect, with dirty mugs and plates, empty crisp packets and full ashtrays littering the smeared and dusty surfaces. The vase of expensive-looking silk flowers in one corner, the only feminine touch, was out of keeping with the cheaply framed Manchester City posters on the walls. The woman had lived here for well over a year; did this lack of input suggest, Fleming wondered, that she only ever saw herself as passing through?
Brewer himself, in jeans and a beige V-necked T-shirt, was looking better than when she had last seen him though he was still pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He was also pitiably nervous and Fleming could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he showed her in and asked her to sit down.
At least she could set his mind at rest. ‘Jeff, the first thing I have to tell you is that someone has been detained in Scotland on suspicion of murdering your girlfriend.’
He stared at her for a long moment as if she had spoken to him in a foreign language. ‘You – you haven’t come to take me in? Who is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that at the moment. But I can explain that the reason I’ve come is to ask for any help you can give us.’
Jeff burst into tears. He was very young – probably not much more than twenty-five or six – and Fleming waited sympathetically until he gulped, ‘Sorry – stupid. Just – such a relief.’
‘Of course. Now, I’m very short of time. I’m hoping you can offer me some short cuts.
‘First off, is there anything more you’ve remembered, anything that would give us some idea of what Natasha did before she got together with you, or after she left?’
But he had nothing to add to the story Fleming had heard already. The woman hadn’t wanted to talk about her past and he hadn’t been interested.
‘Did she say anything about going? Leave a note?’
He shook his head. ‘Only knew she’d gone when I saw she’d taken a suitcase and clothes and things were missing.’
If she’d packed a suitcase, it definitely suggested that she’d gone to meet Ingles, not the other way round. That would be good news for DCI Carter.
‘Has she left anything behind?’
‘Oh God, yes, most of her gear. I guess she took sort o
f what would do for a few days. You want to see?’
Fleming followed him through to the bedroom. It had a grubby cream carpet and a divan bed with a fake leather headboard. The only other furniture was bedside tables and a couple of chairs; there were built-in wardrobes down one side with a section in the middle acting as a dressing-table.
On it was a muddle of bottles and jars, and sticky rings which showed where others had once stood. Fleming’s eyebrows rose as she examined them. You didn’t buy large bottles of Patou’s Joy – one of the world’s most expensive perfumes – on a barmaid’s wages, and the rest of the cosmetics also came from the most expensive ranges.
It was the same story when she opened the wardrobe: good designer labels were mixed in with Top Shop and Florence and Fred cheap ’n’ cheerful stuff. There were empty clothes hangers too, but one hanger still held an Armani jacket – proof positive, surely, that Davina/Natasha had intended to return. What woman would abandon an Armani jacket?
She opened the drawer below the dressing-table which held underwear – La Perla as well as standard M&S knickers. It didn’t look as if she had taken a lot with her – enough, perhaps, for a week or a long weekend, as Jeff had said. She shifted them with her hand and noticed, on the bottom, a page from a newspaper folded so that it showed a small item, circled in red ink.
Fleming pointed. ‘Do you know what this is?’
Brewer peered over her shoulder. ‘No. She wasn’t much for reading newspapers, Natasha.’
‘Did she get many letters? Did someone send her this?’
‘Never got any letters since she moved in, far as I know.’
Looking closer, Fleming saw with interest that it was a page torn from the Galloway Globe, her own local paper. It dated from last October and the encircled article was headed ‘Rogue lawyer freed’: it gave the briefest of accounts of the robbery and assault at the Yacht Club but beyond that said only that Keith Ingles had been released on licence. Had Davina asked someone to warn her when he came out of prison, someone who at the time at least, had known where she was?
Lying Dead Page 17
