by Alex Walters
Grant had a better relationship with Henderson than McKay managed, but she could see why he rubbed colleagues up the wrong way. But he was good at his job, which was all she really cared about. She left them to it, and made her way back to the farmyard, where Ginny Horton was climbing out of her car.
'Sorry to disturb your morning, Ginny.'
'No worries. I'm an early riser anyway. Just meant I had to cut the run short this morning.'
'Good to hear you're getting back into that.'
'Pretty much,' Horton said. 'Taking advantage of the light mornings.' She looked down towards the bottom of the field where the examiners were beginning to set up. 'I see Alec's not here. It'll be the first and last time, but good for him.' Grant had said nothing to Horton, but McKay's assignation the previous night had been common knowledge in the team.
'It won't last,' Grant said. 'Given what we're dealing with, I don't want it to. It looks like this is another.'
'Down there?'
'That's where the body is. I'm guessing that isn't where he was killed. Looks like the killer was attempting to conceal the body. It wouldn't have been undiscovered forever down there, but long enough to make our lives harder.'
'Where do you reckon he was killed?'
'His cottage is the first place to check out. I'm guessing either in there or somewhere outside it.' She led the way to the narrow road that wound up the hillside past the entrance to the farmyard. It was a public road, but it was single track without even any obvious passing places on this stretch. The sign at the bottom of the hill had indicated the road was a dead end, so presumably it led only to other residential properties. Something for them to check out in due course.
Dingwall's cottage stood near the summit of the hill, with the two holiday lets clustered close beside it. They were pleasant-looking, converted from what had previously been stone outbuildings. The two lets were both empty this early in the season. Dingwall's cottage looked more lived in, with a couple of tubs filled with spring flowers by the front door and another vase of flowers visible through one of the front windows.
The front door was closed but not locked. Grant pulled out the disposable plastic gloves she always carried and carefully pulled them on. She glanced quizzically at Horton, then, gesturing her to follow, she opened the door and stepped into the cottage.
The interior of the cottage matched the exterior – neatly if anonymously renovated. The furniture was mostly pine, real or artificial, and the stone floor was scattered with rugs. The room had a male feel, Grant thought. It was neat, elegant and functional, but it felt like temporary accommodation. There were no obvious personal touches, few pictures on the walls other than a couple that looked as if they'd been selected from the 'good taste' section in a local DIY store. Nothing to tell them that Jack Dingwall had actually lived here. At the far end of the room, there was a desk holding nothing except a vase of flowers and an open laptop. 'Something else for us to go through,' Horton pointed out.
'No sign of any struggle. And no obvious sign of any spilled blood.' Grant took another step into the room, conscious of the risk of contaminating a potential crime scene.
'Looks like he had a visitor though.' Horton gestured towards the coffee table in front of the sofa. There were two empty wine glasses and an empty wine bottle.
'Interesting. So if he had a visitor it must have been someone he knew well enough to be comfortable inviting them into the house for a drink.'
'Are we assuming the visitor's also the killer?'
'Who knows? But it's a coincidence. From what the landlord told me, Dingwall wasn't the gregarious kind. And I don't suppose many people would have popped in on spec to somewhere as remote as this.' Grant peered carefully round the room, not wanting to disturb it more than she needed to. Gesturing for Horton to stay put, she crossed the room to the small kitchen. Like the living room, it was neat and functional, with a cooker, fridge and washing machine and little space for much more. It had the air of being little used.
At the opposite end of the living room, an open wooden staircase led to the upper floor. Grant made her way up the stairs, trying not to touch the bannister. At the top, there was a single bedroom, which filled the eaves of the building. It had the same anonymous air as the rest of the house. There was a double bed covered by a floral duvet, a chest of drawers, a small wardrobe and little else.
She descended the stairs and rejoined Horton in the living room. 'Nothing upstairs. Landlord reckoned he was some kind of writer now. Presumably that's where he worked.' She gestured towards the desk with the laptop. The desk was positioned to give a view through the main window out over the firth. 'Decent office.'
Horton nodded. 'So what was he writing?'
'I suppose we'll find out when we check the laptop. We don't know much at all about Mr Dingwall at the moment.' She looked around the room again. 'Not even where he died. Let's have a look outside.'
That question was answered almost as soon as they stepped back outside. At the far end of the garden, a stone bench was positioned to take advantage of the views. There was a pool of blood beneath the bench, and splatterings of the blood on the surrounding stone. They could see that there were smearings of blood on the grass leading from the bench to the garden gate, presumably showing where Dingwall's body had been dragged.
'Would have required some effort to pull the body up there,' Horton observed. 'Then to drag it down to that next field. Wonder why they bothered.'
'Hoping to conceal the body, I suppose. At least for a while. I suppose if Dingwall didn't get many visitors the blood might not be noticed, and any rain would wash it away. But, aye, they must have gone to some trouble. Makes you wonder why they didn't go to more trouble to conceal Jimmy McGuire's body.'
'Assuming it's the same killer.'
'Assuming it's the same killer.' Grant was still staring round the garden, as if it might reveal some answers to their countless questions. 'Can't be a copycat though, given how little we've said publicly. There must be a link between the three deaths.' She turned back to Horton. 'Okay, let's go and break the news to Jock that he's got another site to examine once he's finished down there. The cottage and the garden.'
'He'll be pleased.'
'Oh, aye. I can't wait to see his little face light up.'
33
Jane had set the alarm on her mobile phone and placed it carefully on the cabinet by her bed. Netty Munro had told her, once again, to sleep as long as she wished, but Jane was already feeling guilty about how little she was contributing to the household. She and Alicia had spent the previous afternoon still working on the garden, following Munro's sporadic instructions, but it had never felt like a substantive task. Jane and Alicia had struggled to fill the time. They'd spent much of the afternoon chatting, sharing their experiences. There was plenty to share – they were from similar working-class backgrounds, both with frequently unemployed fathers who drank too much, both subject to physical abuse from an early age with mothers who had been unable to protect themselves or their daughters. Both had been bright girls forced out of school too early. And both had saddled themselves with partners who perpetuated the abuse the two women had suffered their whole lives.
'So how did you end up in the centre?' Jane had asked. It was the question she'd wanted to ask everyone who'd stayed there but had never dared. She needed the validation of knowing her own circumstances were not unique.
'I couldn't take it any more,' Alicia said. 'I realised that if I married him, it would all carry on. And if I told him I wasn't going to marry him, he'd beat me up anyway. In the end I scraped together any money I could – I saved up bits and pieces whenever I could for months – and walked one day when he was at the pub. I didn't know where to go. And I knew he'd try to follow me, drag me back. One of my mates told me about the centre. Reckoned I'd be safe there.'
The Reynold Centre was a women's refuge, set up to provide shelter for women suffering from domestic abuse. It had been recommended to Jane by a frien
d too. It was amazing, once you started talking about it, how many women had been through similar experiences. Too often it went beneath the radar, not least because the women involved were too scared to make their problems public. But once Jane had begun to tell the truth to one or two of her closest friends, she found almost all of them had either experienced abuse themselves or had friends and family members who'd been through it.
She'd enjoyed staying at the centre. She'd been struck by the diversity of the women there, and she'd enjoyed listening to people chatting about films or TV programmes she'd never had the chance to see. She'd enjoyed being able to relax for the first time she could remember. And she'd enjoyed the sense of security, although she'd always thought it unlikely that Iain would pursue her up there. That wasn't his style. He'd grumble, bad-mouth her to his mates and then, quite soon, move on to some other potential victim.
Alicia had enjoyed the same sense of safety and relaxation there, even though her fears about her boyfriend had been well founded. But it had always been made clear to all residents that staying in the centre could only ever be a temporary solution. Eventually, they'd have to find some other way to take forward their lives. Jane had had no idea how she might do that with very little money and no friends who were in a position to help.
Then, unexpectedly, they'd received the offer from Netty Munro to come there. Munro had a long-standing relationship with the centre, apparently, though the available spaces were always limited. Quite why Munro had picked the two of them to benefit from her generosity was a mystery. 'She just thought you sounded like the sort of women who'd fit into her way of living, and who'd benefit from what she has to offer.'
Jane was still unclear as to what that offering actually was, but no doubt they'd find out over the next couple of days. All she knew was that it had given her the possibility of being able to reboot her life. Now she was here she wanted to do her fair share, to ensure she was justified in accepting whatever Munro might have to offer her.
Dinner the previous evening had been a simpler and lighter affair than the previous night. Elizabeth hadn't returned and Jane had felt unable to ask whether Munro still expected her to come back. There had been no sign of Henry Dowling so it had just been the three of them sitting round the table on the decking. The weather had stayed relatively warm, and they had been able to enjoy another al fresco meal as the evening had grown dark around them. Munro had roasted a chicken – which she said had come from one of the neighbouring farms – and served it with a green salad and new potatoes. It had been simple food but the chicken itself was delicious, more flavourful than any Jane could recall eating. Conversation had initially been stilted, with Jane and Netty Munro doing their best to keep it going while Alicia largely sat in silence. But there'd been more wine too, and after a few glasses, the exchanges had become more relaxed, and even Alicia had begun to chip in.
The consequence of the wine, though, was that Jane was now waking with a mild headache. Part of her wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. She could do that, she told herself. Netty Munro wouldn't mind. But that wasn't what she really wanted. It was important she should drag herself out of bed, get showered and then go and do whatever she could to repay Munro for allowing her to stay there.
Jane dragged herself to a sitting position and pulled the mobile towards her. It was earlier than she'd feared, only just after seven thirty. She was delighted that the wine and her own tiredness hadn't made her sleep longer.
She pulled herself out of bed and walked over to the window. Outside, it looked set to be another fine day. It was almost as if, since she'd arrived there, the climate itself had changed, as if she were no longer living in the dreich grey Scotland of her childhood. As if this house existed in its own unique space, a world conjured up by Munro just as she conjured music from the strings of her guitar. The sun was still behind the house, casting shadows down towards the firth, but the sky was a clear pale blue.
She pulled on the dressing gown and made her way across to the bathroom. The house was silent, Alicia's and Elizabeth's bedroom doors both shut. Jane had assumed that Munro would rise early, but perhaps that wasn't always the case. It didn't really matter. Presumably she wouldn't mind if Jane went down to make herself some coffee and toast.
She showered quickly and returned to her room to dress. She felt fully awake, and the headache had diminished. Today she'd try to persuade Munro to give her some real task. Jane wanted to prove she was serious.
Dressed and with her hair brushed but still damp, Jane made her way downstairs and crossed the hall to the kitchen. As she approached the closed door, she paused. She could hear voices from within. One was Netty Munro's but the other, as far as she could judge, was male.
She hesitated. The presence of a male in the house felt somehow unsettling. That was ridiculous. Of course there would be men visiting the farm. Munro had mentioned workmen, and they'd travelled up here with a male taxi driver just a couple of days earlier.
Even so, something about the proximity of the male voice made her uneasy. Or perhaps, she thought, it was the tone. She couldn't make out the words through the door, but she had the impression the exchange had been a serious one. Not angry, exactly, but emotional.
She coughed loudly then fumbled with the door handle for long enough to announce her presence. She heard the voices fall silent as she pushed open the door.
Jane had expected to find Munro and her unknown visitor sitting at the kitchen table. However, she opened the door to see Munro standing by the open back door and no sign of the man.
'Good morning,' Jane said, unsure whether to mention the voice she'd heard. 'I hope I'm not too early coming down.'
'Not at all, dear. I want you to feel entirely at home here. Come and go as you please. I hope we didn't disturb you.'
'Disturb me?' Jane was standing in the doorway, unsure how to proceed.
'We were talking a little loudly.'
Jane shook her head. 'No, not at all. I just heard voices from outside the door. I didn't hear anything from upstairs.'
Munro was filling the kettle at the sink. 'That's good. I sometimes forget how sound travels in this place. It's surprising what you can hear from the bedrooms.'
The last sentence felt freighted with meaning following Jane's accidental eavesdropping on Munro and Dowling. Jane crossed the room, feeling self-conscious. 'Shall I make some tea?'
'That would be nice.'
Jane busied herself at the Aga, putting the kettle on the ring, spooning tea into the pot, thankful to avoid looking Munro in the face. It wasn't that Jane felt guilty. She hadn't intended to overhear anything the two older women had said. It was more she felt she was betraying Munro's hospitality by not being completely open. On the other hand, what exactly was she supposed to say?
She'd hoped that Munro might reveal the identity of her visitor, but it was clear she had no intention of saying anything more. And why would she? He was probably of no relevance to Jane – maybe one of the men who'd supposedly done a shoddy job on the fencing. Perhaps that was why the conversation had sounded heated.
Jane finished making the tea and brought the pot over to the table, taking a seat beside Munro while she waited for it to brew. 'Any word from Elizabeth?'
'I believe she's back with us.'
Jane looked up in surprise. 'When did she arrive?'
'I'm not entirely sure what time it was. Sometime in the small hours. I'm a very light sleeper, and I heard someone trying the front door. I went down to let her in, but I didn't bother to check what time it was. I had the impression she hadn't expected me to open the door for her, so I don't know what she was intending to do otherwise.' Munro shrugged. 'But I'm not sure Elizabeth ever worries too much about the consequences of her actions.'
'Did she say where she'd been?'
'Of course not. She gave me a half-hearted apology for disappearing and told me she had some outstanding business to deal with. Nothing more than that.'
'You think she'll sta
y now?'
'For a while, I imagine.' Munro paused and smiled. 'This is the safest place for her at the moment, I think. I believe she understands that, whatever other instincts she might have.'
Jane had resigned herself to accepting that Munro had insights and ways of thinking she could never begin to share. She was happy simply to accept her role and do whatever she could to justify her presence. She picked up the pot and poured the tea. 'What would you like me to do today?'
Munro seemed surprised by the direct question. 'Oh, I don't know, dear. You could perhaps do a little cleaning in the house, if you don't mind. Some polishing and dusting in the main rooms. Perhaps some vacuuming. It's always hard to keep on top of things.'
To Jane's eyes, the rooms looked cleaner and tidier than any she'd ever seen, but there seemed little point in arguing. 'That's fine.'
'Excellent,' Munro said, as if she had just resolved some challenging conundrum. 'Now, would you like some breakfast? I've a yen for a bacon sandwich, and I think the smell will persuade the others to join us.'
34
Helena Grant was unsurprised to find McKay sitting behind her desk, unashamedly flicking through the papers she'd left out. She was far too savvy to leave out anything that might conceivably be of interest to him, but she knew he lived in hope.
'I don't know what time you call this,' McKay said, glancing pointedly at the clock on the wall as Grant and Ginny Horton entered the office. He rose and gestured for Grant to take her seat.
'Very gracious of you, Alec. Managed to drag yourself out of bed then?'
'I've been here for hours. Doing real work. Not gallivanting round crime scenes like you two.'
'That right, Alec? Well, we can discuss the fruits of your labours shortly. Meanwhile, we've definitely got a third garrotting on our hands.'
'Oh, joy,' McKay said, in a tone that sounded less ironic than he'd presumably intended. 'A multiple killer.'
