Lying Dead

by Aline Templeton

  That had, at least, made Fleming smile, but it didn’t last long. She had a meeting with Donald Bailey ahead, and she must calm herself first, since he would need no encouragement to go nuclear, with predictable results.

  Checking her voice-mail and e-mail wasn’t exactly soothing, but among the e-mails was a name she recognized. She still hadn’t replied to Chris Carter’s last message: this one was labelled, ‘Sorry.’

  It was quite long. It said just what needed to be said, about Tam and about the Jon Kingsley catastrophe. He showed the perfect understanding that was balm to the soul.

  Marjory and Bill had talked long into the night last night, but for all his sympathy he kept reassuring her with, ‘But you and Tam got him in the end, remember. He was a policeman – OK, not good, but he’s not the first rotten apple and I don’t suppose he’ll be the last. These things happen.’

  She couldn’t deny that, but nor could she find the words fully to explain her own feelings. It wasn’t just the terrible burden of guilt at having failed to see what was under her nose; it was that every time something like this happened, trust – the trust of the public, the vital trust among colleagues – was broken. Repairing it, like restoring fine china, would put it together again, even quite impressively, but evidence of the damage would still be there. She felt as if the shame was her shame, from belonging to the body Jon Kingsley had been part of as well.

  There was always a glass wall between police and public: she and Chris Carter were on one side of it and Bill was on the other. And whatever the demands of the day, Chris’s message needed an immediate, and grateful, reply. But he had ended, half-joking, ‘I’m sure I could organize a fact-finding mission to study the investigation methods of the Galloway Force.’

  He’d left it open for her to treat it as she wished, and the temptation was there – ‘Why not? And then a return visit to study yours?’ But playing with fire meant not just getting burned yourself; it started conflagrations that destroyed homes.

  Ignoring the constantly ringing phone, she set herself to write a considered reply. There were many deletions, but in the end she felt it was the best she could do: not hurtful, but final. It ended, ‘I can’t think Manchester would have much to learn from us, sadly. Good luck in the future, and thanks for all your help. Marjory.’

  She re-read it, hesitated, then pressed ‘Send’. It was done now.

  ‘It’s intolerable, Marjory, absolutely intolerable!’ Superintendent Bailey’s face was an alarming shade of puce. ‘We must apply to the Sheriff Court for an injunction, the High Court if need be. An exclusion zone for five hundred yards around the station.’

  ‘Let’s think it through, Don. What sort of headlines would we get after that? Police arrogance – public right to know . . .’

  He glared at her as if Press persecution could be laid to her charge. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘You have to accept that it’s a big story. A huge story. Two murders, one attempted murder – mercifully they haven’t made the connection with the attack on Mrs Aitcheson, though that will come. Throw in a bent copper, with one of his victims being another policeman, fighting for his life – if I sat down and thought for a fortnight, I don’t think I could come up with a bigger one, unless you could add a connection to Princess Diana’s accident in Paris.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said testily, ‘I know all that. And don’t go on to tell me they have a valuable job to do in the public interest. What I want to know is, how to stop them doing it?’

  Fleming tried not to, but she began to smile. Bailey was affronted for a moment, then realized what he had said and smiled reluctantly. They began to laugh, disproportionate laughter which might be an effect of stress, but they both felt the better for it.

  Dabbing his eyes with a blue silk handkerchief, Bailey said at last, ‘That’s all well and good, Marjory, but we still have the problem.’

  ‘I know we do. But I wonder if we should involve the Chief Constable – oh, I know, he’s been on to you already,’ as Bailey, with a pained expression, made to speak, ‘but he could perhaps contact the editors, or the proprietors if necessary. Explain that we’re anxious to work with the Press, we rely on them, blah, blah, blah – I’m sure he can write the script – but they are currently impeding the police in the ordinary execution of their duties. Civilian staff, who man emergency calls, are afraid to come in, and this is something we would have to explain to the public. He could even hint that we might put out one of our younger and prettier policewomen to cry on camera. I have one in mind – nice wee lass, probationer, who’s been in tears this morning already.’

  Bailey looked at her with respect. ‘You may be wasted in the Force, Marjory. Have you ever thought of politics?’

  ‘Never. I’m a rotten liar.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Not like some.’ He sighed. ‘What’s the state of play?’

  Sighing seemed to be contagious. ‘His attack on Tam – no problem. The footprints in the garden matched the shoes he was wearing and they found the jack with –’ she gulped ‘– blood and tissue on it in his car.

  ‘Davina’s murder: I was going to brief you on that. The labs have fibres from her clothes, and now they have his for comparison, it’s likely they’ll get a match, though there’s always the danger that he may have destroyed the ones he was wearing. But they’re comparing the grit on the soles of her shoes with the grit on his, and that may well produce results.

  ‘We still don’t know where he killed her, though I’d guess it was in her car, so there’s nothing to hope for there. And we don’t know how she contacted him either – possibly even by a letter sent here, since she’s unlikely to have had another address and his number doesn’t appear in the list from her mobile, which they’ve checked through now. Murdoch’s does, though, which confirms what we knew already.’

  ‘She was a bit foolhardy, surely, agreeing to meet Kingsley face to face?’

  ‘I think she was probably foolhardy by nature. She’d tried it on with the men in the bar in Manchester and even if she wasn’t successful, she got away with it. And I’d guess she told Niall Murdoch what she was doing as a safeguard, but Kingsley’s attack was so sudden she hadn’t the chance to use it.’

  ‘And where are we on Murdoch?’

  ‘Ah. We may never get him on that one. There’s no evidence of contact between the two, though Murdoch made two or three calls to the station here, but with the vandalism problems that was hardly surprising and there’s no record of who he asked to speak to. We can no doubt prove from phone records that Kingsley made the call to Jenna Murdoch but the rest is guesswork. This may just be one of those cases where we know who did it and stop looking, but haven’t evidence that will stand up in court. Ironic, really – that’s exactly the outcome he had been working towards, only with someone else as the prime suspect.’

  Bailey shook his head. ‘A sad business!’

  ‘As far as the attack on Mrs Aitcheson goes, Ingles’s lawyer will appeal his conviction and have it set aside as unsafe, no doubt, but Ingles will have to be charged with perverting the course of justice in any case. The only evidence against Kingsley is likely to come from tracing the money he used to buy his boat, but that’ll be hard to prove, after all this time. And he’s not about to confess.’

  ‘He’s said nothing?’

  ‘Nothing at all – sat throughout the six hours’ questioning in total silence. We kept him there the full time, working in relays. Perhaps we shouldn’t have allowed Tansy Kerr to give him his character quite so forcibly, but it was therapeutic for her and the tape’s never going to be evidence. A death stare can’t be shown in court to prove murderous intent.’

  ‘And what about you, Marjory – what did you say?’

  Her eyes fell. ‘I didn’t say anything, except what was professionally necessary. I didn’t trust myself. Once I started, I don’t know where I would have stopped.’

  He nodded gravely, ‘Understandable. ‘But you’d wonder how he ever thought
he’d get away with it.’

  ‘According to Laura Harvey, supreme self-confidence is a psychopathic characteristic. Poor Laura – she’s taking it badly that she didn’t pick up on it.’

  ‘If my recollection of lectures in criminal psychology – dim, I grant you – serves me, they can be clever at covering up too. If it’s any consolation, tell her she wasn’t the only one who was fooled. I had Kingsley pencilled in for promotion when the next sergeant’s job came up.

  ‘And speaking of sergeants – any word on Tam today?’

  ‘Stable is the official verdict, but Bunty’s worried. They found there had been a haemorrhage putting pressure on the brain and though they’ve relieved it and he’s been able to speak to her, we won’t know for a while yet what the damage is. I’m going along to see him this afternoon.’

  It wasn’t easy to talk about it. Fleming got up. ‘I’d better get back to my office. Working through the voice-mail alone looks like taking all day, and there’s a report to be written.’

  ‘Oh, incidentally, before you go, also on the subject of sergeants,’ Bailey rummaged among his papers to find a form, ‘Allan’s requested to leave the Force as soon as it can be arranged.’

  ‘Good riddance!’ Fleming said with feeling. ‘It’s been positively unpleasant of late with Allan and Kingsley trying to set up their own little private mafia. The CID room will be a much happier place without the two of them.’

  Bailey gave her a sardonic look. ‘A CID room that’s all sweetness and light? Dear me, Marjory – I hadn’t realized you were quite so naive.’

  Laura was waiting for Marjory to pick her up to go and see Tam. She was in her pleasant garden, with the sun shining and Daisy cheerfully rootling around among the bushes, but she wasn’t happy.

  She was depressed first of all at being so credulous. She, of all people, should be able to recognize manipulation when she saw it, yet she’d accepted Jon’s account of his pushy father as a textbook case – which was probably where he’d got the idea. She’d suspected he was using her, certainly, but on the couple of occasions when he’d kissed her she’d found herself responding with enthusiasm. Sexual attraction notoriously blunted your perceptions.

  Was she just another desperate woman, with a ticking biological clock, flattered by the attentions of a man five years younger? Thirty was looming; thirty, with a failed marriage behind you and no steady relationship since, was an added reason for depression. How she envied Marjory with her Bill, settled in a partnership that was steady as a rock!

  Happy as she was with her writing and broadcasting, much as she loved this place, was it enough? She had real friends here and what she thought of as a ‘real’ life, connected with her neighbours and the community as she could never be in London. But eligible men didn’t exactly happen along very often.

  There were agencies, of course; she’d had friends who’d used them, with great success. But perhaps she just needed a change . . .

  Then Daisy barked, she heard Marjory’s knock on the door and she hurried to answer it. At least it was good news about Tam. She picked up a bag with grapes she had bought and opened the door.

  ‘Do you think he’ll thank me for grapes, or would he rather a deep-fried Mars bar?’ she said gaily, then stopped when she saw Marjory’s face. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Another bleed in the brain. They’re going to have to operate again.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  Marjory followed her in; the dog ran round their feet, puzzled at getting no response to her welcome. They sat down outside and for a moment neither said anything.

  Then, ‘How’s Bunty?’ Laura asked.

  ‘As you would expect. She’s got a couple of sisters there, propping her up.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  There was another silence. Then Laura said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, ‘Oh, come on, Marjory – you know Tam! He won’t give up. And here I was feeling low, and expecting the visit to cheer me up.’

  ‘I have to say I’m pretty low myself. Laura, I went to see Dad today.’

  It was, Laura knew, the first time she had gone. ‘And—?’ she said gently.

  Marjory’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Laura, it was terrible! And that place – I’m sure they do their best, but it smells of urine. And the noises the patients make . . . But it was Dad that was worst of all.’ She was really crying now, struggling to find a tissue in her bag. ‘We never had an easy relationship, but you know, I was so proud of him. So tall and impressive in his uniform when I was young, my hero, really, and even after he retired he never looked anything but immaculate. This afternoon he wasn’t properly shaved, and he was wearing a dressing-gown he’d dribbled on. And he didn’t know us – he started yelling at us whenever we arrived, started lashing out. They had to come and give him an injection.’

  ‘Was Janet with you?’

  ‘That was the shaming thing. She was much better than I was. She comforted me – said it wasn’t Dad, that he’d gone. She’s accepted he’ll need looking after, and she’s started looking for the best place. Was that your idea?’

  ‘I thought she’d be better off with something constructive to do. And I asked around to find out which were good – there’s a new doctor at the Health Centre who was very helpful, and I gave her a list.’

  ‘Is that the one Mum was talking about? Mid-thirties, “a braw young man”, she said.’ Marjory gave her friend a sidelong look. ‘And single.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Marjory!’

  ‘I didn’t say it. Mum did,’ Marjory said, eyes wide and innocent. ‘She said we should maybe have a dinner party for him, make him feel welcome in the neighbourhood.’

  Laura protested, but it lightened their mood. After Marjorie had left, promising news of Tam whenever there was any, she went back out into the garden, smiling. With friends like Marjory, who needed agencies?

  She still wasn’t quite convinced. She was recording a programme in London in a couple of weeks’ time; perhaps she’d extend her visit to a month, see how she felt about a faster pace of life.

  Instead of heading for home, Marjory took the Kirkcowan road, heading towards Wigtown and Drumbreck. It felt necessary, somehow, to put things to rest.

  It had all been about money from the start – those who had too much, and those who envied that and greedily took it. Drumbreck had created itself as a fantasy, a self-indulgent play-world where the rules didn’t apply and life was a game with no consequences. Would this make any difference?

  She didn’t think so. Money meant that unless you got caught in the fallout, you could remove yourself until everything was clean and nice and ready for you to start your game again. Next weekend, or maybe the one after, they’d be back, a little shaken by all that had happened, circumspect for a while, perhaps, but slowly and surely they would revert to the way of life that suited them, decadent and unhealthily exciting.

  Marjory parked her car once more outside the Yacht Club where there were a few other cars parked. The club itself looked deserted and the marina was closed, but there was some activity by the boats and there were a few other people strolling in the evening sunshine.

  She set off along the road that skirted the bay. The tide was half-way out; oozy, khaki mudflats were exposed, but there was still deep water round the pontoons. As she watched, a motor launch backed out from its mooring, then roared off towards the estuary, its prow well clear of the water.

  There were windows open in the Murdochs’ house – perhaps in the flat where paint was drying. She wondered what Jenna would do – sell up and clear out, or stay and run the marina, probably more effectively, now she had a free hand? Marjory didn’t envy her struggling through the teen years with that strange, introverted child. And she wondered, too, about poor Moss, in police kennels somewhere. He belonged to Jenna now, of course, but he’d never be happy as a pet. Still, look on the bright side: Mirren, who was so much more sensitive to animal feelings than to human ones, might suggest reuniting him with hi
s master.

  There was no sign of life in any of the other houses. She walked on past the McConnells’ cottage, as far as the Laffertys’ grander abode. It would be interesting to see what happened there. A request for his fingerprints and DNA had come in already from Tam’s pal in Glasgow – oh, Tam, Tam! She bit her lip, and stopped to look over towards the marina and the Yacht Club.

  The Laffertys’ might be the smartest house, but it wasn’t at the more salubrious end of the bay when the tide was out. From the exposed mud, warmed by the sun, came a smell of decay, and there was rotting vegetation where small flies were hopping in a moving carpet.

  With a shudder, Marjory turned and walked back. She had almost reached the end of the road when one of the strolling couples came towards her.

  ‘Lovely evening,’ she said.

  ‘Lovely place,’ the woman said, indicating with a gesture the pretty houses and the soft hills and the brightly painted boats. A pair of swans had appeared, as if they were working on commission.

  Marjory smiled and nodded, and went back to her car. She was finished here; she must put it out of her mind. Home now – home, which had become her sanctuary once again. Home to Bill and the kids. And if she thought of a clever, arrogant, lonely man it was only for a moment. She had better pick up bread and milk on the way. They were always running out.

  About the Author

  Aline Templeton lives in Edinburgh with her husband and their Dalmatian dog. She has worked in education and broadcasting and has written numerous articles and stories for newspapers and magazines. Her books have been published in the United States and in translation in several European countries. LYING DEAD is the third novel in the series featuring DI Marjory Fleming.