Their Final Act

by Alex Walters

  'I don't know. Do you need me to help out somewhere? Happy to do what I can.' The response wasn't what Jane had expected, and she wasn't sure how seriously to take it.

  Munro had clearly decided to take the answer at face value. 'I can always find something. Henry was going to come in today and give me a hand with that fencing I was complaining about. Those buggers who came round to mend it reckon they've done everything they can. I haven't the time or energy to argue with them, so I thought we could do a "before" and "after" photo and fix it properly ourselves. Then I'll refuse to pay their bill and send them copies of the pictures to show why. The bastards can take me to court if they want.' She paused, clearly satisfied with her rant, and added, 'You can come and give us a hand with that, if you like.'

  Jane found herself feeling almost irritated. As on the previous day, she and Alicia would be stuck with some makeweight task while Elizabeth was given real work to do. Jane realised immediately that was idiotic. She had no idea what kind of task Munro might allocate to Elizabeth, or what her motives might be. It could well be she was going easy on Jane and Alicia because she recognised their relative vulnerability. It could also be that it was her way of punishing Elizabeth or simply a means of keeping an eye on what she might be up to.

  It was futile to speculate, and it was equally futile to feel resentment for a non-existent slight. Jane simply wanted to feel a part of the household, someone who was critical to its day-to-day operation, rather than a guest passing through. Despite her dismissive behaviour, Elizabeth seemed somehow to be more fully accepted there than she or Alicia were.

  Elizabeth herself seemed uninterested in what Munro had said. 'Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.' She opened up her sandwich and squirted another shot of ketchup onto the bacon.

  Jane had finished her sandwich and swallowed the last of her tea. 'Where do you want me to start?'

  Munro looked up, her expression suggesting she had momentarily forgotten what Jane was talking about. 'With the cleaning? In the sitting room, I suppose. You can do some dusting in there, if you like.'

  If you like, Jane thought. She turned to Alicia. 'That all right with you, Alicia? Netty was suggesting we do some cleaning indoors today.'

  Alicia shrugged. 'Sure. Happy to help.'

  Munro looked more content, as if an outstanding problem had been resolved. 'That's good, dears. I'll get you both sorted with polish and whatever else you might need.' She trailed off vaguely then turned to Elizabeth. 'We can head off down to the lower fields. Not sure when to expect Henry, but she'll join us when she gets here.'

  For a moment, Elizabeth looked as if she might be about to protest after all. Then she smiled and said, 'Fine. Whenever you're ready.'

  37

  'Quieter than I expected.'

  McKay looked around the almost empty lobby. 'Aye, we no longer encourage Joe and Jenny Public to trouble us with their many problems. Far too disruptive to smooth policing if we have to start listening to people out there.' The offices, which previously had included a public enquiry desk, had been closed to the public some months earlier. McKay had felt ambivalent about the move. He'd welcomed not having to wade through a mass of humanity whenever he entered the building. On the other hand, the move had once again widened the gap between the force and the public it supposedly served. In any case, he rarely resisted the temptation to give management a public kicking. That, he reasoned, was what management was for.

  Drew Douglas laughed, though he looked unsure whether or not McKay had been joking. McKay led the way through a set of double doors into the rear of the building. 'Good of you to take the time to come in, Mr Douglas.'

  'No worries. We don't have a gig on tonight, so it's relatively quiet. I've left the bar in Morag's capable hands. Happy to do whatever I can to help. I'm not that keen on our acts being bumped off. Doesn't reflect well on the club.'

  This time it was McKay's turn to wonder whether Douglas was joking. Probably not, he thought, or at least not entirely. It was the kind of light-hearted comment you made when you felt rattled. No doubt Douglas had felt some responsibility for McGuire, even if not for his death.

  McKay had booked one of the formal interview rooms. He liked having meetings in there. The presence of the recording equipment reminded people of what normally went on in that or similar rooms. That usually helped to concentrate the mind of even the most innocent interviewee.

  Douglas looked nervously around the room. 'This isn't anything formal, is it?'

  'Not at all. Just a chat. About our investigation into McGuire's death. Though we also have another enquiry now. Into the apparent killing of Mr McGuire's former show business partner, Jack Dingwall.'

  'Dingwall? What's happened to Dingwall?'

  'I'd be pleased if you treated this as confidential,' McKay said, 'until we've advised any next of kin. But it looks like he was killed in the same way as Mr McGuire.'

  'Jesus. Where?'

  'I'm not in a position to release any more information at this stage, Mr Douglas, but the two deaths were very similar. Similar enough for us to treat them as part of a single enquiry at least.'

  'I see.' Douglas was silent for a moment, as if absorbing what he'd heard. 'How can I help?'

  'I want to pick your brains. When we spoke earlier, I had the impression you had a good understanding and knowledge of the comedy scene.'

  'It partly goes with the job.' Douglas looked mildly embarrassed. 'What's coming up, what's going down. But it's an interest as well. Always has been. I grew up with stand-up. My dad was in the business. He was a musician. Guitarist. Various bands but mainly session and backup work. He worked with a lot of the up-and-coming comics at the time, and he loved that world. Ended up managing some of them. Anyway, I caught the bug. Used to go see acts in the theatres and in the clubs when I was far too young to do so, and of course you can find loads of stuff online these days. Then it became a bit of a hobby. Tracing back the history. I started with the British stuff, especially with the alternative comedians in the 1980s–' He stopped suddenly, clearly aware that he'd let his enthusiasm run away with him.

  'That's really interesting, son,' McKay said, in a tone that implied the interest wasn't one he shared. 'What about the Scottish scene?'

  'It's always been a bit hit and miss. There's always been lots of good Scots comedians, but only the odd Billy Connolly's managed to break through to the real mainstream. Some tend to be a bit too Scottish. Others get further but sometimes by burying their Scottishness. But there's a few getting through to the big time now. Kevin Bridges. Frankie Boyle. Very different styles.'

  McKay nodded, though the names rang no more than the faintest bell of recognition. 'You got ambitions in that line yourself?'

  Douglas looked embarrassed. 'I don't fool myself I'm in that class but I enjoy getting up there on stage. It's always a buzz when it goes down well. I do the compering at the club and I've done the odd set when we've a gap to fill.' He laughed. 'Maybe one day, eh?'

  'And what about Dingwall and McGuire? Where do they fit into the great Scottish comedy tradition?'

  Douglas shrugged. 'At one point they looked as if they might make it apparently. Like I said the other day, Jimmy McGuire was a genuinely funny man in his way. Dingwall was a bit weird. In some ways, he was the brains behind the act. He did most of the writing. But as far as I know, he'd never had any desire to go on stage himself. But McGuire saw something in him, and thought it was worth a shot. And McGuire was right. Dingwall was awkward, clearly didn't want to be there, prone to forgetting his lines – but with McGuire keeping the show on the road it worked. They got bigger and bigger bookings. Some TV work here in Scotland, and the promise of stuff down south.'

  'But it never happened.'

  'That's the business. Obviously, the stuff with Dingwall put the lid on it, but their moment had passed anyway. Just never really took off. And Dingwall was having drink problems – probably because he didn't want to be on stage in the first place. And even before Dingwall's arr
est there'd been rumours…'

  McKay looked up, as if he'd been only half-listening up to that point. 'Rumours?'

  'This is only what I've gleaned second-hand,' Douglas said. 'This is before I was born. But I've heard some people say the stuff with Dingwall was only the tip of the iceberg.'

  'Some iceberg, given that Dingwall was prosecuted for rape.'

  'Exactly. But there were stories of young girls – I mean, underage girls – being traded backstage. Deals being done with groupies. Not just the comedy acts. People like Dingwall and McGuire weren't exactly groupie magnets, except that anyone appearing on the telly has a bit of cachet. But some of the bands too. Word was there was a bit of a network, grooming youngsters. Male and female.'

  McKay was silent for a moment, wondering whether any of this had reached the ears of the police. It would be before his own time in the force. It might be worth checking the files. 'You've no evidence for this, presumably?'

  'No. It's just gossip. Stuff I've picked up from blethering with people over the years.' He paused. 'I've been thinking of writing a book about it. The history of the comedy scene in Scotland. So I've just been amassing stuff where I can, chatting to some of the older guys on the scene. Would have liked to have spent some time with Jimmy McGuire–' He stopped. 'That's not going to happen now, is it?'

  'Not without the services of a medium,' McKay agreed. 'You think there might be something in this? The idea of a network.'

  'Who knows? It's come up a few times with people I've spoken to. But always second-hand. Stuff they've heard on the grapevine.'

  'On the other hand,' McKay said, 'nobody's going to admit to being part of it, are they? You fancy naming any names, son? This is a murder investigation, after all.'

  Douglas shifted in his seat. 'I don't know. It's nothing more than hearsay. I can't remember who said what, exactly.'

  McKay sat back in his chair, watching the young man. 'Name Ronnie Young mean anything to you?'

  'Young? The record producer, you mean?' Douglas had dropped his head down, staring at the desktop, but McKay thought he'd caught something, some flicker of expression in the young man's eyes, in the moment before he'd looked away.

  'Aye, so I understand. Producer. Former manager. Former rock star of sorts. You come across him?'

  'Not really. I mean, I know of him. But I don't think we've ever met. Why?'

  'Another killing, son. Another death that we think might be connected. Again, just between ourselves for the moment. I was wondering if there might have been any connection between him and Dingwall and McGuire.'

  Douglas had still not looked up. 'Not that I'm aware of. I mean, there's always been some overlap between the different circuits. But as far as I know Young had focused on the production stuff in recent years.'

  'What about Henrietta Dowling? Have you come across her?'

  This time Douglas did look up. McKay couldn't fully read his expression, but there was something beyond bafflement. 'Henry? What about her?'

  'You know her?'

  Douglas hesitated. 'The singer? A little. I've been trying to get her at the club but she doesn't perform much these days.'

  'I didn't know you put on acts like that.'

  'We put on all kinds of things. Mainly comedy, but some music. Acoustic stuff. A few bands. Acts that fit the ethos…' He trailed off, as if unsure what he was saying.

  'Ethos?'

  'It's hard to explain. I mean, we're not a rock venue. There are other places in town that do that better. We're not really an acoustic music venue, for the same reason. We put on people who'll give the audience a decent night out. Fairly relaxed, a few laughs.'

  'And Dowling would fit into that?'

  'Yes, she would.' Douglas sounded almost defiant, as if McKay had challenged his professional competence. 'She started out as a country singer, and she does that really well. But she's also funny on stage, you know? Deadpan delivery, but nice jokes between the songs. Where does she fit into this anyway?'

  'She came up in passing in the enquiry,' McKay said vaguely. 'You'll appreciate, Mr Douglas, that this isn't exactly my world. I'm just trying to get an idea of how it all fits together.'

  He was about to say something more when the door opened and Ginny Horton peered into the room. 'Alec. Sorry to disturb. Can you spare a moment?'

  McKay hesitated momentarily then turned to Douglas. 'I think we've just about finished here, haven't we, Mr Douglas? That's been very illuminating. I'm grateful for your time.' He rose and ushered Douglas to the door. 'Back in a sec, Ginny. I'll just show Mr Douglas out.'

  He led Douglas back through the double doors to the lobby. He wasn't entirely sure what instinct had made him want to take Douglas off-site before responding to Ginny Horton. But something about Ginny's expression had told him she had something significant to share. And something about his discussion with Drew Douglas had made him uneasy about the young man's continued presence. McKay wanted time to think about what Douglas had said to him.

  McKay returned to Horton, who was watching him quizzically. 'Useful interview?'

  'I'm not sure.'

  'You seemed keen to get rid of him.'

  'I just had the sense you had something more important to share with me.'

  'I reckon so. Pete Carrick’s got them to pull out all the stops on the Jack Dingwall killing.'

  'Good for Pete. I'll remember to mention it to Jock Henderson. And?'

  'We have a match for the fingerprints on the glass used by Dingwall's visitor on the night of his killing. Looks like a DNA match too.'

  'Someone on the system?'

  'Someone on the system,' Horton said. 'Someone by the name of Elizabeth Hamilton.'

  38

  By the time Carrie Baillie reached the front door, she'd stopped swearing under her breath. Now, she was swearing out loud, the expletives clearly audible to anyone who might have been passing by. Fortunately, in the middle of a sunny weekday afternoon, the road outside was deserted and there was no one to hear her in the leafy garden other than the occasional sparrow. The taxi driver would have heard, but he'd already been subject to an extended diatribe all the way from the airport. She'd felt obliged to give him a larger than usual tip just for putting up with it without complaint. Presumably he'd become well accustomed to tuning out his more objectionable passengers.

  'You fucking fucker,' she said, for perhaps the twentieth time as she approached the front door. 'You fucking fucker of an absolute fucking fuck.'

  As she reached the front door, she set her wheeled suitcase back upright. The door was wide open. 'Christ, you fucker,' she added. Either he was out somewhere and hadn't bothered to lock the front door, or he was inside and had simply forgotten about her. Either was quite possible, particularly if one of his numerous young bits on the side was involved. She didn't really care about the reason – all the possible causes were already well factored into her valuation of the marriage. All she cared about was that, whatever the reason, he'd not given her priority. That, as he well knew, was unforgivable.

  The bastard had left her standing at the airport. Literally standing in the pick-up area with her wheeled suitcase, looking eagerly at each new car entering the slip road with the air of someone who didn't want to admit they'd been fucking stood up. It wasn't the inconvenience so much as the humiliation. That was the deal. He could do pretty much whatever the hell he liked as long as he put her first and did nothing that would make her look stupid.

  She pushed open the front door. After the warmth of the afternoon, the house felt cool inside. That was the other thing. She'd been hot and uncomfortable at the airport. She'd initially been expecting him to be at the arrival gate. Failing that, if he was running late, she'd expected a text and for him to sweep into the pick-up zone in his big air-conditioned executive car. There'd been no text, and no sign of a fucking executive car. In the end, she'd had to traipse over to the taxi rank and sort out her own sodding transport.

  Her first thought, once she was inside
, was to call his name. Her second, almost instantaneous thought was: bugger that. She was thirsty. She wanted a drink and a sit down. In the taxi, she'd been contemplating the prospect of nothing stronger than some iced water or maybe an orange juice. Now she was back, she felt as if she needed something like a tonic water, maybe fortified with a very large slug of gin.

  Abandoning her suitcase in the hall, she entered the kitchen. It had been left fairly tidy, but that was Tom's way. He had countless faults, but untidiness wasn't in the top ten. There was a cereal bowl and a plate in the sink, which she assumed were the remnants of that morning's breakfast. She wouldn't have been particularly surprised to have seen two sets of crockery in there, but maybe that would have been careless even for Tom.

  She found herself a glass, a slightly tired looking lemon, and some chilled cans of tonic. The gin took a few moments longer, as Tom had taken it out of the kitchen. She eventually found the bottle on the large coffee table in the sitting room. Luckily – for both Tom and her, she thought – it was still nearly half-full. Picking up the gin bottle, she walked over to the patio doors and peered out into the garden.

  The garden looked glorious in the late spring sunshine. This open space was her personal pride and joy. Admittedly, these days she did little of the maintenance herself –and why would she, given that they could afford to pay for professionals? – but the concept, the design, those were very much hers. It looked good at almost any time of the year, as the different blooms came and went. Sometimes, in the summer, she would just sit out there, her eyes closed, drinking in the sunshine, the scents, the fragrance of the flowers.

  She made her way back into the kitchen, clinked some ice in her glass from the American-style fridge, poured a generous slug of gin and tipped in the can of tonic. As an afterthought, she cut a slice of lemon and dropped it carefully on top.

  Perfect, she thought, as she took the first sip of the bitter-sweet liquid, enjoying the scent of the gin, the sharp fizz of the tonic, the tap of ice against her teeth.