Bad Blood

by Aline Templeton

  Marnie gave her a contemptuous look. ‘Sort it out like you lot did before, you mean? Cover everything up and get me to run away, like a good little girl? I’m not eleven years old now. I’m all grown up and I want to know what happened to my mother, and to me, for that matter.’

  Macdonald, though still feeling out of his depth, broke in. ‘No one’s going to try to cover up anything. We want to understand what happened, too, and when we do I can promise that we’ll share any relevant information.’

  Marnie said nothing but the look she gave him was eloquent and Hepburn, far less sure than he seemed to be about the openness and honesty that could be expected in this case, added, ‘You’ve got every right to stay as long as you want and ask whatever questions you like. Not knowing whether your mother is alive or dead is a dreadful burden for you to carry and I’ll certainly help you to find out the truth in any way I can.’

  She could feel Macdonald shifting uneasily beside her, and she knew what he was going to say when he got her out to the car – that her response was far too personal, unprofessional. Perhaps it was, but he wasn’t one to talk and she wasn’t going to compromise her own values for any set of rules.

  Marnie didn’t look particularly grateful. She glanced at Hepburn briefly, then away again. She looked down at her watch and got up.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘I’ve an appointment with DI Fleming at ten o’clock, and then I suppose I’ll have to find somewhere else to stay.’ She walked out.

  Macdonald turned to Hepburn. ‘What on earth is all this about?’ he said blankly.

  She was frowning. ‘I don’t really know, to be honest. But what I do know is that unless the boss tells her the truth about what’s going on this one is going to blow. And I think Big Marge knows but doesn’t want to tell.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  She’d have recognised Marnie Bruce anywhere, DI Fleming realised with a sense of foreboding as, unseen, she watched her sitting in the hall waiting to be fetched for the interview.

  It wasn’t that Fleming remembered what the child Marnie had looked like: she’d talked to her that time in hospital, but on the visits to her mother she’d barely glanced at the child on the way in. It was her striking resemblance to the photograph of a fair-haired, bright-eyed ten-year-old that the tabloids reproduced every time they ran an article on child killers.

  It wasn’t exact, of course. Kirstie Burnside’s pretty, elfin features had been much remarked on, while her daughter’s face was heavier and a little rounder. But with the line of the jaw, with that unusual hair colour and the light-blue eyes … Anyone who had known Kirstie, or had even studied the photo, could guess her daughter’s identity, and from the sound of what had happened last night, someone had.

  Fleming wasn’t going to go into that, though. If Marnie raised it, she would say firmly that she would have no information about it until the reports came in later in the day. She was determined to confine the discussion to events in 1993 – nothing before and nothing after. If she could.

  She went through the security door into the hall. ‘Ms Bruce? I’m DI Fleming. Come on through. I gather you have some questions you want to ask me.

  ‘Coffee and biscuits to room 5, please,’ she added to the Force Civilian Assistant at reception, then led the way, making an anodyne remark about the heavy rain.

  Marnie followed silently and sat down in the chair nearest the door of the bland, impersonal room. It left Fleming, who was attuned to body language, with an awkward alternative: to sit directly opposite in what would look like a confrontational pose or to start shifting chairs into a more relaxed social position, which suggested an attempt at control. She sat down opposite, wondering how conscious Marnie’s choice had been.

  Leaning forward to lessen the distance between them, she smiled at her. ‘Right, what was it you wanted me to tell you, Marnie – if I may call you that? I still remember you as a little girl!’

  ‘If you like.’ Marnie didn’t return her smile. ‘I want to know what happened the night when my mother disappeared. Halloween, 1993.’

  Fleming spread her hands wide in the classic gesture of openness. ‘To be perfectly honest, we don’t know. My personal involvement was limited to coming to see you in hospital, but I’ve read up all the reports and the only thing we can really say for certain is that a neighbour of yours at Clatteringshaws Loch found you the following morning. Douglas Boyd – you may remember him?’

  Marnie shrugged.

  ‘You had a nasty head injury and you were alone in the house. After that, extensive searches were conducted, inside and throughout the whole surrounding area, but there was no sign to suggest any struggle or violence, or even the presence of another person. We couldn’t tell whether your mother had taken clothes and personal effects with her but we didn’t find a handbag or any official identity documents, and a car registered to your mother was later found abandoned at Dumfries Station.

  ‘Every effort was made to find her but she has never been traced.’

  The light-blue eyes had not wavered from Fleming’s face since she had begun speaking and she was starting to feel uncomfortable under their scrutiny. The door opening as the FCA brought in coffee was a welcome distraction.

  ‘Ah, thanks, Sue. How do you take it, Marnie?’

  ‘I won’t. Thanks.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, I’ll grab a cup – haven’t had time for my usual caffeine fix today.’ She gave a little half-laugh, and felt foolish.

  ‘Are you telling me that my mother just hit me over the head and then left me – without knowing how badly I’d been hurt, without knowing if she’d actually killed me?’

  Fleming took a sip of coffee. Thinking time. Then she looked up and met the other woman’s accusing gaze.

  ‘Yes, Marnie. On the evidence available, I’m afraid I would have to say yes, probably. We can’t prove it, of course. We never found the weapon that was used to hit you – perhaps she took it away with her to dispose of later. But there simply isn’t a scrap of evidence to indicate that there was anyone in the house that night, except the two of you.’ She felt brutal, but those were the facts and at this stage there was no point in trying to soften them.

  Marnie’s expressionless face gave no clue to her feelings. Was this really a shock, or could it be something she had suspected?

  Fleming went on, ‘What sort of relationship did you have with your mother? You were asked at the time but you said, I think, that it was “all right” – the sort of thing most children would say. Would you say the same now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She had expected to be pinned down with questions but this lack of reaction was almost harder to handle. By way of diversion, Fleming turned to the large cardboard box she had placed earlier in the corner of the room, still blackened with the grime of years in the storeroom. When she folded back the lid, the smell of old, unwashed clothes rose from it.

  ‘These are the personal belongings that were found in the cottage your mother had rented. They’ve been kept in storage in case you wanted to reclaim them. The car had to be scrapped.’ She picked up a form that lay on the top and held it out. ‘No MOT, illegal tyres, worn brake pads—’

  ‘That would figure.’ Marnie sounded defeated, almost resigned. She hadn’t even glanced at the contents of the box.

  Perhaps it wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. ‘I know this isn’t a very satisfactory outcome for you, Marnie, especially after coming all this way,’ Fleming said with genuine sympathy. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  Suddenly, the blue eyes blazed. ‘Find out the truth. What do you think? I’m just going to take your word for it that my mother tried to kill me, say, “Oh dear, I’d better just forget about it then”?

  ‘Anyway, why was it that you used to come to see her? You didn’t just pop in to say hello in passing, did you?’

  Fleming relaxed too soon. This was the hard part, now.

  ‘No, of course not. My visits were official but there�
�s every reason to suppose that your mother is still alive so I’m afraid I’m unable to discuss that with you. I’m sorry.’ It was the best she could do and Fleming found she was holding her breath.

  ‘You’re stonewalling. It’s the same as the last time – it’s all just going to be brushed under the carpet. You’re not going to do anything to look again at what happened.’

  ‘Marnie, unless we find your mother, there’s nothing more we can investigate. The only other source of information we have about that night is you and you told us you didn’t know anything. If we had fresh information, something you’ve remembered—’

  ‘That’s the whole problem! I can remember everything – except this!’ There were tears of frustration in her eyes. ‘And there’s something else I don’t understand – the way people treat me here.’

  They were getting onto even more dangerous ground. ‘Oh yes, I gather there was some sort of problem last night and officers are investigating. I’ll make a point of reading the report when it reaches my desk.’ She glanced at her watch and stood up. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else—’

  Marnie got up too, looking defeated. ‘I suppose there isn’t,’ she said listlessly. With some relief, Fleming went to open the door. It hadn’t been nearly as bad as she had feared; even if she hadn’t told the whole truth, she hadn’t been asked a question that forced her to lie.

  Then Marnie said slowly, ‘You knew my mother. Do you think she would have tried to kill me?’

  Fleming felt colour creeping into her face. ‘I-I simply wouldn’t know, Marnie. I’ve never really considered it.’

  That most certainly was untrue and she could see that Marnie knew it was. She added hastily, gesturing towards the box that was standing in the centre of the room. ‘Oh, do you want to take away the box? It’s a bit bulky – you could collect it later, if you preferred.’

  Marnie gave her a contemptuous look then turned away. ‘No, I’ll leave the things with you. You may need them for the investigation if my mother’s body turns up.’

  ‘I see.’ Michael Morrison’s face was grim. ‘What more could she know?’

  He listened to the response, his lips tightening. Then he said, ‘Yes, I think cancelling is the best we can do, in the circumstances. I’ll talk to the others later.’

  Putting down the phone he stared blankly at his study wall, plastered with photographs of his wife, his daughter and his grandson – particularly his grandson. Gemma was always teasing him that soon there wouldn’t be any need for wallpaper. There was Mikey at a day old, Mikey learning to walk, Mikey on his trike, Mikey looking up at his grandfather with total love and trust.

  He had been scribbling notes on a sheet of paper as he listened. In a sudden fury of rage he grabbed the paper up, crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the waste-paper basket, swearing. Then having second thoughts, he retrieved it and walked over to the handsome old-fashioned fireplace where he put it onto the hearth, found a match and burnt it before neatly sweeping up the ashes and tipping them over the piled-up logs set in the grate.

  He’d have to get in to the office. There was a big building project he was working on so he was going to be busy, anyway. Morrison was frowning as he went out into the hall and almost tripped over his daughter who was hoovering.

  She switched off the machine and smiled at him. ‘I’m Mrs Mop today,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Mikey’s at nursery, so I hadn’t an excuse not to roll up my sleeves.’

  ‘What’s happened to Ameena?’

  ‘They phoned from the farm to say she’s got flu and won’t be in for a couple of days. She told me her husband’s away at the moment so I thought I’d do this and then pop across and see that she’s all right – take her some grapes or something.’

  ‘Dear me – a bit Lady Bountiful, wouldn’t you think?’

  Gemma looked crestfallen. ‘Do you think so? I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘To be honest, she’d probably think you were checking up to see if she’s really ill or just throwing a sickie and resent it. I’d leave it, if I were you.’

  ‘I never thought of that. Oh dear, I’m sure you’re right – I could have walked straight into it and upset her. I’m too naive, that’s my problem.’

  She was obviously disappointed at not being able to carry through her charitable impulse, and her father laughed. ‘You’re a sweet girl, darling. Stay just the way you are and I’ll do the cynical bit on your behalf.

  ‘Tell your mum I’ll be a bit late back, will you? Busy day at the office.’

  ‘Hope you’re not too late. Mikey always acts up if you’re not around at his bedtime.’

  ‘I’ll do my best but I can’t promise.’

  He left, with Gemma calling after him, ‘See you do! Your title of World’s Best Granddad is at stake!’

  ‘You’re making this too personal,’ Macdonald said to Hepburn as he drove off. ‘It could cause a lot of trouble if you take it upon yourself to get involved.’

  ‘You would know about that, of course,’ she said lightly with a sidelong glance and saw him colour angrily.

  They’d fallen out already over whether they should go and check on Anita Loudon before reporting back. Hepburn had pointed out that if Fleming was busy with Marnie Bruce they could end up kicking their heels when they could be discovering useful information about what had really gone on. Macdonald had given way but with a bad grace and the atmosphere in the car as they drove to Dunmore through the rain was thick with tension.

  She was determined not to volunteer any information unless he asked for it and they had been on the road for ten silent minutes before he cracked. Concealing a smug little smile, she told him the story as far as she knew it.

  ‘I don’t know what Big Marge’s agenda is, but there’s definitely something she doesn’t want Marnie to find out. It screams cover-up to me, and that’s crazy. It’s not the mistake that causes the big scandals, it’s the cover-up, every time.’

  ‘The boss is totally straight,’ Macdonald said flatly. ‘I’ve worked with her for years and if there’s something she’s not telling Marnie Bruce she’ll have good reason for it.’

  ‘Good reason? A kid badly injured, her mother nowhere to be seen, the whole thing obviously hushed up – and all Tam MacNee can say is that fortunately the press didn’t bother so much in those days! Her mother could be lying dead somewhere and Marnie has a perfect right to know exactly what happened. If Fleming fobs her off—’

  ‘—it’s nothing to do with you.’ Macdonald finished the sentence for her. ‘Anyway, have you considered that perhaps it’s your friend Marnie who has an agenda? Her interest may be financial rather than social – there’s a lot of money in compensation for police failure.’

  It hadn’t occurred to her and it brought her up short. ‘Well … I can see that, of course, but I don’t believe it. I think she’s a very troubled person, looking to lay some of the ghosts of her past.’

  ‘Oh, very romantic,’ he said sardonically. ‘I’ll give you troubled, though I’d have said weird. Anyway, what’s with the Dunmore business? Do you really believe she doesn’t know what it’s all about?’

  ‘You don’t? For goodness’ sake, the woman was terrified this morning. She told you in detail what happened and she’s totally confused.’

  ‘It was the detail that bothered me, quite honestly. She could be some sort of fantasist.’

  ‘She didn’t fantasise the mob outside her window,’ Hepburn said tartly.

  ‘Yes, I’ll give you that. But she provoked it somehow – what did she do?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I hope we’re going to find out. But I believe her, and I’m on her side.’

  Macdonald groaned. ‘For God’s sake, we don’t have sides if we’re police officers. Look, you irritate the hell out of me but I don’t want to see you screw up totally. The boss is handling this so leave it to her. You need to look at this as just another professional case.’

  ‘You said.’

  H
epburn turned her head to look out of the window, her lips set in a stubborn line, and silence fell again. She knew Macdonald was right, in a way, but there was a more important imperative. Marnie Bruce was a victim, being pushed around by authority and terrorised by bullies. She deserved a champion and, though she might not realise it yet, she’d found one.

  Anita Loudon smothered a huge yawn and Vivienne Morrison smiled sympathetically. ‘Late night?’

  ‘Can’t take it the way I used to.’ She tried to sound upbeat but she knew her voice was flat.

  Vivienne was looking at her in concern. ‘You don’t look great. Headache?’ She was digging in her bag, ‘I’ve got some ibuprofen somewhere – here you are.’

  Anita thanked her and went into the dress shop’s tiny back room where there was a sink and a kettle. Her head was indeed pounding but the turmoil inside it was worse. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day.

  Vivienne was the most considerate employer anyone could hope for. If Anita said she was feeling ill she’d be told to go home, but Drax would still be there, probably. Somehow here, in the cosy little shop with the thick pile carpet and the pretty wallpaper and the clothes hanging in neat colour-coordinated ranks she felt safe, as if in Vivienne’s pleasant, cheerful world nothing could ever go wrong.

  She was always so kind, so understanding. Anita suspected that Vivienne knew there was a man involved on those occasions when she’d suddenly wanted a day off – Dunmore wasn’t a good place for keeping secrets – but it had never been a problem, there had never been awkward questions.

  Anita had occasionally thought of telling her about Drax. The need to talk to someone had sometimes been almost overwhelming, but she’d always managed to resist. Now, though …

  There couldn’t be anyone better than Vivienne to confide in: sympathetic, discreet. If she talked to her in confidence, made her promise not to tell a soul – but if she told her everything, would Vivienne keep it secret? How could she?