Their Final Act

by Alex Walters

  'Nice place,' Horton said. 'You reckon this is it?'

  McKay gestured to a sign beside the front door. 'The name matches. It looks as if Young wasn't doing too badly, if he could afford a place like this.'

  Horton pulled up behind the Land Rover and they climbed out into the afternoon sunlight. Somewhere behind the house they could hear a dog barking.

  McKay pressed the doorbell and they heard the ringing from distantly inside. There was no other sound. He waited a moment and pressed it again, holding it for longer this time.

  'Can I help you?' The voice came from somewhere to their left, the tone suggesting that the answer to the question must almost certainly be no.

  'Mrs Young?' McKay asked, squinting to make out the figure walking towards them.

  'Who's asking?'

  'Police,' McKay said, holding out his warrant card. 'DI McKay and DS Horton.'

  The woman walking towards them was tall, with long blonde hair. She walked with the catwalk stride of someone who'd once been a model. She looked as if she was used to being in the public eye, though her face was unfamiliar to Horton. 'I'm Bridget Young,' she said. 'How can I help you?'

  'Could we perhaps go inside, Mrs Young? I'm afraid we may have some bad news for you.'

  Bridget Young looked them both up and down, as if considering whether she really did want them in her house. 'You'd better come round. I was just doing some tidying up out the back.'

  They followed her round the side of the house into the smaller rear garden. It had been cultivated to create the air of an outdoor living space, with an artfully arranged gap in the trees to allow a view of the mountains beyond. McKay assumed that adjoining fields had once belonged to the farmhouse but had been sold or let for agricultural purposes. Whatever its origins, the building did not have the air of a working farm.

  'Would you like some tea or coffee?' Bridget Young said over her shoulder. McKay was intrigued that, despite being told they were bearing bad news, she seemed so far unperturbed. People responded very differently to that kind of announcement, but they were usually keen to hear what you had to say.

  'I think that had better wait till you've heard what we have to tell you, Mrs Young,' he said. She had led them through a set of patio doors into a stylish kitchen. Substantial money had been spent there, McKay thought, and relatively recently. She gestured for them to take a seat at a large oak table.

  'I'm going to put the kettle on anyway,' she said. 'I'm parched. Been in the garden all morning.'

  McKay looked across at Horton, who shrugged. McKay waited till Young had filled the kettle and set it to boil, then tried again. 'Can I ask whether you know your husband's current whereabouts, Mrs Young?'

  She turned back to them. 'Is this something about Ronnie then? He's in Edinburgh as far as I know. Why?'

  'When was the last time you spoke to him?'

  'Couple of days ago, I suppose.'

  McKay took a breath. 'As I said, I'm afraid we may have some bad news, Mrs Young. About your husband. This morning my colleague here, DS Horton, responded to a report of a body being discovered.'

  'A body? You mean Ronnie?'

  'It looks as if that may well be the case, Mrs Young. I'm sorry.'

  The kettle had boiled and for a moment, Bridget Young continued to prepare the tea, pouring boiling water in a pot, as if she hadn't heard McKay's words. 'I can't exactly pretend I'm surprised,' she said finally. 'The bugger could certainly pick his moment though.' She looked up at McKay. 'Was he found in the hotel?'

  McKay frowned, then shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Young. I think you may have misunderstood the circumstances. The body was found locally. Near Ardersier. In McDermott's Yard, if you know that.'

  Bridget Young stared at him, clearly baffled. 'McDermott's Yard? I don't understand. What the hell would he be doing in McDermott's Yard?'

  'We were hoping that you might be able to shed some light on that.'

  'You've got the wrong man. You must have. Ronnie's in Edinburgh.'

  'If you feel able to, we'd like to ask you to confirm the identity. It's possible there's been a mistake, but we found ID that indicated it was your husband.' McKay had hesitated before acknowledging the possibility of a mistake, knowing the tendency of grieving relatives to cling to any remnant of hope. But so far Bridget Young did not seem the typical grieving relative.

  'Of course.'

  'What was your husband doing in Edinburgh?' Horton asked.

  'Producing a record. New young band from that neck of the woods somewhere. Not really my sort of thing, but Ronnie reckoned they had a lot of potential.'

  'You say you spoke to him a couple of days ago?' McKay said.

  'He called me just to say he was fine and that everything was going well. He was expecting to get back here around the end of the week.' She shrugged. 'I can see you're wondering why we wouldn't have spoken since then. But that's how he is when he's working on a recording. He's a hard taskmaster with the artists. He reckons that's how he gets results. So they work long days and he sticks with them in the evenings. So they keep the vibe going, as he puts it.' There was an edge of irony in her tone. 'If you want my opinion, a lot of it's about trying to claw back his lost youth. Partying down with the kids. But then he comes back up here and loses himself in bucolic tranquillity with me, so it seems to work okay.'

  McKay noticed they were all still speaking in the present tense. 'Does he spend a lot of time away?'

  'It varies. Producing's his main line of work these days. He's not exactly A-list, but he's in demand. Enough to be able to pick and choose the work anyway. He tends to avoid stuff that's likely to require him being away for weeks on end, unless it's someone he particularly wants to work with or in some location he's keen to visit. Mostly, it's the up and coming bands, and it's a week or two in London or Edinburgh.'

  'Does he still play himself?' Horton asked.

  'A little. He did a solo album a couple of years back, and did a low-key tour to promote that. He's been talking about doing another – has the songs all ready – but hasn't managed to find the time. He does the occasional one-off gig if he's asked.'

  McKay felt as if he'd allowed the conversation to drift away from their purpose, Young's likely death barely acknowledged. 'When I told you we'd found a body, you implied you weren't surprised, Mrs Young. Why did you say that?'

  She blinked, as if she'd forgotten why the two police officers were in her house in the first place. 'Ronnie's – well, he's prone to burn the candle at both ends. He's not as young as he'd like to think he is. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd had a heart attack or a stroke.'

  McKay wondered whether Young's methods of maintaining the vibe might have included the use of Class A drugs. His own knowledge of the music scene was as sketchy as Bridget Young's appeared to be, but he assumed such practices were still not uncommon. Something for the post-mortem, maybe, assuming that the body really was Young's. 'Can you think of any reason why he might have returned up here without letting you know?'

  'Anything's possible with Ronnie. His head's sometimes in a different place. If he'd finished earlier than expected, he'd often just turn up back here without warning. So that wouldn't be surprising in itself.'

  'How would he normally travel?' Horton asked.

  'To Edinburgh he'd get the train. London, he'd fly down.'

  'Can you think of any reason he might have been in the vicinity of McDermott's Yard?'

  'You're really serious about this being him?'

  'As I say, Mrs Young, we found items with the body that indicated it was your husband, so we have to start by checking that out. Have you tried to contact him since you last spoke?'

  'I called his mobile this morning to see if he had any idea when he might be back, but it went straight to voicemail. But again that's what I'd have expected. He never has it turned on in the studio and mostly forgets to switch it on when he gets outside. I just left him a message on the basis that he'd eventually pick it up and get back to me. But t
hat will be in his own good time.'

  'And McDermott's Yard?' McKay prompted. He was struck by Bridget Young's ability to deflect the direct questions they were asking. He couldn't decide whether this was a deliberate tactic or just her usual way of interacting with others.

  'I don't think Ronnie's been back there for the best part of twenty years.'

  'Back there?'

  'Aye, it's where he worked when he first left school apparently. Did an apprenticeship there. He was still working there during the early days of the band. Only gave it up when it looked like they might make the big time. Which they never did, of course, but I don't think Ronnie ever regretted leaving that job.'

  'When did you meet your husband, Mrs Young?'

  'About ten years ago. From what he's told me, he went through some lean times after the band folded. Scraped a living performing solo but it wasn't easy. He got into the producing side pretty much by accident – some mate asked him to produce a few demos and he got the bug. He was always a bit of a techie – that was his background and he was into the electrical and IT stuff – so he just got his head down and learned how to do it. It took off from there. Began to work with some relatively big names and make some decent money from it.' She made it sound as if that was the main basis of her interest in Ronnie Young. 'Funnily enough, I'd travelled a similar route. I started out as a model. We're supposed to be airheads, but a lot of us aren't. I was getting a bit long in the tooth to be in front of the camera, so I decided to get behind it. It had always been a bit of a hobby, and I'd worked with some of the best so I'd learnt a lot. I ended up doing some publicity shots for a band Ronnie was producing, and there you are.'

  McKay nodded. This seemed to be another of those unfathomable marriages. But most seemed to be that way, and he was in no position to cast the first stone. He was growing increasingly conscious that, during the whole of their discussion, Bridget Young had still failed to acknowledge the possibility, let alone the likelihood, that her husband might actually be dead. 'Are you able to come with us to confirm whether the body we've found is that of your husband, Mrs Young?' Fairly brutal, he thought, avoiding Horton's eye, but he sensed Bridget Young needed dragging back to reality.

  'Now, you mean?'

  'If you're able. I think the sooner we confirm this one way or the other the better.' McKay had checked before he and Horton had left the office that the body was in a state to be seen. Despite the problems of decomposition, he'd been told the face was presentable. He really hoped that the bastards in the mortuary weren't going to let him down on this one. There were other routes to confirming the identity but this was likely to be the quickest.

  'Yes, of course,' she said. 'Look, let me try to phone Ronnie first. I'm sure you've got this wrong.'

  'By all means.' McKay was coming to the conclusion that Bridget Young's apparent calm was nothing more than a remarkable ability to deny reality. Maybe it went with the territory, he thought. If you spent your working time constructing fantasies, perhaps that's where you ended up living.

  She pulled out her mobile phone and dialled the number. Then she shook her head. 'Just gone to voicemail. Still switched off.'

  That was another question, McKay thought. No mobile had been found on or near the body. So what had happened to it? Would they find it elsewhere in the yard or had it been lost or taken wherever the killing had occurred? Either way, they'd need to get access to the account and call log.

  'Okay,' she went on. 'I still think you must be wrong, but as you say the sooner we sort this out the better. Do you want me to follow you?'

  'We'll drive you down and bring you back. It's just to Raigmore.'

  She had risen to her feet, but suddenly she sat down again, as if she'd only now been struck by the reality of the situation. 'I'm not sure I can do this. If this really is Ronnie.'

  'You don't have to, Mrs Young. We can use dental records or DNA to check the identity. It's your choice.'

  She looked up at him, her face blank, as if she was unable to understand what he was saying. 'I should though, shouldn't I? Otherwise, I'll just be sitting here, waiting for him to call but not knowing.'

  McKay nodded, not wanting to steer her one way or the other. His instinct was that, if the body really was that of Ronnie Young, it would ultimately be easier for his wife if she were to see the body. Otherwise, McKay had a sense that, whatever method they used to confirm the identity, she would remain in denial. But it had to be her decision.

  After a long silence, she stood up again. 'Okay. Let's do it.'

  26

  'Is there something I can do?' Jane asked. 'To make myself useful, I mean.'

  She had already collected all the breakfast crockery and, under Netty Munro's instructions, had helped stack the dishwasher. That was another new experience for Jane. She'd ever actually used a dishwasher before, and found it hard to believe that the appliance could be as effective as washing by hand.

  Alicia had been trying to help too, following a step or two behind Jane, picking up the odd item that Jane had been unable to carry. Jane had the sense that Alicia was well intentioned but, so far, not particularly effectual. That was perhaps unfair. Alicia had a cowed air, as if life had beaten any spirit or energy out of her. Jane had no idea what Alicia might have experienced. And not everyone was as resilient as Jane herself.

  At first, Munro had seemed surprised at Jane's question, as if she hadn't seriously expected the younger women to provide any assistance. She'd been sitting at the table, idly scanning through Dowling's copy of The Guardian. She looked up. 'Okay. If you're really keen, we'll start with the garden, shall we? I was planning to work out there this morning. Any help always welcome.'

  Jane nodded her nervous assent. This was further unknown territory for her. She'd never worked in a garden before. She'd grown up in flats, and her only experience of horticulture had been the plastic packages of petrol station flowers that Iain had occasionally bought when he'd been trying to make up for whatever mental or physical harm he'd done her. 'Happy to try. But you'll have to tell me what to do.'

  'Oh, I'll do that,' Munro said. 'I don't want you tearing up my prize blooms.' The tone was light-hearted but as so often there seemed to be a serious undertone.

  Jane and Alicia followed Munro out of the back door into the bright morning sunshine, leaving Dowling still perusing the newspaper over another cup of coffee. It was already turning into another fine day, with just a few white clouds scudding briskly across an otherwise blue sky. The firth looked different this morning, Jane thought. The previous afternoon, the waters had filled the broad stretch between here and Dingwall on the far side. Now they had receded, leaving wide stretches of uncovered earth along each shore.

  Munro followed Jane's gaze. 'It's surprisingly tidal,' she said. 'The waters are shallow there, so when the tide goes out it drains rapidly. It's one of the things I love about it. It changes so much, not just at different times of the year but even across the day.'

  The area to the side of the house below the decking had been turned into a proper domestic style garden, a contrast with much of the rest of the land which remained a working farm. There was a neatly trimmed lawn, and flowerbeds laid with spring flowers that, with the exception of some scatterings of daffodils, Jane couldn't recognise. Munro gestured towards the beds. 'I could do with some help weeding those, if that's okay.'

  'As long as you show us which are weeds and which aren't,' Jane said.

  'They say a weed is just a flower in the wrong place. But, yes, I'll show you what's in the wrong place.'

  In the event, it all seemed fairly straightforward. Munro explained carefully which plants should be removed and which left, and Jane found it easier to distinguish between the two than she'd feared. Alicia looked more nervous but, as in the kitchen, seemed comfortable to follow Jane's lead. Jane sat down on the lawn beside the bed and systematically worked through the plants, indicating to Alicia that she should do the same a little further along.

  It wa
s the kind of work Jane enjoyed. Not exactly mindless because she had to concentrate on which plants she was removing, but sufficiently repetitive that she could lose herself in the process. It wasn't physically taxing, but she knew it would be more tiring than it seemed. Again, she wanted that. Something that would distract her from her own thoughts and anxieties. Her own memories.

  'Am I doing it right?' Alicia said, keeping her voice low. Netty Munro was kneeling by one of the beds at the far side of the garden, carrying out the same task.

  Jane peered over, checking the plants that Alicia had tossed into the bucket they were both using. 'That looks right to me.'

  'I've not done this before,' Alicia said.

  'No, me neither. But we'll be okay.' It was odd, Jane thought. She had found herself taking on a maternal role with Alicia, even though she suspected that the other woman might be older. But that was the kind of person she was. That had been part of the difficulty with Iain. He'd wanted to treat her as a substitute mother rather than a girlfriend or wife, and initially she'd allowed that to happen because she felt comfortable with the role. But then he'd grown angry with her supposedly because he thought she wanted to replace his mother. Go figure, she thought.

  'Still no sign of Elizabeth,' Alicia said.

  That was true, but hardly surprising. It was less than a couple of hours since Munro had apparently seen Elizabeth striding down to the gates. It was possible she'd just decided to go for a short walk before rejoining them, but Munro's description had made her departure sound more purposeful than that. There was something about Elizabeth that Jane had been unable to fathom. 'I suppose it's her business,' she said.

  'We used to be friends,' Alicia said. 'Same crowd and all that, you know.'

  Jane thought back to the friends she'd had in school. They were all still living locally, she assumed, but she'd lost touch with all of that. That had been Iain's doing too. His petty jealousies. It wasn't even that he was concerned about her and other men. He just resented her enjoying herself with anyone other than him. And it had been a long time since she'd enjoyed herself with him. 'Did you fall out?'