by Alex Walters
They followed her back into the sitting room. The sun was streaming in through the large windows, and for a moment, after the relative gloom of the kitchen and hall, Jane was dazzled. As she blinked, she heard Munro saying: 'Ah, there you are. There's some lemonade out in the kitchen.'
As Jane’s sight cleared, she saw that a woman, perhaps even younger than herself or Elizabeth, was sitting on the sofa. Her body was curled around itself, as if preparing to ward off an attack, and she looked terrified at their presence. She was staring down at the floor, her mousy blonde hair concealing her face.
'Is everything all right?' Munro was suddenly looking concerned.
The woman mumbled something inaudible. There was a book butterflied face down on the sofa beside her. Some kind of romantic novel, Jane thought looking at the pastel cover, though she couldn't make out the title.
Munro was moving to sit beside the woman, but she paused. 'Perhaps the two of you had better go out and sit on the decking. I'll come and join you in a moment. This is our third guest–'
'Aye, I know her,' Elizabeth said. 'Alicia Swinton. How you doing, Alicia?'
There was a moment's silence as the two women stared at each other. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, Alicia Swinton burst into tears.
10
'She's finishing breakfast,' the receptionist said, only the merest hint of disapproval in her voice. 'We don't normally serve it at this time, but she was working late last night apparently.'
Ginny Horton nodded. She imagined this place wouldn't bend the rules for anyone who wasn't, at the very least, a minor television celebrity. 'Would you see if I can have a word with her?' For the moment, she thought it better to keep matters as discreet as possible.
'You're the police, you say?'
Horton hadn't just said. She'd actually shown the woman her warrant card. 'Yes. I'd like a word.'
'No trouble is there?'
'No trouble. I just need a word.'
The receptionist stared at her for a moment, as if trying to contrive other reasons to prevent Horton entering the hotel. 'Can I tell her what it's about?'
'It's a private matter. It shouldn't take very long.'
'Okay.' The tone implied the request was anything but okay but the receptionist turned and disappeared into the restaurant, returning a moment later. 'She's sitting by the window.'
As it turned out, not only was Maggie Laing sitting by the window, she was also the only person in the room. She looked up as Horton approached.
'Good morning,' Horton said. 'Ms Laing?'
'That's me. Maggie, though.'
'DS Horton. Ginny,' she added.
'Well, Ginny,' Laing said, 'it's quite exciting to be interrogated by a police officer over breakfast. Did I finally manage to offend the wrong person?'
'If you did, that's not why I'm here. I'm afraid I've some bad news.'
'You'd better sit down then. Would you like some coffee?'
'I'm fine, thanks. But don't let me stop you drinking yours.' There was a cup of coffee and a half-eaten slice of toast in front of Laing.
'It'd take more than you to stop me, this time of the morning. Okay, fire away. I'm intrigued by what sort of bad news would have led you to track me down at my hotel breakfast. Not just last night's reviews, presumably?'
'How well did you know Jimmy McGuire?'
Laing raised an eyebrow. 'Jimmy McGuire? I didn't really. Met him for the first time last night. Though he seemed to think differently. Don't tell me he's got himself into some sort of trouble.'
'In a manner of speaking,' Horton said, feeling able to talk more freely with the knowledge that Laing and McGuire hadn't been friends. 'He was found dead this morning.'
'Dead? Bloody hell.' Laing took a sip of her coffee. 'Not in the hotel, I'm assuming. If it had, Sybil Fawlty out there wouldn't have been able to resist bursting in with the news.'
'No, not in the hotel. Look, Ms Laing, I'd prefer if you kept this confidential until we've formally confirmed the identity and made a public statement. He was found just along the road here. At the bottom of the alleyway leading down from Church Street to Bank Street.'
'Poor bugger. Great Hibernian heart attack, was it? He looked the type.'
'We don't think so, no. We think he was killed.'
'Killed? Fuck me. I've died a few times, but not like that. Who'd want to kill a comedian? Apart from other comedians, obviously.' She stopped, realising what she'd said. 'That was a joke. I'm sorry, It's what we do.'
'You implied McGuire thought he'd met you before.'
'Yeah, he reckoned he was sure of it. At least once, he said. Some comedy awards do a few years back. I mean, it's possible. Everyone always gets well pissed at those things, so I couldn't swear we hadn't come across one another. But I'd no recollection of it. I took it as a half-hearted chat up line. I'd been told McGuire apparently had a bit of a reputation in that department, especially with younger women. He was wasting his time in my case, for a number of reasons.'
'Can I ask who told you about this supposed reputation of McGuire's?'
'It was just the word on the street, you know. There's quite a grapevine in the business. If you're performing with someone, you ask around a bit in case there's anything you ought to know.'
'What sort of thing?'
Laing shrugged. 'It can be anything. The ones who are unreliable so you end up having to cover for them. The ones who try to sabotage the other acts. And the ones who are not safe in taxis, to use that quaint old phrase. With the emphasis on quaint, if you get my drift.'
'Which category did McGuire fall into?'
'Are you trying to get me to confess to his murder? I bet you're like Columbo. Just one more thing, Ms Laing…' She laughed. 'I felt for the poor bastard. He'd been a name once. Not a huge star, but a big fish up here. To be honest, Dingwall and McGuire were one of the reasons I got into comedy in the first place. I taped one of their TV appearances, and I used to watch it all the time as a kid. That was their skill. A bit edgy – well, for the time anyway – but mainly just silly. Went down well with kids. It was humour we could get, but something we knew our parents wouldn't entirely approve of.'
Horton had no recollection of the double act and could only nod. 'And McGuire?'
'Like I said, he'd apparently always had a bit of a reputation as what some might call a ladies' man. And I might call a creep. That went back to the Dingwall and McGuire days. From what I've heard, some people were surprised it was his partner who ended up inside. Maybe McGuire was more careful.' She stopped. 'I'm sorry. This isn't much more than gossip.'
'That's fine. 'I'm just trying to get an impression of what sort of a man McGuire was.'
'I'm not really the one to tell you. This is all rumour. I was told he'd had a bit of a drink problem when he first tried to make a comeback. Unreliable. But everyone reckoned he'd put that behind him. Recent word was pretty positive. Desperate to make a proper comeback, wasn't going to let anyone down. Didn't mind not headlining. Just as well as he probably didn't have any choice on that front.'
'How did you find him last night?'
'I didn't speak to him for long. We had a bit of a chat before the show. He was fine. A bit gushing, if anything, and prone to invading your personal space. Like I say, I thought he was trying to chat me up and I wondered if he'd try to make a move after the show. I've had that a few times. Though most men are able to take a knee in the balls for an answer. But he was maybe just trying a bit too hard because he saw me as the new kid on the block, you know? The up and coming talent who was bound to see him as a has-been.'
'Did you? See him as a has-been, I mean?'
Laing shook her head. 'He's obviously seen better days and some of his stuff was a bit dated, but he was an influence on me. Not in my act – we're chalk and cheese – but in making me want to do this. He's still a good comic.' She blinked. 'Sorry – was a good comic. Christ. No, he was good last night. Went down well.'
'Did he resent you being the headline?'
'If so, he hid it well. There were a couple of little jibes, joking but not entirely joking. Enough to remind me who he was. But all good-natured, to be honest. He said a couple of generous things about me in his set. Probably partly to get my fans on his side, but that's how it works. We all do that stuff.'
'Did you see him talking to anyone else? Anyone it might be worth our talking to, I mean.'
Laing thought for a moment. 'He didn't strike me as the gregarious type. But most of us tend not to be before we go on. Too busy getting into the zone and running through various bits of routines.'
'It's not all improvised then?'
'Christ, no. Not even by those who pretend it is, with a few honourable exceptions. It's smoke and mirrors. Everyone's different. Some learn it line by line. I'm not in that camp. I have routines I expect to use during the set, then I improvise around them to some extent. I might drop some or expand them, depending on how it's going, and there's a bit of reacting to what the audience throw at you. The set evolves every time you do it. You find a funnier way of saying something or a better line, or some smart thought pops into your head unexpectedly.'
'Is that how McGuire seemed last night? Wrapped up in himself before going on?'
'I'd have said so. He wasn't unfriendly.' She hesitated. 'There was one of the club staff he was talking to at some length. Early in the evening, just after they'd opened the doors. Quite a lengthy conversation, at least by comparison with anyone else I saw him talking to.'
'I don't suppose you caught her name?'
'She was introduced to me as Morag. I didn't get her surname. Short blonde hair. She was working behind the bar later, but seemed to have some sort of admin role as well. She was the one who'd organised the hotel here. That might have been why McGuire was talking to her, if he had some query about the arrangements.'
'That's very helpful,' Horton said. 'I'll leave you to your breakfast. We probably won't need to bother you again, but do you have a contact number just in case?'
'Sure.' Laing fumbled in her pocket and produced a glossy business card. 'It's all corporate these days. Even us more radical types. Especially us more radical types, probably.'
'It's the same everywhere,' Horton said, handing over her own business card in return. 'Even in the police. If there's anything else you think might be of use to us, just give me a call. Thanks for your time.'
'No problem. It's a bit of a shock though. I hardly knew him, but he was part of the reason I'm doing this. Poor bugger. Good luck with finding who did it.'
'We'll do our best.'
Laing took another sip of her coffee, then grimaced. 'Ach, cold.' She looked back up at Horton. 'He had his problems, Jimmy McGuire. Everybody knew that. But he was a decent comic and he deserved better. This business can eat away at your soul if you let it.'
Horton nodded, unsure how to respond. 'Thanks again,' she said, then turned and made her way out into the hotel foyer, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by a sense of claustrophobia.
11
Horton arrived back at the crime scene to find McKay still waiting. 'Wee Jock's only just finished his good works,' he said, 'so I thought I might as well hang around for you. I've got the uniforms carrying out a search of the immediate area to see if there's any sign of the weapon, though my guess is it's probably at the bottom of the Ness. Whether it's worth getting the divers out is another question.'
'Presumably we're talking about something not much more than a piece of wire?'
'Would need some means of gripping it but, essentially, yes.'
'Won't be easy to find.'
'No, even assuming it was thrown in around here. The killer could have hung on to it and disposed of it further downstream.'
'Or somewhere else entirely. Or not at all.'
'I always knew I could depend on you to lead us rigorously through all the fucking options, Ginny.'
'Here to help.'
'In that case make yourself useful and drive us back to the office. Three-line whip from Helena.'
'About this?'
'Partly. I filled her in on what we had so far. Especially about McGuire's identity. Can't say it exactly made her morning in the present circumstances.'
'Elizabeth Hamilton, you mean?'
'Aye. The last thing Helena needs is another enquiry that's going to get us plastered all over the media.'
'We don't have a lot of choice. McGuire's not exactly a household name these days, but he's still familiar enough to sell a few papers.'
They made their way back to the car. McKay waited till they were out onto the main road before continuing. 'Means there's going to be even more pressure than usual to get it right. And even more vultures circling if we fuck it up.'
'So what about Elizabeth Hamilton? We're both potentially in the frame there. That bastard in court threw as much mud as he could in our direction.'
McKay shrugged. 'That's his job. None of it will stick.'
'You're sure of that, are you?'
McKay was silent for a moment, which was answer enough. 'You can never be entirely sure, can you? In the end, the chiefs'll want to cover their own backsides. If that means throwing a few minions to the wolves…'
'You always know how to reassure me, Alec.'
'But Hamilton's story made no sense. By the time you got there, Robbins and Gorman were most likely already dead. Hamilton was just sitting there. She wasn't trying to rescue them. You didn't stop her doing anything. You didn't even know the bodies were there until it was too late.'
Horton shivered, thinking back to the windswept night on Rosemarkie Beach when she'd encountered Elizabeth Hamilton sitting soaked to the skin at the sea's edge, apparently oblivious to the world around her. Oblivious too to the two bodies she'd tied up and dumped in the rising tide only metres away. 'That's what happened. But there are no other witnesses. It's my word against Hamilton's. There was no one to corroborate my account.'
'You're a serving police officer who wrote up a dispassionate account of the event, whereas Hamilton's the fruitloop's fruitloop.'
'Remind me not to let you represent me if this becomes a disciplinary matter, Alec.'
'It won't,' McKay said confidently. 'Like I say, her story makes no sense. Why would she tie them up just to release them? And if she had been trying to release them, why would you have wanted to stop her?'
They'd rehearsed these arguments endlessly since the trial. Even knowing the line the defence had been planning to take, they'd both found the cross-examination challenging. Not because they had any doubt about the veracity or accuracy of their own accounts, but because the defence counsel had been so adept at twisting their words and adding a spin they'd never intended. Too often, they'd found themselves on the back foot, trying to explain what ought to have been self-evident. Horton had felt afterwards that they should have prepared better, but McKay just saw it as part of the game. 'They're smart smooth-talking bastards. What can you do?'
'Whether it makes sense or not isn't the point though, is it? The point is they managed to sow enough doubt in the jury's mind that she wasn't convicted.'
'Not fucking proven. Not fucking proven. This fucking country.'
'Whatever. The fact is she got away with it, and showered us in ordure in the process. And that bloody press campaign…'
In parallel with the trial, though with care to stay within the confines of the law, one of the national papers had initiated a campaign about the horrors of sexual abuse in the family and employment. As far as Horton had been able to ascertain, the campaign had been the joint work of a well-intentioned MSP who'd long campaigned on the issue and Hamilton's legal team, who'd seen an opportunity to highlight some of the issues that lay behind her trial. During the trial itself, the paper had been careful to keep its focus very general, drawing on a range of historical cases. After the verdict, though, they'd interviewed Hamilton to discuss the impact on her as a survivor of abuse. The implication had been that the Procurator Fiscal had been wrong even to bring th
e case to trial in the first place. The headline had been: Blaming the victim.
At the time, McKay's response had been succinct. 'Fuck me, so it's politically incorrect to prosecute fucking murderers now, is it?'
Horton's own feelings had been more nuanced. She appreciated everything that Hamilton had been through – some of which resonated with her own childhood experiences. But ultimately Hamilton had been directly responsible for the deaths of the two men she alleged to have been her abusers. It was right and necessary to take the background into account as mitigation, but it was equally right and necessary for Hamilton to be tried for the offences she'd committed. Horton had no problems with the outcome of the trial – she'd always hoped Hamilton's sentence would be as lenient as possible – but she was unhappy that the truth and her own reputation had been trashed on the way to that outcome. 'Has Helena said anything about what's going to happen with the Hamilton case?' she asked.
McKay shook his head. 'There's been no formal complaint from Hamilton or her representatives about our handling of the case. I suspect they'll just keep their heads down now they've got the verdict they wanted. If they open it all up again, we might uncover something that's not in their interests. Procurator grumbled a bit and wanted to have a further look at the case notes, but they accept our version is right, whatever smokescreens might have been thrown up in court. And it's not as if they did a brilliant job on the day, so they probably don't want to open it up again either.' He paused. 'Some of the higher ups were talking about referring it to complaints as a sop to the media. Show we're doing something. But Helena managed to talk them out of that, on the basis that it would give credibility to something that's basically bollocks. Other than that, we've just played a straight bat with the media.'
'It's still a blot on the copybook though, isn't it? Even if it goes nowhere,' Horton said gloomily.
'When you get to my age, the copybook's so blotted no one can read the bloody story.'
