It was all coming apart, just as she had always dreaded it would. They’d said that to her, when they were asking her what she knew, what she’d seen, all those years ago. ‘If you don’t tell the truth,’ one of the policemen had said, ‘you’ll be punished later, you know.’ She’d believed him at the time and she’d never forgotten. But she’d still lied.
Perhaps it was time she told the truth, to someone at least.
DS Andy Macdonald’s lips were compressed as he sat in the car outside the Galloway Constabulary headquarters, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for DC Hepburn to finish her cigarette.
His usual partner, the taciturn DC Campbell, was on leave this week and the temporary pairing with Hepburn had been unwelcome to both of them. They had fallen out badly during a murder case last year; he had become emotionally involved with one of the suspects and thought Hepburn’s questioning of such a vulnerable woman had been brutal. The case, and the involvement, were long over but he had never forgiven her.
For a time Big Marge had, he suspected, discreetly kept them apart as far as possible, but this week’s decision looked like a signal that she thought this had gone on long enough.
She was probably right, but the months of heartbreak had changed Macdonald from the laid-back, cheerful lad he had once been to a harder, sterner, colder man. The most he was prepared to do towards rapprochement with Hepburn was to treat her with icy professionalism – as long as she didn’t deliberately irritate him, as she was certainly doing now.
She was putting her stub in the bin at last and he started the engine as she got into the car.
‘Did you have to have a fag just before you got in? You stink of smoke and I’m going to end up smelling of it too.’ Macdonald knew that sounded aggressive. He didn’t care.
Hepburn was unmoved. She gave a very Gallic shrug as she fastened her seat belt, saying simply, ‘Get over it.’
With a sidelong look of dislike, Macdonald drove off.
‘What’s the situation, Sarge?’ Hepburn asked as if she hadn’t noticed his mood. ‘I was caught by a query just as I was going to the briefing.’
She always called him ‘sarge’, he had noticed, rather than Andy. He avoided calling her anything at all.
‘Disturbance outside a B & B in Bridge Street. Cars hooting, people yelling, banging on doors and windows. Scarpered when the uniforms turned up, but there were ten complaints from neighbours and a furious landlady. We’ve to talk to her, and the lodger, who seems to have been the target.’
Hepburn raised her eyebrows. ‘A lynch mob in Kirkluce – whatever next? What’s she done, then?’
‘No information. The names and address are there.’ He fished in his pocket and handed her a notebook with an elastic marker at the place as he slowed down and indicated a turn. ‘That’s Bridge Street now.’
‘Oh – Marnie Bruce!’
Macdonald turned his head at her exclamation. ‘Know her?’
‘Yes. I spoke to her a couple of days ago. It was a really weird thing – quite a story. Big Marge and Tam are stressing about it. Look, that’s the house there.’
He pulled into the kerb and there wasn’t time to ask her what she was talking about. Anyway, he’d rather ask MacNee than put Hepburn in a position to patronise him with her superior knowledge.
The furious landlady was still furious this morning. She had the door open before they rang the bell, a short squat woman with greasy grey curls and a soiled apron over a grey jersey dress with part of the hem down, and she talked them all the way through to the sitting room at the back.
The house was chilly and smelt of dust and stale fat, overlaid with sickly synthetic lavender from an air freshener. The decor seemed to have shades of mud as its inspiration and with the utter cheerlessness of it all Macdonald could feel depression settling on him even before he and Hepburn sat down on the beige uncut moquette sofa in front of an electric fire that hadn’t been switched on.
‘I can tell you one thing,’ the landlady declaimed, ‘the minute you’ve finished talking to her, she’s out the house. I never heard anything like it – a riot in Bridge Street! That’s what it was, you know, a riot. Thought they were going to break down the door and smash the windows.’
‘Well, Mrs … Wallace,’ he said with a sidelong glance at the notebook Hepburn was still holding, ‘we can be thankful the patrol car arrived in time to prevent that. I gather they dispersed immediately – is that right?’
While obviously still feeling that the police should have been in position to stop it before it started, she admitted grudgingly that they had and returned to her main grievance. Her eyes were small and unfriendly behind smeary glasses.
‘It’s that girl,’ she said. ‘A perfect bother, right from the start. Always wanting something, complaining about the hot water, complaining about the heating, having to have coffee to her breakfast instead of tea from the pot – and there she was yesterday forcing her way in at dinner time when I’d told her rooms are not available to guests until after three. And a right mess she was in too, I can tell you that – torn clothes, bloody knees and hands. Don’t know what she’d been doing, but she’d obviously been causing trouble somewhere.’
‘Didn’t you ask her what had happened?’ Hepburn was looking at the woman with some distaste.
Mrs Wallace sniffed. ‘That was her business. Didn’t want to get involved.’
‘Right,’ Macdonald said. ‘So you have absolutely no idea what this was all about?’
‘No, and I’m not wanting to know. I’m just wanting rid of her. They were chanting, “Come out and face us”, and I told her last night, I said, “You get out there and face them, if that’s what they want, before they start in to breaking my windows,” but of course her ladyship wasn’t going to do any such thing. I’d have made her, though, if your lot hadn’t come along.’ She sounded positively regretful that she’d been denied the chance.
‘You didn’t feel you had a duty to protect Ms Bruce from an angry mob?’ Hepburn’s tone was unprofessionally hostile, and Mrs Wallace reacted to it.
‘Oh, it’s my fault now, is it?’ Her voice was shrill. ‘I’m the victim here, being terrorised in my own home and I can promise you that Councillor Brunton, who’s a friend of mine, will take a poor view of the police attitude when I tell him.’
Macdonald winced at the name of a famously troublemaking local politician and shot Hepburn an irritated glance.
‘No, no, Mrs Wallace, I assure you we are entirely sympathetic – a most unpleasant and alarming experience for you. We’re here so that we can find out what the problem was and make sure that it will never happen again.’
‘Oh, it won’t – she’s not staying.’ She seemed slightly mollified, though, and got up saying, ‘I’ll send her in to you right now, will I, and then I can get her to clear out. Sooner the better.’
Fleming glanced at her watch: ten past nine. She recognised it as a neurotic action, prompted by her anxiety about the ten o’clock interview with Marnie Bruce. She still hadn’t worked out what she was going to say to her, and the disturbance last night was worrying too.
She’d detailed Macdonald to go and find out what it was all about, and only afterwards had remembered that Campbell was off and it was Hepburn he’d be taking with him. That had been a mistake; she’d been hoping to sideline Hepburn until she’d managed to persuade Marnie that there was nothing she could find out here. But it sounded as if the ripples were spreading already in a very alarming way.
Superintendent Rowley’s phone summons was seriously unwelcome. She didn’t say what it was about, she just wanted to see Fleming as soon as possible.
‘I’ve got an appointment at ten,’ Fleming said, though not hopefully, and the reply, as she had feared, was that in that case she had better come immediately.
It seemed unlikely that Rowley had heard about Bridge Street. In her lofty position she took little direct interest in problems on the ground, preferring to wait, as she p
ut it, for significant reports to be filtered through to her. But maybe she’d had more thoughts on dealing with the Marnie Bruce situation, in which case Fleming would be grateful for any constructive idea and even more grateful for the implication of shared responsibility.
Rowley was clearly in a high state of tension this morning, anyway. There were red spots in her cheeks and she said, ‘Oh Marjory, there you are!’ in a tone that suggested that taking the time to come down three flights of stairs instead of dematerialising and rematerialising on the instant in her office had been an unreasonable self-indulgence.
‘I’ve had a very important phone call from … someone,’ she said. ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose the name, but someone extremely important.’
This was definitely nothing to do with Marnie Bruce. Rowley had said that in what could only be described as Hushed Tones. Should she, Fleming wondered acidly, curtsey just in case she meant the Queen? Perhaps it would be wiser just to say, ‘I see,’ in a solemn voice.
‘I see,’ she said solemnly.
That seemed to pass muster. ‘Yes,’ Rowley said. ‘It’s … it’s very unfortunate. The thing is …’ She hesitated. ‘You know that the government has been very concerned about illegal immigration? Well, naturally you do. And here, as I said to you before, we have an important entry point into the United Kingdom. And of course, I’m not saying Special Branch there don’t do a splendid job of policing. Of course they do. And they have my fullest support.’
‘Absolutely,’ Fleming agreed. Any dealings she’d had with the Cairnryan station had been both efficient and cordial.
‘But … unfortunately,’ Rowley swallowed, ‘apparently the police in Strathclyde picked up a group of Asians travelling in a minibus – no papers, of course, and none of them admitted to speaking any English at all to answer questions. The thing was, there were plastic bags in the van with the name of local shops in Stranraer printed on them and … well, they’ve concluded that somehow they slipped through the net here – on my patch!’
If there were illegal immigrants entering the country, an important entry point into the UK would naturally have its share. ‘Some are bound to get through even the most effective security checks,’ Fleming pointed out. ‘If they searched every lorry and shipment the place would grind to a standstill.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous! Of course I know that.’ Rowley’s colour was getting even higher. ‘And in fact, of course, the intelligence operation is centrally funded so it shouldn’t be our direct responsibility. But Marjory, the way he talked about it – it sounded as if he was blaming me!’
‘He’ – not the Queen, then. Fleming was finding it hard to take all this seriously. ‘Christine, anyone familiar with the problem will understand the difficulties too. I’m sure you’re being too sensitive.’
‘But I am sensitive,’ Rowley cried. ‘I’m very sensitive about damage to my reputation. This could be a stain on my unblemished record.’
Struggling to find a response to such naked egotism, Fleming was relieved when Rowley didn’t wait for one.
‘I want to give you a special brief. Get down to Stranraer, ask a few questions, find out who’s got an operation going. Just discreetly, no need to mention it to anyone, you understand? I need to have a success to report.’
Fleming gaped at her. ‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, I know it’s not really within our remit—’
However inadvisable you thought direct confrontation was, sometimes there was no alternative. ‘No, it isn’t,’ Fleming said flatly. ‘I hardly know where to begin on this one. In the first place, I have a more than full-time job keeping on top of the remit we do have. In the second place, Cairnryan has a highly competent DCI with two experienced DIs to deal with all this and they might very reasonably take exception to anyone else moving onto their patch, particularly someone with no experience at all of the particular problems.’
‘But they’re not to know anything about it! I’m not asking you to take over port security, for goodness’ sake.’ Rowley’s voice was becoming shrill. ‘It’s our job to know what’s going on in one of our towns, since it could quite easily spill over into our area of operations. I’ve got notes here of the evidence found on these people that links them to Stranraer. So it’s just a simple case of following up, chatting to people, keeping an ear to the ground. That’s all.’
Grudgingly, Fleming admitted that, at least, was possible.
‘Of course it is. And then mopping it up, Marjory, to show that in my sector, at least, we have everything under control.’
‘Christine, what can I possibly do that the officers at Cairnryan won’t be doing already?’
‘Inject a sense of urgency, that’s what. They simply won’t understand what’s at stake. I’ve spelt it out for you, so the important thing is to get on with it. All right? Thanks, Marjory. I’m glad we understand each other.’
Rowley got up, indicating that the interview was over. ‘I’m sure you’ve lots to be getting on with,’ she said with marked graciousness. ‘You’ll want to clear your desk a bit. Get that team of yours working. Delegate, that’s the answer.’
Finding herself bereft of words, Fleming went. That, of course, had been a demonstration of the way people aiming for the top got there and she no longer doubted that one day in the not-too-distant future Hyacinth would be accepting a post as chief constable with becoming modesty and not so much as a glance over her shoulder at the trampled bodies left in her wake.
What on earth was she going to do about this one? She was tempted to phone Nick Alexander, DCI at Cairnryan, for a confidential chat but he might well take exception to the implied criticism and decide to go over Rowley’s head and complain – and Fleming knew who would get the blame if he did.
It might be best to keep quiet and do – well, something that wouldn’t upset Cairnryan but would keep the woman off her back. She glanced down at the file Rowley had thrust into her hand. Perhaps the ‘something’ would suggest itself once she had read it.
And at least it had taken her mind off her ten o’clock appointment.
When Marnie Bruce came into the sitting room she looked years older than the composed, assertive woman DC Hepburn had seen a couple of days ago. Her face was pinched with dark blue shadows under her reddened eyes and she was visibly shivering with tension, or perhaps it was just the cold of the unheated house.
DS Macdonald identified himself and Hepburn said, ‘Hello again, Marnie. I gather you’ve been having a bad time.’
‘You could say.’ Her tone was bitter.
Hepburn glanced at Macdonald. He’d taken exception before to her taking the lead in an interview, but his nod recognised her previous contact as a good starting point.
‘Perhaps you could begin by telling us what happened,’ she said.
‘Hasn’t that woman told you already? She’d enough to say about it last night and again this morning when she stood over me while I packed my bag.’
‘Yes, but we’d be interested to hear what you saw. Did you recognise anyone, for instance?’
‘Yes, I did. Oh yes! There was a woman banging on the door who was a friend of the woman who attacked me in Dunmore yesterday, who came to Anita Loudon’s house to attack me again—’
‘Hold on,’ Macdonald said. ‘Can we take this a bit slower? Are you saying you know why all this happened?’
‘Oh no, I don’t know why. I don’t understand any of it. I think that everyone in this part of the world must be completely mad, that’s all.’
‘Telling us about Dunmore yesterday might be a good place to start,’ Hepburn suggested. ‘Why were you in Dunmore?’
‘I found out that an old friend of my mother’s lived there – Anita Loudon.’
As Marnie began her account of the day’s events, wringing her hands unconsciously together, Hepburn noticed again the strange, disengaged look on her face as if she wasn’t really seeing her questioners at all, and again, the account was extraordinarily detailed: ‘There’
s a tag on the key with green leaves and pink flowers, sort of daisies, I suppose, and it says “Garden” so I know it will unlock the door,’ for instance. Much of it was reported in the present tense, though she seemed to correct that when she noticed.
It took a long time and they listened in silence until she reached her return to the B & B, shaken and bleeding, and the landlady’s hostile reaction.
‘I just ignore her and go past to my room, then I wash my hands but I don’t have a plaster or anything.’ Marnie held out her hands, showing the raw grazes. As she looked at them, her eyes seemed to come back into focus and she said, a little awkwardly, ‘So that’s what happened.’
‘I see,’ Macdonald said. ‘And you think that one of the women you saw last night was among the women at Dunmore – and you think you could recognise her again?’
‘Oh yes, I could recognise her. Fat, with long, straggly black hair.’
‘Right,’ Macdonald said. ‘That’s very helpful. We’ll make enquiries and we’ll call you again if we’ve a chance of an identification.’
With a glance at Hepburn, he made to stand up but she hadn’t moved and he sat back again, leaving her to make the running.
‘Was your mother’s friend able to tell you anything about your mother?’
Marnie shook her head. ‘She asked me how she was as if she thought we were still together. She claimed she didn’t know anything had happened back then, just that she couldn’t get my mother on the phone one day and when she came out to the house we’d gone.’
‘You don’t believe her, do you?’
For the first time, Marnie looked Hepburn full in the face. ‘No, I don’t. She’s a liar – I caught her out in one lie, so I know.’
‘What was that?’
Marnie’s eyes slid away again. ‘Doesn’t matter. That’s something else. But I want to know the truth, and I’m going to find some way of making her tell me. Too many people have kept secrets and told lies.’
‘Leave it to us, Marnie. We’ll go out today to see her and get to the bottom of all this. There’s probably been some sort of misunderstanding – we don’t want things to get any worse until we can sort it out.’
Bad Blood Page 12
