by John Burke
‘So this couldn’t have been one of yours?’
‘No.’
‘When you’ve got over the shock, Mr Lowther, perhaps we can come and talk to you again. We may have a few leads you’ll be able to help us with.’
Rutherford showed signs of wanting to continue the questioning, but realized she was right. Only on a potentially guilty man was it worth leaning heavily at this stage, and Lowther was one of the least likely suspects.
As they headed for the stairs, Lowther burst out suddenly: ‘If I could get my hands on him . . . if I knew what bastard did that, I’d . . . God, I’d . . .’ Then he sank again into his petrified trance.
Back in the station, Rutherford said: ‘Right. While we’re waiting for our mobile home to roll up, fill me in with the details so far. Including that sad character Lowther.’
They had to sit on spindly steel chairs in the only available interview room in the station, which was as cramped as Lesley had assured Superintendent Maitland.
DCI Jack Rutherford had aged fast in the couple of years since they last met. His hair had only a few grey streaks, but it was stringier than she remembered, and his jacket was twisted up on his right shoulder as if he had got one of his jacket buttons in the wrong hole. At any rate those two things hadn’t changed: the loop of his right eyebrow expressing permanent scepticism, and the way his shoulder hunched forward, like a man ready to throw a punch. Together they might intimidate a villain, or at least some young delinquent unsure of his ground.
‘Do we know who found the body — first on the scene?’
‘A young local. Name of Campbell. Blootered after hours on the half-and-halfs. Sergeant Elliot questioned him on the spot. Done twice in the sheriff court for smashing windows and vandalizing flower tubs, but not the murderous kind. That’s left to the older generation.’
‘Come again?’
She explained about Erskine being chased through the town. And Erskine threatening that he had ‘plenty to tell’ about someone or something unspecified. ‘Which could have put the wind up some of the older folk who remembered him. They’re an unforgiving crowd.’
‘Les, do you think we might start at the beginning?’
‘I think you’d better understand that the beginning, as I see it, was a long way back.’
‘Keep it short.’
How was it possible to keep it short? She was sure that everything, including the two corpses, stemmed from events distorted yet by no means forgotten in Kilstane. Ready to fend off impatient interruptions, she launched into a historical summary.
*
In 1937 the Strepka family — husband Karel, wife Herma, and their seven-year-old son Jan — came from their native Czechoslovakia to Scotland. Karel Strepka, fluent in German and English as well as his own tongue, had come to take up a position in the Glasgow branch of a joint Anglo — Czech machinery import and export firm. As war threatened, Karel wanted to go back to his own country to fight, but the firm insisted he stayed on to co-operate with their world-wide contacts on moving machine parts out of the way of the Nazis and the countries they were threatening. He stayed until it was too late to go home — and in any case unsafe. He enlisted in the RAF along with other Czech and Polish expatriates, and was much valued for his mechanical expertise; but at the outbreak of war he insisted on being transferred to flying duties.
To protect their identities and avoid repercussions on relatives left at home in occupied Europe, such people were encouraged to change their names and documentation to Scottish ones — Charles McCabe, Helen McCabe, and Ian McCabe. Combatants were provided with similar identification in case they were shot down and captured.
When ‘Charles McCabe’ was posted to a squadron at Wick, his wife found a job in the kitchen of the local school, to be near him. Early in 1941 he was killed in a bombing raid over Germany.
‘Les, for Christ’s sake.’ The first interruption hadn’t been long in coming. ‘Have you been watching too many war films on the telly? What the hell has this got to do with —’
‘Without the background,’ she insisted, ‘you’ll never get to grips with the foreground.’
She went on to explain that Helen/Herma would accept no charity, but continued working in the school, where the family of the dominie, Dr Kenneth Erskine, did all they tactfully could to make things easy for Mrs McCabe and the little boy. Dr Erskine was a keen musician, putting on school concerts and playing the piano in concerts for the RAF base. The Erskines had a son, Daniel, the same age as Ian, and during the war the two boys became close friends, virtually brothers.
As the war was drawing to an end, Dr Erskine developed arthritic problems and, needing to escape the Wick climate, answered an advertisement for a vacancy as rector of Kilstane Academy in the Borders. He and his wife agreed that they should take the ‘McCabes’ with them.
When the war ended, Mrs McCabe wanted to reclaim the name of Strepka and go back home in spite of the political turmoil and many problems left over from the German occupation. The Erskines persuaded her that it would be in Ian’s best interests for him to stay here to finish his schooling, since he was now fluent in English and knew Czech only from the nostalgic tales his mother told him. In addition, there must be dreadful confusion in schools and the whole educational system in Czechoslovakia as it tried to emerge from the diktats of the Nazis, and she herself might find difficulties in settling back into her old way of life. Give it a few years, until they could both be confident in conditions back home. So Mrs McCabe stayed on reluctantly.
A few years after the war, when both boys were in their teens, word came that Herma’s ageing mother in Prague was seriously ill. Herma left on a visit, saying that while she was there she would organize things so that very soon she could come back to Kilstane to collect Ian/Jan.
But after several months a letter smuggled out via Austria, to avoid censorship, said that the frontiers were closed, the Iron Curtain was down, she was not to be allowed back, and Jan must not come to Czechoslovakia. The new Communist regime was already making it clear that the families of Czechs who had served with the British forces were under a serious cloud in their own country. When Dr Erskine wrote back, there was no reply until someone who had escaped to the West phoned him and begged him not to pursue the matter. Mrs Strepkova was in enough trouble already, working in a factory as a virtual slave labourer because of her supposed Westernized contamination.
The Erskines shielded Ian from knowledge of this, though what he read in the papers made it pretty clear what was going on in his homeland. But he was a very self-centred teenager, and too comfortable with the Erskines to kick up any fuss. He had become pretty well an essential part of the family by now, having known no other, and was later remembered in the town as quite a sly manipulator, calculating how to use people, looking melancholy and bereaved when it suited him, and aggressive or bloody awkward at other times, knowing just what he could get away with. To some extent Dr and Mrs Erskine must have worried about the influence he was having on their son Daniel; but they were too decent and vague to take any strong steps.
Under Dr Erskine’s influence, both boys had become accomplished pianists, though Ian also had a gift for the violin and, as time went on, became more and more interested in the folk music of the homeland he had never really known. Daniel Erskine did his two years’ National Service, and was tempted to stay on, having made his mark as a musician and being offered a course at Kneller Hall. It was either that or teachers’ training in civvy street. His father was growing feebler, and needed his help in running the Academy. Daniel returned as deputy head, specializing in teaching music. Some of his own compositions were published and performed — but none of them created any great stir.
‘Les, we’ve had the history of the war. Do we have to go through a course on music?’
‘This is where the whole subject of Daniel Erskine begins to take off.’
‘Don’t get me too excited.’
By now the two young men both wanted t
o study composition, but found that in the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama in Glasgow at the time the subject was ‘not offered’. Stuck in Kilstane, they were both in danger of turning into local tearaways. No one was ever quite sure whether their exploits with local girls and married women were in collaboration or in rivalry.
Then the restless Ian met a violinist in the string section of a Czech orchestra visiting Edinburgh, rigorously supervised by a party functionary. He was assured that he could make a better living in Czechoslovakia than he could here. So, in spite of his mother’s earlier warnings, he went to the Czech Embassy, boasted of his musical talents and, with his usual glib self-confidence, expressed his willingness to work for the state. No doubt he was confident that he would soon learn how to play it clever and use the system instead of being used by it. He went over. And didn’t come back. And the Erskines could get no answer as to his whereabouts or wellbeing.
When his father died, Daniel Erskine quit teaching and took on any freelance jobs that were going. He played as an accompanist, took summer jobs in holiday resort orchestras, and got a few broadcasting sessions presenting his own works — accomplished but flimsy. He performed at various local music festivals all over Britain, including a number of folk festivals.
Then a jealous Kilstane husband smashed Erskine’s hands, to make sure they wouldn’t ever touch his wife again — or play the piano again, or be able to write music down. Daniel, like his old pal Ian, virtually disappeared from the Kilstane scene. Unable to play or to work out his own compositions at the keyboard, and unwilling to face the sneers of Kilstane folk, he shut himself away somewhere.
*
‘Hold it right there a moment,’ said Rutherford. ‘This character who did the crippling — they caught him?’
‘He was an oil rig worker. Away a lot. Just went berserk, smashed Erskine up, and gave his wife a bit of a pasting. She went to the police. But they didn’t have any trouble. He just sat at home waiting for them to show up. Got five years. One year’s remission.’
‘And did he come back here? A forgiving little wife waiting for him — or don’t we know?’
‘Sergeant Elliot did some checking on that. Local talk has it that his wife cleared off soon after he was put inside. Nobody’s bothered to ask where she went. The husband may have joined her when he got out, or he may just have gone off on his own.’
‘The wife was never seen again?’
She could tell which way his mind was going. ‘If it was Erskine who put her in the family way . . . Or,’ she suggested, ‘another old enemy, another cuckolded father? Bringing us to our Academy skeleton.’
‘It would help to know what that ‘plenty to tell’ remark amounts to.’
‘We might just possibly get a lead on that from Mairi McLeod. His amanuensis.’
‘His what?’
‘After his hands were smashed up so he couldn’t play, or write — or get his hands on any of the womenfolk round here — he needed someone who could transcribe his ideas. I don’t know where or when they met, but she seems to have moved in and interpreted all his ideas for him. Like Eric Fenby and Delius, you know.’
‘Oddly enough, Les, I don’t.’
‘Maybe he whistled some of his themes, or dictated them note by note and then discussed the harmony. She must have had a pretty deep insight into his mind to get it right.’
‘And did she get it right?’
‘Judging by the amount of stuff that got published and played, it must have been a pretty good partnership.’
‘OK, then. Let’s start with this McLeod woman. Where was she when he got done in? If she’s supposed to be his . . . whatever you called it . . . his nursemaid, companion, whatever . . . how did he get away from her?’
‘We’d better ask her.’
Lesley felt the familiar breathlessness as Nick’s voice answered the phone in Black Knowe.
Chapter Six
Nick Torrance was waiting at the head of the stairs. ‘Detective Inspector Gunn — still with us? I was surprised by your call. I thought that —’
‘The new development,’ Lesley said curtly.
‘They’re putting you in charge of murder number two?’
‘Not quite.’ Lesley glanced at Rutherford, who grinned.
‘She’s a wonderful Girl Friday,’ he said. ‘Sir Nicholas, I think we met a few years ago.’
‘I think we did. In the same company.’ He was still studying Lesley. ‘But as I told you on the phone, I’m not entirely happy about you interviewing Miss McLeod so soon. She’s had a terrible shock. And she’s blaming herself, quite wrongly.’
‘We appreciate her distress.’ Rutherford’s tone was that of a man who had used stock platitudes so often that they had become meaningless. ‘But we do need to know all the circumstances just as quickly and clearly as possible. And she was the last person to see Erskine alive, wasn’t she?’
‘We can’t be sure of that. He went off on his own, on some impulse. Might have gone anywhere, seen anyone.’
‘Bumped into Mr Buchanan?’ said Lesley.
‘That thought had occurred to me.’
It was Rutherford’s turn to stare at Lesley. ‘Is this a suspect I ought to have heard about?’
‘One of the angry old men I mentioned. But until we know the direction the victim took, we don’t know whether they could have met up again.’
The door opened and Mairi McLeod walked across a pool of sunlight rippling on the floor.
Rutherford made no attempt to conceal the way he looked her up and down. Lesley remembered that silent whistle of his. Dressed in a clinging black dress, the woman looked even more provocative than if she had been dressed in blazing scarlet. But Lesley saw the change in her features — drained, stone cold. She looked almost as if she had suffered a stroke.
Before Rutherford could start his usual insensitive drone, Lesley said: ‘You know why we’re here, Miss McLeod?’
She nodded.
‘I wonder if you can tell us exactly what happened last night. Where did you last see Mr Erskine, and at what time?’
Mairi moved across the room as a dark sybil. Or a brooding witch. She sank very slowly and silently into the window seat close to Nick’s armchair.
‘We went out for a stroll around ten o’clock. To see what was going on in the streets. Listening to all kinds of music coming out of every window.’
‘A sort of sentimental stroll round his old haunts?’
Mairi uttered a strangled laugh. ‘The only sentiment he felt towards Kilstane was hatred. Hated the place and all its residents. Loud and clear.’
Rutherford was impatient to force the pace. ‘So why did he come back?’
‘I could never really get it out of him. One minute he had no intention of showing up for the festival, but then . . . oh, I don’t know. Something he read in the papers.’
‘The dead woman,’ said Nick, ignoring her reproachful glance. ‘Somehow he was curious about her?’
‘As if he knew something. Or wanted to settle something. But I never did get it straight.’
‘Since we still don’t know who she is —’
‘But maybe he knew.’
‘If so,’ said Nick, ‘he certainly isn’t going to tell us now.’
‘We should never have come here. I ought to have talked him out of it, somehow.’
Lesley was happy to leave the questioning now to Rutherford while she discreetly studied Mairi’s face, trying to detect any hint of suppressed knowledge.
‘Anyway,’ said Rutherford, ‘let’s concentrate on last night. Miss McLeod, you say you went out together. Didn’t you come back here together?’
‘No. He went off on his own.’
‘And you let him do that?’
Nick said sharply: ‘Miss McLeod was Mr Erskine’s musical assistant. Not his keeper.’
‘Nevertheless, after what I’m told happened on a previous occasion . . .’ Rutherford looked from one to the other, waiting for a response.
It came reluctantly from Mairi, a black silhouette against the window. ‘Daniel said he wanted to see somebody. Someone he said he’d got to talk to.’
‘Who would that have been?’
‘I thought it might be Adam Lowther.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. There seemed to be something that Daniel wanted to know. He was drawn towards the young man.’
‘Adam is probably his greatest fan,’ added Nick.
‘Daniel hated people making a fuss of him,’ said Mairi. ‘But in this one case . . . no, I don’t know, I just got the impression that that was where he might have gone.’
‘At that time of night?’
‘I’ve told you, I simply don’t know.’
‘What do you suppose he meant by that remark about having plenty to tell?’ said Lesley. ‘Tell about who, or what?’
Mairi appeared to have gone off into numbness again. Then she shook her head. ‘That’s something else I’ve wondered about.’
‘He never told you? Not even you?’
‘No. There were times when he shut himself away — even from himself, you might say.’
As they left Black Knowe, Rutherford said: ‘Our friend Lowther never said anything about Erskine going to see him.’
‘Maybe he didn’t. Or set out to go there and was waylaid.’
‘I think we’d better eliminate him before we start looking around elsewhere.’
Nora Lowther let them in again, just as impassively as before.
‘No,’ said Adam. ‘Of course he didn’t come here. Why would he have done, at that time of night?’
‘Just what we were asking ourselves.’
‘I can’t help. Look, why are you wasting your time with me? Oughtn’t you to be out looking for whoever —’
‘Mr Lowther.’ A sudden urge possessed Lesley. ‘Mr Lowther, have you got round yet to checking the date your father left Kilstane and took you to Leeds?’
