by John Burke
Rutherford opened his mouth, startled; then closed it again, leaving it to her.
‘Do you think I’ve nothing better to do, right now?’ Adam protested. ‘Have you any idea how much work is involved in co-ordinating all these recitals, and then having this dreadful blow on top of everything?’ He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘Do you know how I feel?’
He put out a hand vaguely towards his wife, as if clutching for support. She seemed still mulling over the earlier question. Expressionless, she said in a monotone like an incantation: ‘If you think back — think how long your dad worked for Parrotts before you got your job along with my Harry, and then when we got married, it has to have been around the mid eighties.’
‘In Leeds,’ said Lesley, ‘your father worked for this firm called — what was it, Parrotts? Are they still going?’
‘What’s that got to do with me? I packed it in and came back here to work on my own account, didn’t I? Never saw much of old Mr Parrott, and he’ll be dead by now, I should think. But what that’s got to do with what’s been happening here in Kilstane, I don’t see.’ He was growing more and more prickly. ‘All that stuff’s in the past, it can’t have anything to do with the present.’
On the way back to the station, Rutherford expressed agreement. ‘I wasn’t going to drop you in it, Les, but I didn’t get your drift. You sure you’re not still bogged down too much in things more complicated than they need be?’
‘It’s all part of the same story. I know it in my bones.’
‘Didn’t know they played the bones in a symphony orchestra. Which is where you seem to be, half the time.’
At the station they were greeted by Sergeant Elliot with the news that a young man had just arrived to report a theft — the theft of an electric guitar.
He was a tall, lank specimen with a greasy leather jacket and moleskin trousers. His hands were twitching convulsively and his eyes were red and weepy. The most conspicuous item in his attire was a hangover. Lesley could smell him from several feet away. His name was Dave — ‘Dave Barton of the Riverboat Cardsharps,’ he explained, hoping they would recognize the name at once.
‘Riverboat?’ said Rutherford. ‘Which river?’
‘Well, actually we’re from Mablethorpe, but —’
‘Where was this instrument lost?’
‘Somewhere near that place with a clock tower.’ Dave’s voice was slurred, and he reached for a grubby tissue to wipe one eye. ‘I’d been with the lads, playing in one of those pubs, but . . . oh, I dunno, we went on drinking, and we got separated, and . . . oh, I dunno.’
‘You went out for a breath of fresh air?’ said Rutherford sceptically.
‘Yeah. Only then I thought it was time to walk back and go to bed.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘It’s . . . oh, I dunno. Somewhere. A Mrs Mc-something-or-other, only she’s sort of . . . oh, I dunno, y’see.’
‘Sergeant, will you fetch the exhibit?’
Elliot left the interview room. Dave tried to keep the two detectives in focus, but was growing more and bewildered. ‘Look, I was hoping someone might have found it, but I didn’t know there was going to be all this fuss.’
‘How did you come to lose it?’
Dave looked sheepish. ‘Well, I must have had a skinful, y’see, and I sort of sat down in the road and put my head back against the wall. And I must have gone off for a few minutes. And when I woke up, my guitar was gone.’
Elliot returned with the long-necked guitar shrouded in a polythene bag.
‘Would this be your property, sir?’
‘That’s it, yeah. Where did you . . .’ Dave faltered, staring through the plastic. ‘Who the hell did that? It’s all dented.’ He stooped closer. ‘And there’s a hell of a lot of shit on it.’
‘Not shit,’ said Rutherford. ‘Blood.’
‘Blood? What’s been going on?’
‘You’re sure you went off to sleep, Mr Barton? You didn’t just wander around in a stupor and pick a fight with an elderly gentleman?’
‘What elderly gentleman?’
‘An ageing square, one might say, who sneered at your instrument and your kind of music.’
‘No. I’d have remembered that. Look, I want out of here. I want —’
‘And we want to find a murderer.’
‘A what? Look, I don’t know about any murder.’
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind staying here until you’ve sobered up. The sergeant will arrange for you to get a cup of tea. And then you may remember more than you’ve told us so far, and be able to make a statement.’
‘I’m not having that. Not staying here. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Sergeant Elliot, perhaps you’ll discuss with Mr Barton the difference between helping the police with their inquiries on a voluntary basis, and being formally charged. Inspector Gunn can sit in when you show some signs of getting somewhere.’ Answering Lesley’s unspoken question, he added: ‘And me? I’m off to the morgue. I want another look at the late Daniel Erskine. A long, cool look. And it should be cool enough in those surroundings.’
Lesley said: ‘And while you’re there, take another look at our lady friend. I tell you, there’s a connection.’
A few minutes after Rutherford had left, she settled down at the phone and got on to West Yorkshire police to ask them to trace the whereabouts of the Parrotts, if any of them were still alive and still in business. In spite of Rutherford’s doubts, she was going to follow her own hunch.
*
On Sunday morning the caravan arrived and was manoeuvred in close to the bottle bank near the supermarket delivery bay. It was not a very satisfactory location, but by hiving off one side of the supermarket car park they could at least guarantee easy access for police cars and other vehicles when necessary.
Once linked up, the first call that came through was from West Yorkshire police.
Old Mr Parrott was far from dead. He had proved only too happy to answer questions and had volunteered to come along to his local station and talk. ‘Too damned ready to talk,’ grumbled the sergeant from the other end. ‘Can’t shut him up. Just loves the thought of being involved in anything to do with the police: crime, dangerous driving, petty theft, you name it. We could have him along here an hour from now, if that would suit.’
The only snag was that by the time the phone interview was ready to proceed, Rutherford was back and eager to take charge in the mobile incident room. He refrained from saying that he had given DI Gunn no permission to follow up her interest in the Leeds connections of the Lowthers; but made it clear that from now on he would be in charge of the proceedings.
Mr Parrott had been told that he could have a solicitor or a friend sitting in with him if he wished.
‘Nay, why should I need that? I’ve got nothing to hide.’
He was only too ready to talk. The difficulty might be in stopping him.
‘Pity we’ve not yet got direct visual links as a matter of course,’ said Lesley in an aside to Rutherford.
He grunted. Technology was already getting ahead of him. ‘I like to have ’em right in front of me. In the flesh. So I can see when they twitch, and watch them beginning to sweat.’
She was growing more sympathetic towards Rutherford. He was only middle-aged, yet was already one of the older brigade, further along the unending road of his profession than she was, and not looking forward to the next few thousand footslogging miles.
‘Now, officers, how can I help you? I’ve done my share of backing our local police, as they’ll tell thee. Wouldn’t be reet not to extend the hand of fellowship across the Border, would it?’
Mr Parrott relished the sound of his own voice. He would need to be controlled.
‘We won’t keep you long, Mr Parrott,’ said Rutherford.
‘Take as long as it takes. Unless our local coppers can’t afford the phone bill, eh?’
‘The main thing is, do you remember a man from Kilst
ane in Scotland working for you in the . . . eighties, wouldn’t it be?’
‘Aye, it would be that. Of course I remember Jamie Lowther. A good worker. And there was that lad of his, now — young Adam. Remember him well, too. Helped to get him started.’
‘Mr Lowther came to you with good references?’
‘He did that. Very good. From a Mr Enoch Buchanan, that would be?’ His memory was sharp enough, and he was proud of the fact.
Lesley leaned forward. ‘Even though he left Mr Buchanan in a bit of a hurry?’
‘I know nowt about that. His references were good, and he kept his wife and young lad in good style. Not strapped for cash. I paid him well enough. Never been tight-fisted if I get the service I want. But he always seemed to have that bit extra. Used to send his missus on shopping trips to Grassington every now and then. Very smart. But never put on no airs. Knew his place.’
In spite of his reservations, Rutherford was beginning to get interested. ‘You think he came to you with a generous pay-off from his previous employer — Mr Buchanan?’
‘Tha’ doesn’t go round asking questions like that.’
But Lesley was silently asking questions. A dour skinflint like Buchanan, who had said that Lowther had left of his own free will, with precious little notice given, actually handing over some money to help him on his way? And if not, how had Lowther managed to be so comfortable?
‘It’s how the man works, that’s all you ought to be concerned with,’ Mr Parrott was continuing. ‘You wouldn’t catch me nosing into what he’d done before. Unless it was criminal, of course, and that wasn’t the way of Jamie Lowther.’
When Lesley and Rutherford left the caravan, the churches and chapels were letting out their congregations. As the women went home to attend to the food, some of the men with an hour’s grace drifted into the Buccleuch Arms and the Pheasant. There was no such drift on the part of the few dark-suited men emerging from the austere little shack of the Wee Frees. Enoch Buchanan was holding forth to the group as if the morning’s lamentations had not been enough to satisfy his appetite.
When he caught sight of the two detectives he tried to draw himself up even higher and puff himself out even further.
‘Well, now.’ His voice boomed across the street. ‘Did I not warn the guardians of the peace that there would be a divine vengeance upon the sinner if he returned to the scenes of his debauchery?’
Rutherford crossed the street, with Lesley a pace behind. ‘I understand you have indeed said that, Mr Buchanan. Several times. May I take it that you were not personally instrumental in the vengeance which has fallen upon Mr Erskine?’
‘Mind your tongue, man. I am the voice of truth, not its weapon.’
But the pleasure in that florid, self-righteous face struck Lesley as being that of a potential weapon of the Lord who would not flinch if given the opportunity he might have been craving for years.
‘Mr Buchanan,’ said Rutherford very quietly, ‘we’d welcome your help. Rather than embarrass you in front of your friends, might I ask you to come to the incident room with us and offer what assistance you can? In confidence.’
There was a moment of hesitation during which Buchanan could have swung either way — loud indignation, or pompous acceptance of a role as consultant. He chose the second. As the three of them walked away, he made a point of turning his head from side to side, addressing each of them with a serious lowering of the head, putting on an act of gravitas, suggesting to any onlooker that he was lecturing the police rather than being interrogated by them. He strode towards the caravan and up the two steps with a swing of his burly shoulders. Offered one of the only two vacant chairs, he preferred to stand with one hand on the video bench, looking down on them like a preacher in a pulpit.
‘Would you fancy a cup of tea, sir? Or coffee?’
‘I’ll not be touching either of those. But’ — he accepted grudgingly — ‘I wouldnae be saying no to a glass of water. I’ve been reading a lesson, and I favour pure water to ease my throat.’
‘Thank you for coming, Mr Buchanan. Of course this is an informal interview, simply trying to establish the whereabouts of key people in Kilstane at relevant times.’
‘The times being what?’
‘Can you account for your movements between midnight last night and three o’clock this morning?’
‘I was at home, where every Godfearing citizen ought to be at such a time.’
‘Can you confirm that?’
‘I live alone since the death of my guid wife. But my word is enough for any man or woman in this town.’
‘You didn’t go out at all last night?’
‘I went at around nine o’clock to a prayer meeting of our community.’
‘And after that?’
‘I went straight home.’
‘Mr Buchanan, I have a crucial matter to put to you. If you would like your solicitor to be present —’
‘I’ll nae be paying for one o’ those to profit from sleekit quibbles.’
One of the two uniformed women constables who had been fastening a map of the town below the three narrow window lights at the top of the main wall of the van, with a supply of coloured magnetized pins in a holder at one side, placed a glass of water on the bench close to Buchanan.
‘Do remember that you are free to leave at any time, or free to consult a solicitor.’ Rutherford kept it very mild and correct. ‘Right? Now, I must put it to you that, according to what I have learned, you felt a strong antagonism towards the deceased.’
‘Aye, I’m no’ ashamed to confirm that. All decent bodies despised him and his sinful ways. But ye’d be wise not to listen to malicious gossip in these pairts.’
While answering Rutherford, Buchanan was looking so accusingly at Lesley that she lost her cool. She said: ‘As a matter of interest, Mr Buchanan, why did Jamie Lowther leave your employ so abruptly?’
‘Men do when the mood takes them.’
‘You felt let down by him walking out like that?’
‘I’ve answered all this before. He went, and that was that.’
‘You gave him a good reference. Did you give him anything else?’
‘And what else would ye have in mind?’
‘You didn’t give him any money? A large sum in severance pay, for example? A very generous sum?’
‘No mair than the wages due to him.’
‘Apparently he was not too badly off when he reached Leeds. There wouldn’t have been any money missing from your accounts? He did do the book-keeping, didn’t he?’
‘And what might all this have to do with that man who’s gone to the devil at last? There’s the man ye should have questioned while he was around to be questioned.’
‘Mr Buchanan, you’ve had a long-standing grudge against Daniel Erskine. Isn’t that so?’
‘I’ve already questioned Mr Buchanan on that matter,’ Rutherford pointed out.
‘I thought he might have been having some second thoughts about the consequences of —’
‘I never need second thoughts,’ said Buchanan. ‘Never doubted what was right and what was wrong. What should be praised, and what condemned in the eyes of the Lord. The man was an abomination. Many’s the girl he defiled in this town. Aye, and the shameless married hussies. My daughter went off with him, but he threw her aside.’
‘Would you be surprised to know that, while he was alive, Mr Erskine denied that?’
‘Nay, it wouldnae surprise me. Lying, deceitful creature that he was. Threw her aside,’ he ranted again, ‘after he had brought her down to his own level. She was beyond shame by then. Found somebody else, but never came back here. Never saw her again. Or wanted to.’
‘But when Erskine himself came back as an honoured guest for this festival of his music, you hadn’t forgotten him. Or forgiven.’
Buchanan’s florid face was turning a mottled pink and purple, accentuating the hairy mole on his right jaw. He took a long gulp from the glass of water and slammed it down on
the bench. ‘Would you be trying to accuse me of . . . och, no, I’ll no’ be listening to any more o’ this.’ He pushed past her, and past Rutherford’s raised right arm. ‘You left it too late to ask questions of the one who had such a lot to answer for. Only now’ — he fired a parting shot over his shoulder — ‘he’ll be answering to a higher authority. And the sentence will be to burn in hellfire for eternity. And that’s all I’ll be saying.’
‘Nice Christian character,’ Rutherford observed after the door of the caravan had stopped vibrating.
Lesley said: ‘He’s holding something back. A lot, I’d say. All of it churned up in a stockpot of hatred, distorting everything. And believing that whatever he says or does, he’s always in the right.’
‘That woman’s corpse. I’ve been wondering . . .’ Abruptly Rutherford swung round and snapped at the constable who was about to remove Buchanan’s glass. ‘Whatever you do, don’t wash that. Bag it and put it away safely in that cupboard.’
When he and Lesley were outside, she said: ‘Why are you so keen on keeping that glass?’
‘I’m arranging with the pathologist for DNA tests on both our stiffs. And I’ll be finding a way of getting samples from Miss McLeod and Lowther. A bit tricky, unless they give their permission — or unless we charge one of them.’
‘With what?’
‘That’s the problem.’ Rutherford sought reassurance from the welcoming sign beside the door of the Pheasant. ‘Fancy a dram, Les?’
‘Oughtn’t we to be —’
‘A dram, and then you can have your lunch, and then we’ll retrace a few steps up that wynd.’
A few heads turned and there was a spate of muttering as they crossed to a corner table where a curve of the wall made it almost an alcove. Probably the public thought they ought to be out non-stop with sniffer dogs tracking killers down throughout the streets and alleys of the town.
Rutherford’s dram turned out to be a pint of eighty-shilling and a large Lagavulin. Lesley settled for a lager.
‘With lime?’
‘Decidedly not.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
When they were settled and Rutherford had sighed approvingly over his first long gulp of the beer, Lesley leaned across the table, aware of several groups of men lowering their voices and carefully not watching her. She lowered her own voice.
