Janet brushed aside the notion that she should be in bed, though, and when her daughter sat down beside her, her first question was when they were going to see Angus; on being told that it wouldn’t be for a day or two yet, she burst into tears.
Marjory had put her arms round her, of course, patting and soothing as she would have done with Cat or Cammie, but it felt unnatural, ineffectual. How could she comfort her mother, when comforting was a mother’s job? How could she console for a grief even she, in middle age, was still too young fully to understand?
It was Janet who calmed herself down, found her hankie and tried to smile as she dabbed at her eyes. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to possess my soul in patience, won’t I? And maybe it’s all to the good if he’s getting a proper rest – he got awful trauchled, sometimes, you know, with the confusion in his mind.
‘And don’t you go fretting, dearie. We’ll get him home again when he’s more like his old self.’
Sick at heart, Marjory had weakly agreed, lied about having had lunch, and allowed herself to be shooed away because she’d be needing to get finished up at her work and be away home to her man and the weans.
So here she was at her desk, finishing up. Or at least, she ought to be, but there seemed to be so many aspects to these two investigations that she couldn’t sort them out. Was Tam right that they were linked? Or was Murdoch’s murder, as the strutting Sergeant Christie would have it, a drunken revenge attack? There was something about what he’d told her that was niggling at her, but every time she tried to focus on it, it seemed to slip away again and puzzling at it only made it worse.
At least MacNee’s appearance at the door gave her an excuse for stopping. He seemed in high spirits.
‘Anything you want to know about Drumbreck, just ask. I’m the wee boy!’ he proclaimed, then, as she looked up wearily, he frowned. ‘Here – who’s stolen your scone? You’re looking about as cheerful as a wet weekend in Rothesay.’
‘Oh – long day, I suppose. And I’ve just been telling my mother that the news about Dad isn’t good.’
‘That’s a bummer.’ Tam sat down. ‘How is Janet?’
‘Looks as if she’d fall over if you breathed on her, but she’s doing her usual stoic bit. Chased me away after checking up to make sure I’d eaten.’
‘And had you?’
‘Well, not in that sense,’ Marjory admitted. ‘Not since breakfast.’
‘No wonder you’re looking so peely-wally. Come on, I’ll take you down the pub.’
‘I’ve stuff to do to be ready for tomorrow and I don’t want to be too late home, after being away.’
‘Canteen, then, even if you only take a sandwich.’
She realized that she was, after all, very hungry and got up, sketching a salute. ‘Sir!’ She followed him downstairs.
There were two people sitting in the big room, with at one end the canteen hatch with tables, and at the other some easy chairs and a TV, now broadcasting regional news. Jon Kingsley and Tansy Kerr were sitting watching at the same table, Fleming was glad to see; it looked as if the hostilities of the morning had been suspended at least.
‘That’s Drumbreck, look,’ Kingsley said as they came in.
There were views of the marina, of a handful of people and of uniformed officers by the blue-and-white tape, followed by a shot of the burned-out shed.
‘A spate of vandalism in this quiet village has caused problems recently,’ an earnest young man was saying to camera, ‘and there is speculation that Niall Murdoch was killed during the arson attack which left this shed in ruins. A man is helping police with their inquiries.’
Fleming, choosing a sandwich, turned. ‘That’s what was bothering me – of course! Christie was telling me he was fixing on a time between seven, when Murdoch phoned his wife, and nine, when the night watchman came on, but of course the shed wasn’t torched as early as that. If it’s the vandal he’s fingering, he’d have to be considering a much later time.’
‘Around midnight, according to the night watchman,’ MacNee, at the hatch, said over his shoulder. ‘Bridie and beans, thanks, Sally. Turns out he’s Euphemia Aitcheson’s husband, Brian – used to be in the Force, maybe you remember? Didn’t see a thing – quiet night, till the fire broke out, he said.
‘But I reckon we’re needing to take a wider look at it anyway. According to Brian, if you fancied taking out Murdoch you’d be told to form an orderly queue. His partner, Ronnie Lafferty—’
Fleming and Kerr chorused in unison, ‘Oh, him!’
MacNee looked surprised, and Fleming explained that the man himself was probably even now upstairs awaiting release on an undertaking to appear.
‘Serious bad news, Lafferty is. After what Brian said I gave a pal in Glasgow a call, and he says the man’s got some very nasty wee chums.’
Kerr pitched in her account of the row between Lafferty and Murdoch, and the rumour of Murdoch’s affair with Lafferty’s wife.
MacNee agreed. ‘Brian talked about that too. Said Murdoch was a brave man – that’s brave, like, stupid. He didn’t say so, but he seemed a wee thing embarrassed and if you ask me he’s been reporting to Lafferty about Gina’s activities.’
‘And the horse-faced woman I talked to said that Ingles had known stuff about Lafferty and tried to keep him out of the club,’ Kerr said.
Fleming listened to it all, frowning. ‘You know,’ she said slowly at last, ‘it all does seem to keep coming back to the Ingles thing. We’ll need to keep a very open mind about this.
‘Incidentally, the pathologist says he drowned. The blow on the head, with something small and round and heavy, knocked him out, but he was alive when he hit the water. So there’ll be an argument there for the lawyers when we get our man.’
‘There’s always an argument for the lawyers,’ Tam said bitterly.
Kingsley had been uncharacteristically quiet. Now he said, awkwardly, ‘Look, I just want to say sorry. I’ve apologized to Tansy for things I said this morning, and I know we screwed up. I’ve talked to Greg and he still thinks Ingles is guilty. I think he may be, but with this other killing – well, I’m scared we got it wrong. Listening just now, I had an idea . . .’
He hesitated.
‘Always ready to listen to ideas,’ Fleming said lightly.
‘We know Murdoch was still alive at seven. He must have been dead by the time of the fire, or surely he’d have come rushing. And why wasn’t he going home for supper? If we knew where he was, who he was with, that might tell us something.’
‘I bet the night watchman takes a break from time to time,’ Kerr said shrewdly. ‘And anyway, the body was out at the end of the pontoons and everyone in the place has a boat. If he was there to watch for vandals he wouldn’t look out to sea.’
‘All good points. There’s a lot to consider.’ Fleming got up. ‘I’m going back to finish up. I’d appreciate reports as soon as you can, and Tansy, I’d be grateful if you could chase up Christie if his doesn’t arrive tomorrow. Briefing in the morning.’
As she went to the door, she turned to Kingsley. ‘I’ll detail you to do interviews in Drumbreck tomorrow,’ she said. ‘But just don’t make any sudden movements.’
He grinned. ‘Thanks, boss.’ Then he added, ‘And if you see Laura, could you tell her I’m being a good boy?’
‘Laura? Oh – yes, if it comes up.’ Fleming left, with MacNee following her. She had forgotten all about Kingsley’s meeting with Laura at the dog trials, and this wasn’t entirely welcome news.
She did try to make her voice as neutral as possible as she said to MacNee, ‘Are they an item, then?’
‘Not that I know of,’ MacNee said sourly. ‘Laura’s far too good for the likes of him.’
‘Laura’s too good for most people, but we mustn’t be selfish. He’s a bright lad – homed in on the question of where Niall was at suppertime.’
MacNee sniffed. ‘Still wouldn’t let him or Allan anywhere near the Ingles case.’
‘I know
, Tam. There’s always a temptation to want to be right, especially when it’s your career at stake, but at least for once he’s prepared to admit he’s been wrong.’ She laughed. ‘Laura’s influence, maybe.’
But it wasn’t a happy thought. How could she, in future, talk to Laura as freely and confidentially as she always had done, when it would mean asking her to keep secrets from someone she was involved with?
Gina Lafferty heard the front door close with such a resounding bang that she winced, half-expecting it to be followed by the sound of its glass panel crashing to the floor. Ronnie had returned.
Ronnie storming in could hardly be called a novelty, but this, from the sound of it, was going to be the kind of storm where you were advised to put up the shutters and leave town. She shivered. Ronnie’s rages were indiscriminate: you could be caught up just by being in the wrong place. Stay calm, stay calm, she told herself.
She was opening the sitting-room door when he bellowed, ‘Gina! Oh – there you are. You heard? You heard what they did – to me?’
She took a step back as he pushed past her, heading for the built-in cocktail cabinet. Taking a water tumbler, he filled it to the brim with Scotch. She noticed, inconsequentially, that the missing silver box had magically reappeared on its shelf.
Ronnie’s face was a murky purple, an unhealthy colour. It crossed her mind to suggest he call a doctor – but why? It would only provoke him further, and anyway, what was wrong with being a wealthy widow?
‘Yes. Tony phoned and told me.’ Tony was Ronnie’s ‘fixer’ in Glasgow, the man whose job it was to see that things like this didn’t happen.
From the torrent of obscenities which followed, she gathered that the Fixer of the Year title was unlikely to be coming Tony’s way. ‘I managed to put in a call, told him to see to it they dropped all charges, there and then.’ Ronnie gulped at his whisky, sat down, then got up again to pace the room; he stopped in front of the fireplace. ‘Told him to get Beltrami on to them – he’s a top Glasgow lawyer, knows the score – and all the moron could say was that the busies have six hours to do as they like first. Nazis, the police in this country – Nazis!
‘So surprise, surprise – they charged me – they sodding charged me!’
‘Tony said you’d get a slap on the wrist, that’s all,’ she offered soothingly.
This had much the same effect as pouring oil into a blazing chip-pan. ‘A slap on the wrist!’ he yelled, smashing the glass in his hand down so hard on the marble mantelpiece that it broke. Whisky poured out along the surface, dripping on to the pale carpet, and shards of crystal fell to shatter on the hearth. He didn’t even glance down. ‘A slap on the wrist? Has the man gone doolally? Do you know what a “slap on the wrist” means? It means a criminal conviction. It means fingerprints and DNA on file. That’s what it means.’
He glanced down impatiently at the debris at his feet, then walked back to the drinks cupboard to fetch another Scotch. He turned, his bullfrog eyes hot and red, glaring at her. ‘Well? Say something!’
Frozen in uncertainty, Gina’s mind raced through responses. ‘Why does that matter?’ was out, as was, ‘Why did you throw your weight around in the first place, then?’ Her last attempt at calming him down had been disastrous; get it wrong, and the next whisky glass could break in her face.
She changed the subject. ‘They’re asking questions about Niall’s death.’
‘Never!’ he sneered, but at least he hadn’t flared up again.
‘And you should know this.’ Gina edged backwards, nearer to the door, just in case. ‘I met Shirley Clark, shopping in Wigtown this afternoon. She’s told the police that you and Niall had a flaming row in the club last week. She said that it had been her duty to inform them. I think she enjoyed telling me that.’ She held her breath.
He wasn’t going to hit her. He went very quiet, alarmingly quiet. ‘She did, did she?’ The hand that wasn’t clasped round the glass tightened into a fist, then slowly relaxed again. ‘I don’t like busybodies. Tell her that from me next time you see her.
‘And naturally, when the black bastards turn up here, asking questions, we can be totally open with them, can’t we, babe? I was with you all last night, and you were with me.’
‘Yes,’ Gina said. ‘Yes, of course.’
Jenna Murdoch made herself another cup of coffee. She’d lost count of how many cups she’d had today; probably enough to ensure that she wouldn’t sleep, despite having been up most of last night.
She didn’t particularly want coffee, but it was something to do. Unless you were prostrate with grief, it was hard to know how to pass the time. After the police left, there had been the visits from neighbours, of course: people who had barely spoken to her in a year had come to her door to express their shock and sympathy, some using the fig-leaf of a ready-meal from their own freezers to cover their naked curiosity.
It still left a lot of hours to be got through. There was plenty of work needing done in the flat upstairs but it wouldn’t do, exactly, for such a recent widow to appear with a paintbrush in her hand. And TV entertainment seemed callous when your husband was lying, presumably, on a mortuary slab. Jenna would, they had told her, be required to go and identify him tomorrow. She didn’t want to dwell on that. She’d picked up a book, but her thoughts kept drifting.
At least the dog hadn’t burned to death. The investigators had been quite definite: either the fire-raiser had taken pity and let it go, or in its panic it had managed to slip its collar and bolt. She wondered what had happened to the poor thing – living rough somewhere, presumably. She hoped, in a general sort of way, that someone would find it and give it a good home.
It was odd that Mirren hadn’t been more concerned about that. She’d told her, of course, when she heard the good news from the police, but the child’s reaction had been as muted as her reaction to the news of its horrible death had been in the first place. But then, shock affected people in very strange ways.
And there had been a lot for Mirren to cope with today. She had lost her father; whatever their recent relationship might have been, that would knock any child off balance. The thing was, though, she couldn’t see any sign of it. Mirren had gone about everything quite calmly, watching the police activity, appearing at mealtimes to eat with good appetite. She had been silent, certainly, making only the briefest replies to Jenna’s anxious inquiries, but that wasn’t unusual.
There had always been a curious detachment about Mirren. She had been her own, self-contained person from the time she was old enough to free herself from an unwanted embrace and toddle away to something which interested her more. She was passionate about animals, of course; had her father’s ill-treatment of the dog destroyed all the normal affection you would expect a daughter to have?
Children were, in any case, less developed emotionally than adults liked to think. Oh, everything being well, they responded to love and tenderness by returning it. But there were enough cases in the newspapers, when you thought about it, to show that when things went wrong, there was something in children, some instinct for self-preservation, perhaps, which allowed them to be astonishingly callous.
So perhaps Mirren, receiving so little affection from her father, had shut down her own response. It was logical enough; Jenna could perfectly understand it. Whether, in later years, Mirren would be lying on a couch somewhere, paying to have herself unscrambled, was a whole other question.
It was more her reaction to the dog that baffled her mother. Perhaps the fury and despair Jenna would have expected had only been postponed, but Mirren hadn’t gone blank, hadn’t seemed anything other than – well, normal. After supper just now she’d asked if she could go and play computer games, which seemed fair enough. They couldn’t sit at the table staring at each other all evening.
Her coffee was cooling. She sipped it, pulled a face, and had just got up to pour it away when she heard her daughter’s hurrying feet. She hadn’t played games for long, then – and when Mirren opened the door
it was clear she was in distress. She was trying to conceal it, though, sniffing hard, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.
It was almost a relief that the backlash had started. Jenna came towards her. ‘Mirren, dear—’
‘Can I go out?’
Jenna glanced at the window, the lights inside making it a black square. ‘It’ll be dark soon! Of course not. Why do you want to go out anyway?’
The tears fell faster. ‘It’s Moss,’ she wailed. ‘He’s out there somewhere. He must be lost and frightened. Something could happen to him – he might be run over, anything! I have to find him.’
Her mother was bewildered. ‘Yes, I know. I told you he must have run away. The police know that too, and they’ll have been looking out for him. He’ll be miles away by now, probably. There wouldn’t be any point.’
Mirren went to the door. ‘But he knows me! He could be hiding somewhere, afraid to come out. If I called he’d come, I know he would.’ She wrenched it open and ran out. Jenna could hear her calling, ‘Moss! Moss!’
She hurried after her and caught her arm. ‘I tell you what. We’ll walk round together, along the bay, and then back the other way along the road for a bit, and you can call him. If he doesn’t come, we’ll see about putting up a notice and offering a reward tomorrow. All right?’
Mirren barely seemed to hear her mother. Shaking herself free, still sobbing, she trotted down the road. ‘Moss! Moss! Oh, Moss!’
Marjory Fleming parked her car in the yard and got out, arching her aching back, glad to have reached the end of the long day. It wasn’t dark yet, quite: it was a fine, mild evening and the landscape was still bathed in the soft gloaming light as the sun slowly took its leave. The first star, low in the sky, was just visible and as usual she walked across to look out over the quiet hills, taking a deep breath of the cool air. Below her in the orchard, under the pink and white blossom on the trees, a few of the hens were still enjoying their freedom before darkness brought danger.
Lying Dead Page 26
