Lying Dead

by Aline Templeton

  Now Ingles had been arrested, they’d be going all out to find something to make the charge stick, as a matter of professional pride. At least Marjory had the sense not to let Allan and Kingsley back to the site, where the temptation would be just to give the investigation a wee nudge in the right direction. Even so, Tam wished he could be sure there weren’t others who, if they were certain they had the killer, would be ready enough to give justice a helping hand.

  Had Ingles killed her? On the balance of probabilities, certainly. Bailey was for ever yammering on about Ockham’s razor, but fair enough, the simple answer was usually the right one. Tansy wasn’t convinced, though, and she’d questioned the man. He rated Tansy.

  So perhaps the best Tam could do was talk up the doubts. His colleagues were decent enough men who might jump to conclusions, but wouldn’t want to bang up an innocent man.

  Now he was going to have to go and talk to lawyers. That thought depressed him too. Tam didn’t like lawyers. Either they were the criminal’s friend, out to make life difficult for the polis, or they were charging him an hourly rate that should have bought a personal appearance by Claudia Schiffer to hand over the contract. Lawyers weren’t in the business of giving you useful information, but he had his orders.

  From reading the file on the robbery, the person he was really interested in was Euphemia Aitcheson. She knew more about what had happened than anyone except Keith Ingles and possibly Davina Watt, and he couldn’t talk to either of them. She could tell him about the whole set-up in the Yacht Club – who was who, who did what. And probably also, given the reputation the place had, to whom.

  Yes, a gossipy Euphemia could be key to the whole thing. Maybe it would all fall into place this afternoon. And maybe if Kingsley passed his exams he’d apply for a transfer and bugger off back to Edinburgh.

  The thought raised his spirits. And though the straggling bushes by the side of the road were still blowing in a stiff breeze, the sun was coming out now, turning the peaty-brown waters of a little lochan across a field to a surprising deep navy-blue.

  It wasn’t all bad. Bunty would be home tomorrow and so far none of the animals had died or killed one of the others. At least, not when he left this morning.

  Marjory Fleming could hear crowd noise before she opened the door of her car. She’d parked at the entrance to the hamlet of Drumbreck, in preference to weaving her way slowly through what looked like about fifty men, women and excited youngsters gathered outside the marina, discussing the dramatic events of the day.

  DC Andy Macdonald, a solid, square-shouldered young man with a buzz-cut, had spotted her arrival and was making his way through the crowd towards her: ‘Excuse me, sorry, thank you, could you get back there, please, excuse me . . .’

  People yielded good vantage points reluctantly, their eyes following him to Fleming and Kerr getting out of the car.

  ‘Sorry about this, boss,’ Macdonald apologized. ‘We hadn’t reckoned to need crowd control in a place like this but maybe we should have.’

  ‘Ah! Are you in charge here, then?’ A grey-haired man wearing a navy-blue Guernsey and a discontented expression stepped into Fleming’s path. ‘Perhaps you would care to tell us what’s going on? It’s not good enough that we should be kept in the dark.’ There was a murmur of support from those equally curious but less courageous.

  ‘I’ll be releasing a statement once I have had a chance to investigate the situation, sir. Which, you may have noticed, it is impossible for me to do while you are standing in my way.’

  She stood her ground calmly and the man, still muttering, though under his breath, stepped aside. There were no more interruptions as she walked down to the taped-off area beyond the marina.

  It was a bright day, with a breeze setting the halyards on metal masts clinking, and the boats seemed restless in the choppy waves. The tide was going out; there was still deep water around the pontoons but inshore the unsightly, khaki-brown mudflats were being exposed.

  ‘No Press here yet?’ Fleming asked Macdonald.

  ‘Not so far, no. You’ll have seen we’ve a car at the end of the road checking incoming traffic, and if you can authorize this statement we’ll see it’s given out whenever they arrive.’

  He handed her a piece of paper and she skimmed the scribbled information: it was a bland statement that a man had been found drowned and the police were treating his death as suspicious. She OK’d it and he went off with it back through the crowd.

  Niall Murdoch’s body, covered with a plastic sheet, had been laid out on the dock. There were several uniforms in attendance and one, she saw with approval, was logging her name as a visitor to the scene.

  ‘Good organization, Will,’ she said as DC William Wilson came towards her, huddled into a windcheater and with his curly hair blown into bushy tangles. ‘You and Andy have done well.’

  Wilson grinned. ‘Happy to take the credit, boss, but Sergeant Christie’s a canny man. Does everything by the book, he tells me. Every “t” dotted and every “i” crossed – or something like that. He’s away to pick up McLeish. His face fits, seemingly.’

  Fleming looked around. ‘The police surgeon’s gone, has he?’

  ‘Yes. He said he’d better things to do than hang about here. But he confirmed death, obviously, and said the wound on the back of the head didn’t look like accidental injury.’

  ‘Right. You’d better let me see him.’

  Wilson pulled back the sheeting. The man was lying on his back on the dock, his head turned to one side, wearing sodden clothes – a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a navy padded gilet and a worn trainer on one foot, though the other was missing. He was tall, over six foot probably; his face was bloated from immersion, and there was bloodstained froth inside the half-open mouth. His hands were deathly white, swollen and wrinkled, and on the back of his head his dark hair was matted with blood, though there was no depression to suggest a break in the skull.

  ‘A stunning rather than a fatal blow, you’d think,’ Fleming said. ‘Delivered unexpectedly from behind, knocking him into the water unconscious – job would be done in a couple of minutes. Thanks, Will – you can cover him up again. Where was he found?’

  ‘Floating here, face down, between the sloop and the ketch. His arm was caught in the sloop’s moorings.’ He indicated two boats, one with one mast, the other two. ‘This is his, Sea Sprite.’

  ‘You seem to know your boats.’ Fleming, a landlubber to the core, was impressed.

  ‘Used to sail a bit when I was a kid. Haven’t the time or the money now, with two kids—’ He broke off at the sound of an altercation behind them.

  A short, fat man with a face like a malevolent cane toad, was swearing at the young constable who was refusing to allow him into the taped area. Two of the uniforms were hurrying across; Fleming reached him a second later.

  ‘I would strongly urge you to moderate your language, sir.’ There was a cutting edge to her voice, and making use of her superior height, she moved in closer so that she could look down at him.

  He didn’t like that. ‘And who the hell are you?’ He had a broad Glasgow accent.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Fleming,’ one of the constables said.

  He sneered. ‘Part of the sex equality quota, are you?’

  ‘Name?’ Fleming snapped.

  ‘Never mind that. I want some answers first.’

  Fleming turned away. ‘Take him in. Verbal assault on a police officer, obstructing the police—’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ The man’s eyes were bulging with rage to the point where she was almost afraid they might pop out of their sockets.

  ‘I think you’ll find I can. And if you don’t co-operate I’ll have you for resisting arrest as well.’ She turned away.

  ‘Wait – wait a moment. I’m – I’m sorry.’ From the colour of his face, framing those words might bring on apoplexy. ‘I’m Ronnie Lafferty. Niall Murdoch was my partner. Naturally I’m upset.’

  �
��Naturally.’ Fleming’s voice was icy. ‘You can tell us all about it back at the station.’

  ‘This – this is . . .’ He seemed lost for words, perhaps having appreciated that those which had clearly sprung immediately to mind were unwise. ‘No one treats Ronnie Lafferty like this!’

  ‘It’ll be a steep learning curve for you then, Mr Lafferty.’ She allowed herself to show amusement. ‘Now, let me explain. We can do this two ways. My officers can take you out in handcuffs – which will, of course, give rise to all sorts of unfortunate rumours in Drumbreck – or you can walk out freely to the police car, a public-spirited citizen helping police with their inquiries. The choice is yours.’

  Again, the effort to control himself seemed to be taking a physical toll. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this sorted out and drop this nonsense. I’m happy give you any help I can—’

  ‘Good. I look forward to hearing what you have to say. Later.’ Fleming jerked her head to the waiting constables and walked away.

  She didn’t turn her head until she was sure he would not see her do it, then checked to see what had happened. He was walking ahead of the two policemen, pausing now and again to speak to people in the crowd.

  ‘Putting his spin on it,’ Wilson observed.

  ‘Seen sense, anyway.’ Fleming was grimly satisfied.

  ‘You certainly spelled it out for him, boss.’ Kerr, who had been talking to the constable on duty with the log, was amused.

  ‘Ah, Tansy! You’re not here just to watch the sideshows, you know. We need the dirt on Davina and with so many of the natives handily gathered here you can start getting names and asking questions.’

  ‘See you at Christmas,’ Kerr said, assessing without enthusiasm the numbers involved.

  ‘Andy will be back in a minute. He can help. And I’ll review the situation once we know more about McLeish. I can always call in Jon and Allan if we need back-up.

  ‘I’m just going to go across and have a look at the site of the fire. When the pathologist arrives, send someone to fetch me.’

  Fleming walked past the now-thinning crowd in front of the Yacht Club, which seemed to be doing good business today, then headed along the road which skirted the bay towards the Murdochs’ house.

  There were no signs of activity outside it; the fire investigators must have done their job and gone. She had almost reached it when she became aware that there was someone hurrying after her, and turning round she saw a plump boy with spectacles and dark frizzy hair, about thirteen or fourteen, perhaps.

  ‘Did you want to speak to me?’

  He surveyed her. ‘They said you were who’s in charge?’ he said rather doubtfully.

  ‘Yes. DI Fleming. And your name is—?’

  ‘James Ross. Is it right Mr Murdoch’s been murdered?’ he asked, with definite relish.

  ‘It may simply be an accident. It’s too early to say.’

  He looked crestfallen, and she added, following an instinct which had served her well in the past, ‘But was there something you wanted to tell me anyway?’

  ‘Yes. You see, I’m sure he was murdered. And I can tell you who did it, too.’

  She recognized the type. He’d always be the one who sought out the teacher to drop the culprit in it, the school sneak. ‘If you can, James, that might be a great help to us,’ she said gravely.

  His eyes gleamed. ‘His daughter. Mirren.’

  Startled, Fleming said, ‘His daughter? You think she killed him?’

  ‘She said she was going to.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘At the sheepdog trials – you know? Her father was in it with a dog called Moss.’

  She did indeed know, but she had forgotten the connection with Niall Murdoch. As he talked about it, it all came back to her clearly: Murdoch’s humiliation, his unpleasant display of anger with the dog.

  ‘You see, Mirren said he was being cruel to it, and he was going to kill it if it didn’t get it right. And she said, if he killed it, she would kill him. Lots of the kids heard her. She’s completely mental when it comes to animals.’ He had an expression of smug satisfaction.

  ‘And did he kill it?’ This sounded to her just the sort of thing kids said; if they always carried out the threat hardly a day would go by without a child in the dock for patricide. Or matricide, depending on who had said no to clubbing till three in the morning.

  ‘He was going to. She told me yesterday afternoon. There wouldn’t be much point if you waited till after he’d done it to kill him, would there?’

  ‘Do you not think that might be a bit extreme?’

  He picked up her scepticism and flushed. ‘Not with Mirren. She’s like that. But anyway, the dog lived in that shed that got burned up last night in the fire. So it’s dead anyway.’

  No one had told her that. Fleming glanced towards the ravaged shed with some dismay. ‘That’s very sad.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ James shrugged. ‘So she probably did it for nothing.’

  ‘There are a lot of other things to consider. And as I said, Mr Murdoch’s death may well be an accident. But thank you very much for your help, James. Do you live near here?’

  James indicated a house across the other side of the bay and when she said that if they needed a statement from him, someone would come to take it, he smiled self-importantly. ‘Oh, you will!’ he said, then strutted back to a group of teenagers who, Fleming saw, had been watching their conversation with some interest.

  Not a taking child. Sneaks, like the invaluable police grasses whose information was vital to the clear-up rate, weren’t attractive people, but no doubt in schools they had their uses too. Still, somehow she didn’t think she’d be seeing him as star witness in the trial of Mirren Murdoch.

  But the poor dog! Miserable with its final owner, and then such a ghastly end. She walked into the yard to look at what remained of the shed. She could only hope that Findlay wouldn’t hear the details; he’d loved the animal.

  ‘Strachan, Macrae and Ingles’. They still had his name on the plate by the door, which surprised Tam. Perhaps they just hadn’t got round to doing something about it; that would figure, with lawyers.

  His warrant card produced raised eyebrows and a silent ‘Oooh!’ from the young receptionist, who then looked thoroughly confused when he asked to speak to Mr Strachan.

  ‘You can’t. He’s dead!’ she blurted out, with a helpless look over her shoulder to the older woman sitting at a desk behind her who rose and came over. She was fresh-faced and neatly and befittingly twinsetted.

  ‘Mr Strachan was the founder of the firm,’ she explained. ‘Mr Macrae is now the senior partner – perhaps you would like me to find out if he could see you now?’

  ‘Fine,’ MacNee said. He had a problem with twinsets; their owners usually seemed to expect all police officers to wear a collar and tie.

  The receptionist, at a nod from her colleague, picked up the phone. MacNee was about to turn away when the other woman spoke. ‘This is to do with Mr Ingles, is it? I just want to tell you he’s done nothing wrong. He’s worked here since he qualified, and he’s a kind, gentle, decent man. The last verdict was a miscarriage of justice, and now it’s going to happen all over again, isn’t it? It’s wicked, wicked!’ There were tears in her eyes.

  She sounded so fierce that MacNee was positively relieved when the girl said, ‘He’ll see you now,’ and got up to lead him through.

  The firm of Strachan, Macrae and Ingles was housed in the main square in Wigtown and Macrae’s office was high-ceilinged, with an elaborate fireplace and moulded cornice. The furniture, though, was surprisingly modern and there was a computer on the desk.

  The man who got up to meet him was just what MacNee had expected – a stuffed shirt, and it was an expensive-looking shirt at that, thick cotton with collar points which lay absolutely flat. Tam found, on the occasions when Bunty forced him into a shirt, that the points always curled.

  Macrae had wiry grey hair and unusually bright blue eye
s behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. He did not look particularly welcoming as he waved MacNee to a chair.

  ‘Keith Ingles,’ MacNee said. ‘I wonder if you’d be good enough to give me a bit of background, sir. Did you know he had been arrested?’

  ‘We all know.’ His manner was forbidding. ‘And we heard it with great sadness. If there is anything any of us can do – my colleagues, the staff – which would be helpful to him as witnesses to his good character and probity, then we are happy to do it.’

  A certain closing of ranks was to be expected; this level of enthusiasm was not.

  ‘You think we’ve got the wrong man?’ MacNee asked bluntly and got a wintry smile in reply.

  ‘You’re not one to beat about the bush, sergeant, are you? Yes, you have got the wrong man. Just as you did the last time. Keith could have had no need for a paltry sum like five thousand pounds.’

  It didn’t seem a paltry sum to MacNee. ‘He’d an expensive girlfriend,’ he pointed out.

  Macrae’s lips tightened. ‘Ah yes, Davina. I had to identify her body, you know, along with one of the office staff. She worked here as a secretary – a very indifferent secretary, I may say. Now that was someone who might have found the money very tempting.’

  The suggestion was obvious. Decent chaps didn’t do that sort of thing. Blame it on the hired help.

  ‘Come off it!’ MacNee said with deliberate rudeness. ‘There was an eye-witness—’

  ‘Mrs Aitcheson. Oh, very reliable!’ The words were loaded with sarcasm. ‘There had been big problems with pilfering from the cloakroom at the Yacht Club and Ingles was asked to tackle her about it. Nothing was proved – though the thefts then stopped – but as you can imagine she bore him a considerable grudge.’

  MacNee didn’t trouble to hide his incredulity. ‘You’re really telling me she’d have lied about the person who nearly killed her, just to land Ingles in it?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Macrae was silent for a moment, then, leaning forward, he said earnestly, ‘Look here. If Keith had needed money, and were dishonest – which he was not – there were half-a-dozen trusts he administered which he could have bled discreetly for larger sums than that, with very little risk of discovery as long as he wasn’t too greedy.’