Lying Dead

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t?’

  Macrae bristled. ‘For the sake of client confidence, we commissioned a forensic audit of every one, and there wasn’t a penny unaccounted for.’

  Very scrupulous. ‘You’ve a point there, I’ll give you that,’ MacNee conceded.

  ‘You’ll say, no doubt, about the murder, that when it comes to a relationship like his with that – that little trollop, you can’t predict how a man will react. But if he did it, in a moment of blind passion, he would confess. And unless he has, you’ve got it wrong. He was set up the last time, and the person you’re looking for is the person who did it.’

  His emotion was such that MacNee almost thought he would see those collar points curl. He left, and could feel Twinset’s eyes boring into his back as he went out of the door.

  ‘Where is Inspector Fleming?’ Sergeant Christie demanded. ‘I need to brief her on the situation.’

  The crime scene was quieter now: the crowd had mainly dispersed and the owners of boats not within the cordoned area were free to resume normal holiday activity. The detectives, with a couple of uniformed officers, were taking names and statements inside the Yacht Club; the forensic team hadn’t arrived yet and there were three officers on duty by the blue-and-white tapes.

  ‘Over at Rowan Villa, I think, sir,’ one told him, and Christie trotted off self-importantly.

  He found Fleming surveying the blackened debris of the Murdochs’ shed, looking troubled. ‘I’ve just heard there was a dog burned alive in there. Horrible thing to happen.’

  ‘Ah!’ Christie was delighted to find himself in possession of superior information. ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. They sifted right through the rubble this morning, and the fire chief assures me that there was no dog inside. The fire wouldn’t have been hot enough at any time to do more than char the bones and there wasn’t a trace. It must have escaped when the fire started, or perhaps the fire-raiser took pity on the poor brute and set it free.’

  Fleming’s face brightened. ‘That’s good news. Where—?’

  He didn’t let her finish, anxious to proceed to the description of his next triumph. ‘More importantly, we’ve picked up McLeish. He’s only the haziest recollection of his movements last night – I wouldn’t like to guess his blood alcohol count, even now – but it turns out he wanted to buy the flat the Murdochs have been doing up, there –’ he pointed, ‘for him and his pregnant girlfriend. Murdoch laughed at his offer. McLeish sprayed graffiti on the wall on Tuesday – you can still see the red streaks. And now the girl’s broken up with him and yesterday she told him she was getting rid of the baby.’

  ‘Powerful motive for revenge, probably.’

  ‘Definitely,’ he corrected her. ‘We’re not in a position to charge him yet since he claims he was with his mates all evening. We’re checking that out now.’

  ‘Good. You’ve been most efficient, sergeant. And a copybook exercise at the scene of crime too.’

  Christie smirked modestly as she went on, ‘Presumably we won’t have a time of death until we get the pathologist’s report—’

  ‘Ah!’ Christie said again. He was really enjoying himself now. ‘As it happens, we do have some idea. He phoned his wife at seven; the night watchman comes on duty at nine. Now, someone may have seen him after seven and we haven’t had a chance to talk to the night watchman yet, but it seems likely it happened sometime between seven and nine.’

  There was no doubt about it; he’d impressed her. ‘That’s a very promising framework. Have you enough manpower to cover checking McLeish’s alibi?’

  ‘All in hand, ma’am.’

  Fleming smiled. ‘Then I can leave everything in your capable hands for the moment, sergeant. Thank you very much.’

  She walked away, leaving him glowing. He was inclined to resent the promotion of women to senior ranks, but whatever you said about tokenism, you couldn’t fault Big Marge’s judgement.

  It was the woman draped sobbing over one of the tables in the smart bar in the Yacht Club who attracted Tansy Kerr’s attention immediately, even though the place was full of people.

  She was a blowsy blonde. Her considerable bosom was more or less restrained by a bra with black straps under a strappy hot-pink top, unsuited to the chilly weather, but she seemed oblivious to the gooseflesh on her flabby arms. Her make-up had smeared; there was a box of tissues and an empty bottle of wine on the table in front of her and the glass she was clutching was almost empty too. Another woman, with mousy hair scraped back in a ponytail and wearing an olive-green golf shirt, was sitting beside her as if to offer comfort, but with her rigid posture screaming disapproval.

  Kerr hung back as she heard her say severely, ‘Kim, you really have to pull yourself together and stop making a spectacle of yourself. For goodness’ sake, what will people say? Supposing Jenna came in? Or Adrian?’

  ‘So what? I loved him, and I don’t care who knows it. He loved me too. He didn’t give a stuff for that frigid bitch—’

  ‘That’s quite enough, Kim. I’m sorry.’ The woman stood up, pursuing her thin mouth. ‘If you’re going to talk like that, I’m not staying to listen.’

  ‘No, Shirley!’ Kim grabbed at her arm. ‘You’re my friend, my only friend! Don’t leave me—’

  With an air of desperation, Shirley looked around and spotted Kerr, notebook in hand.

  ‘Here’s a policewoman, come to talk to you.’ She turned to Kerr. ‘You’ll want to talk to Mrs McConnell. She was a great friend of Mr Murdoch’s.’

  As Kim looked up blearily, Shirley made good her escape and Kerr took her place at the table.

  ‘Mrs McConnell, I’m DC Kerr. You knew the deceased?’

  It was, as she realized as soon as it was out of her mouth, an unfortunate term to choose. It provoked another explosion of tears and an incoherent jumble followed which was hard to make out but in which the words, ‘loved each other’ and ‘bastard who killed him’ featured prominently.

  ‘You were having an affair with Niall Murdoch?’ Trying to get the interview back on track, Kerr offered her a wodge of tissues.

  ‘So crude – affair! It was love, that’s different.’ Kim scrubbed at her face, creating a fresh streak of mascara on her cheek.

  ‘Did your husband and his wife know about this?’

  ‘I told him. Bastard. I told him I was going to leave him, you know, and have a real life, instead of boring, boring, boring—’ She emptied her glass, tipped up the bottle, and when only a dribble came out waved vaguely in the direction of the barman. ‘Another one, Dave!’

  Kerr would have to grab her chance before the woman was completely blootered, but despite doing her best to drag out some more concrete information, like when Kim had last seen him and what he had said, details seemed vague. As far as she could make out, Kim hadn’t had more than the most casual contact with Murdoch for some time. Her recollections all seemed to relate to last summer, and at last Kerr gave up.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs McConnell, you’ve been very helpful.’ Not, she added under her breath as she turned to select a fresh victim.

  To her surprise, Shirley, who had made such a sharp exit, was hovering, waiting for her.

  ‘Shirley Clark,’ she introduced herself. ‘There’s something I wanted to tell you.’

  ‘About—?’ Kerr discreetly indicated Kim, who having had no response to her gestures was weaving her way across to the bar.

  ‘Kim?’ Her scornful laugh offered a fine view of large, yellowish teeth. ‘She’s a fantasist. He dropped her long ago.

  ‘Just in case no one’s told you, Niall Murdoch saw himself as the local stud. Ready to screw anyone who stood still long enough.’ There was something in her tone that hinted she might have been someone who had stood still to no effect. ‘No, what I felt I should tell you was that when my husband and I were leaving the club last week we heard Niall having the most tremendous row with his partner, Ronnie Lafferty. You know him?’

  Kerr shook her head.
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br />   ‘Oh, he’s the most ghastly creature! Poor old Keith Ingles knew a bit about him and tried to keep him out of the club, but of course he just bought his way in and there was nothing any of us could do about it.

  ‘Anyway, this was really violent. I was afraid they’d come to blows or something. Not the sort of thing you expect in a club like this.’

  Interested, Kerr prompted her, ‘What was it about?’

  ‘It seemed to be about money. And Ronnie was threatening him, definitely. But I’ll tell you something else – everyone knows Niall and Gina have been having a fling.’

  ‘Gina?’

  ‘Ronnie’s wife. Oh, quite attractive, I suppose, in a vulgar, obvious sort of way. And if Ronnie found out – well, according to Keith he has some very dubious connections in Glasgow. He’s a scrap metal dealer, you know – I should think he could probably take out a contract on someone’s life with one phone call!’

  ‘You’ve made a very serious allegation, Mrs Clark. Got anything to back it up?’ Kerr enjoyed seeing the look of horror on her face.

  ‘No, no! That’s just, well, you know . . .’ The sentence trailed away, then she went on more confidently, ‘It’s so unfortunate, that’s all, having people like that around. The rougher element. And Niall’s – activities,’ she compressed her lips again, ‘they simply give the place a bad name, which reflects on the rest of us. Oh, I’m sorry for his little girl, of course I am, but I have to say I think Drumbreck is better off without him.’

  It was in a spirit of pure mischief that Kerr asked, very gravely, ‘Mrs Clark, could you give me an account of your movements last night, please?’

  The wind had dropped. Out in the Cree estuary, Adrian McConnell reefed the sails of his 25-foot Contessa and started the engine. The sun was almost too bright now; he screwed up his eyes as he headed towards Wigtown Bay, the boat bucking as it hit the edge of the waves and salt spray blowing into his face.

  It was so clean out here, so clean and fresh and quiet, away from the sordid mess of his life. He had walked out of the house this morning, walked out on Kim indulging herself in hysterical grief, and on his furious daughter, yelling, ‘Don’t damn’ well leave me with her! She’s your wife! I’ve got better things to do.’

  He was tired, that was the thing, so tired. Yet he couldn’t sleep: night after night, as Kim snored drunkenly at his side, his mind had gone round, and round, and round.

  Could he face going back, face the dramatic scenes and the accusations, the questions, the pretence? Had he the strength to cobble together something that would pass for normal life? Did he even want to?

  Adrian cut back the engine. The movement of the grey-green waves was mesmeric, the mysterious depths below darker, blacker, an invitation to silence, oblivion. He savoured the word. His mind, his whole soul, ached for oblivion. And it was there, just one step away.

  Chapter 17

  The house MacNee was looking for was one of half-a-dozen in a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Wigtown. Duntruin Place had been cheaply built in the seventies; there were cracks now in some of the dreary beige pebble-dash walls and where plastic double-glazing hadn’t been installed the window-frames were rotting. There was one with a ‘For Sale’ sign which looked as if it had been standing empty for some considerable time.

  The Aitchesons’ house was well kept, though, and the small garden at the front had some kind of wee orange flowers – Tam was no gardener – on either side of the slab path. He pushed the bell beside the metal front door with its frosted glass panes and heard it chime.

  He wasn’t optimistic. This was a bad time for catching people in, and unless her injury had forced Euphemia into retirement – and certainly, with a name like that, she couldn’t be young – he’d probably have to call back later.

  But that was the sound of footsteps, and the door opened and he found himself looking at the burly figure of Brian Aitcheson.

  ‘Tam MacNee!’ he hailed him. ‘This is a surprise. Come away in, man – I’ve not set eyes on you these five years!’

  MacNee was taken aback. Aitcheson wasn’t an uncommon name in these parts, and with the assumption he’d made about Euphemia’s age, it had never occurred to him to connect her with Brian – in his fifties, retired from the Force a few years back. He’d never worked at the Kirkluce HQ, but MacNee had had dealings with him on occasion and found him a decent enough lad.

  ‘Good to see you again, Brian.’ MacNee shook hands and followed him inside. ‘It was really the wife I was wanting,’ he said, and saw the man’s shoulders stiffen.

  ‘She’s out cleaning. What were you wanting her for?’

  It suddenly came back to MacNee: Aitcheson had taken early retirement when his wife was caught shoplifting. Very embarrassing all round.

  He said hastily, ‘It’s about the attack on her during that robbery. You’ll have heard Keith Ingles has been charged with murder?’

  Relaxing visibly, Aitcheson led him through to the kitchen at the back of the house, an old-fashioned kitchen with beige Formica surfaces and oatmeal-coloured doors, clean and bare to the point of being uncomfortable. MacNee sat down at the matching Formica table while Aitcheson switched on the kettle and set out mugs.

  ‘Oh, we heard all right. Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow.’

  ‘What happened that night, Brian?’ MacNee had read Euphemia’s statement, but it would be interesting to know her husband’s take on it.

  ‘Bastard all but killed her, that’s what. I tell you, if I’d not come in, he’d have finished her off.’

  ‘You saw him too?’

  Aitcheson shook his head. ‘Heard him leaving out the side door. I’d given herself a lift to the Yacht Club that evening – she usually went in the morning, but they’d had a hoolie the night before in Newton Stewart and she’d to clear up there. I was driving off when I saw she’d left her pinny, so I went back – lucky for her!

  ‘It was just a wee wooden building in those days, not posh like it is now. I went in the front and called to see where she was, but there was just that door slamming. I went in, Tam, and I tell you I damn near stepped on her – on the floor outside her cleaning cupboard, blood everywhere. Scared me out my wits – you can imagine.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ MacNee pictured Bunty lying in a pool of blood and felt sick. ‘So – so what was he like? Would you have said he was violent?’

  Aitcheson fished the teabags out of the mugs and brought them over, then fetched a milk carton, a bag of sugar and a couple of teaspoons.

  ‘Didn’t know the man myself, but he fairly had it in for Mrs A. Made all sorts of accusations – couldn’t prove one of them. All lies, of course,’ he hastened to add.

  ‘Of course.’ MacNee nodded gravely as he stirred his tea. ‘I’ll get a word with her later, maybe.’

  ‘It’s her night for the WRI – she’ll be going straight from her work, so you’d maybe be better to wait till tomorrow. It’s Friday, so she’ll be at the Laffertys’ for a couple of hours – Beach House, you know it? Biggest place on Drumbreck Bay?’

  ‘I can find it. But what are you at yourself these days, Brian? Dossing about?’

  ‘Hardly that! I’m on shifts – night watchman at the Drumbreck marina.’

  MacNee, who had been leaning back in his chair, sat up. ‘The marina? You’ll have heard about the boss, then?’

  ‘I’m not long out my bed. Which boss – bloody Lafferty or bloody Murdoch?’

  ‘They found Murdoch drowned this morning. Suspicious circumstances.’

  Aitcheson’s jaw dropped. ‘Murdoch – dead?’ Then he added, ‘Don’t know why I’m surprised, really. If ever a man had it coming to him, it was Murdoch.’

  ‘Someone had it in for him?’

  ‘Someone? I’ll tell you who didn’t have it in for him – that’ll be quicker.’

  ‘I have all the time in the world.’ MacNee settled back again as comfortably as he could in the flimsy chair.

  ‘Got a problem, old man?’


  Adrian McConnell jumped as the voice hailed him. A motor yacht, with a cargo of women, children and men showcasing varied interpretations of the nautical look, swept round in a curve and throttled back alongside.

  ‘No, no.’ He leaned forward to fiddle with the engine. ‘Cut out, that’s all.’ He turned the key and it obligingly caught. ‘That’s it now. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ called the man at the wheel, touched his hand to his white skipper’s cap, and roared away.

  Adrian looked down at the water again, foaming now in the wake of the motor yacht. The moment had passed.

  Feeling so weary that every bone in his body ached, he turned the boat and headed for the shore.

  Fleming sat at her desk, her head in her hands. It was only six-thirty, but it had seemed a very long day.

  She was depressed as well as tired. She’d called the hospital from her mobile to get the latest on Angus’s condition, but the report wasn’t good. They still hadn’t got him stabilized; they were having to keep him mainly under sedation at the moment, the sister said, and suggested delicately that for his wife to come and see him at the moment might be distressing. With experience of psychiatric hospitals, Fleming had read between the lines: he would be being physically restrained, ill-shaven, unkempt – Angus, who had always had an almost military precision in his grooming – and the condition of his neighbours on the ward would be upsetting too.

  It hadn’t been easy to persuade Janet that she should leave it for a day or two until the news was a little better and she was stronger herself. When Marjory went in, she was in the sitting-room, dressed but looking egg-shell fragile, with the bruise on the side of her forehead now showing rainbow colours. She’d had a stream of people in to look after her all afternoon, she said, though Marjory wasn’t sure that having to make the effort to be sociable was the best thing for her.