Bad Blood

by Aline Templeton

  Being alone in the car was a good opportunity to get his ideas straight. After all, thinking aloud wouldn’t be a lot different from talking to a silent partner. When he tried it, though, it made him feel a right berk and he reverted to the old-fashioned method.

  The case he had been urging against Marnie Bruce was pretty flimsy, when it came right down to it. Loudon’s will provided a strong motive but there was no proof that Marnie even knew about it. If she had been familiar with her mother’s story, she’d hardly have come blundering into Dunmore asking questions like that. And if she didn’t know about Tommy Crichton’s murder, why would she have moved Loudon’s body to the play park – and how would she have known, anyway, exactly where the child had been found? Unless her mother had told her, which brought him neatly full circle.

  No, Louise, blast her, was almost certainly right. Marnie Bruce had simply been the catalyst, caught up in something she didn’t understand. The trouble was, he didn’t understand it either.

  This was the point where he could have done with Campbell to come in with one of his terse remarks. He tried to imagine what it would be, but that didn’t work – and he was nearly at Stranraer.

  The headquarters of Crichton’s company wasn’t hard to find – a sprawling complex of hangars, workshops and offices on the outskirts of the town. A couple of juggernauts sat in the extensive parking area and a smartly painted sign read ‘Crichton. Haulage and delivery services’.

  It appeared to be a prosperous business, with a good number of cars parked outside what looked like the main office building. Macdonald left the car there and found a door marked ‘Reception’.

  The room was functional rather than inviting, lined with untidy boards covered in dog-eared lists of what looked like rotas and schedules. Presumably Crichton didn’t expect passing trade, and the woman at the desk seemed mildly surprised as she asked Macdonald if she could help him.

  ‘I was wanting a word with Mr Crichton, please.’ He showed his warrant card.

  ‘Oh! Oh yes, of course.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think he’s at home. I’ll check with his secretary but his car’s not here. He was in earlier but – you know.’

  Macdonald nodded as she made the call. ‘Poor man,’ he heard her saying, then, ‘Oh? Right. He didn’t need that, did he?’

  She turned back to him. ‘Yes, he’s at home. He came in this morning even though he must have been quite upset with all this, but then there was a phone call that meant he’d something to sort out at home. You’ll get him there. All right? Do you need the address?’

  ‘Got it here. Thanks for your help.’

  As he went back to the car, Macdonald wondered what the phone call that had sent Crichton home during the working day had been. A case like this always set the antennae bristling, though it was probably nothing to do with it at all.

  Crichton’s house was a handsome modern building in a superb position, looking out over Loch Ryan. One of the Irish ferries was just coming in, its white paint and red funnels bright in the watery sunshine, though the gathering clouds suggested it wouldn’t last for long.

  There was a Mercedes parked outside as well as a smart little BMW 1 Series, so it looked as if the owners were at home, but there was no answer when Macdonald rang the bell. After a pause, he rang again just as the front door opened.

  The woman was smartly dressed in neat black trousers and a turquoise sweater that murmured cashmere, but her blonded hair was ruffled and her mascara smudged. She looked, Macdonald thought, half-asleep.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, madam. DS Macdonald – I was hoping for a word with Mr Crichton, if he’s at home.’

  ‘Oh – sorry, yes of course. Come in. I’m afraid you caught me having a snooze.’ She looked flustered, and catching sight of herself in a mirror in the hall as she led him in, she gave an exclamation of dismay, patting her hair and taking out a tissue to dab at the smudges.

  ‘Mr Crichton?’ Macdonald prompted.

  ‘Oh yes, yes of course. Er … I suppose you’d better just come through to his office. This way.’

  The response to her tentative tap on the door was a surly grunt. When Denise opened it, Macdonald saw that Crichton was sitting at a desk covered with a jumble of papers, with more files piled around his feet. He looked as if he had been running his hands through his hair and he snarled, ‘What is it, Denise? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘It’s the police, wanting a word,’ she said and her husband’s head swivelled. His face had gone pale and he got up, pushing his chair back in a clumsy movement, then standing where he was blocking the view of the desk from the door.

  He gave her a killer look and she stammered, ‘Sorry, Grant, I didn’t think – I was asleep when he came,’ as he said to Macdonald, ‘What is this about? As you can see, I’m very busy. Can’t it wait?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Macdonald. We’re investigating the murder of Mrs Anita Loudon.’

  Crichton’s face changed. Somehow, this wasn’t what he had been expecting, but he didn’t look any happier. ‘Yes, of course,’ he muttered. ‘You’d better come through to the lounge.’

  He almost pushed the others out and, Macdonald noticed with interest, locked the door behind him. Denise, apologising for the disorder, scurried ahead to fold up a furry throw and plump the cushions on the sofa.

  ‘I’ll just leave you to it, shall I?’ She made for the door, but Crichton said abruptly, ‘No, you stay. There’s nothing you can’t hear.’

  ‘Did you know Mrs Loudon?’ Macdonald asked her.

  She shook her head. ‘I heard today she worked in Vivienne Morrison’s dress shop and I go there sometimes, but I never knew her name.’ She tucked herself into one corner of the sofa as if she was trying to efface herself completely.

  Crichton sat down in one of the armchairs and Macdonald took the other. ‘This must have been a very distressing day for you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’ Crichton’s eyes went to a photograph on the mantelpiece, a snapshot of a little boy. ‘Whoever put the body there has a macabre and disgusting mind.’

  ‘Indeed. Do you feel that where it was placed suggested that the killer was someone who was looking for revenge?’

  ‘Revenge? I assume you’re thinking of my former wife or myself and it sounds to me like a veiled accusation.’

  It was said aggressively; there was no doubt that Crichton was getting his confidence back. ‘Not at all,’ Macdonald said blandly. ‘It may be a clumsy attempt to divert suspicion.’

  ‘Perhaps you could explain to me why killing Anita Loudon would constitute revenge? It wasn’t she who killed my son.’

  ‘She was one of the witnesses at the time, I understand.’

  ‘And her evidence helped put Kirstie Burnside behind bars.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. So you had no grudge against her. How well did you know her?’

  ‘Know her?’ Crichton bridled. ‘I didn’t know her, Sergeant. Knew who she was, yes. But that was all.’

  ‘You were never, for instance, at her house?’

  ‘No, never.’ It was a very firm denial.

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  That threw him. ‘Saw her? I-I don’t know. I probably passed her in the street or saw her in a shop, but I wouldn’t have spoken to her. How could I possibly remember? It’s a ridiculous question.’

  ‘Right. Is there anything you know about Mrs Loudon that might be helpful to us in suggesting a reason for her death?’

  Macdonald had hoped that the invitation to point the finger elsewhere might tempt him, but he was disappointed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, sir. Just one final question. What were your movements last night?’

  ‘Simple enough. I had supper with my wife, then I worked in my study until late. Then I went to bed. My wife will bear me out.’ He looked across at her, his gaze hard.

  There was a slight, fluttery movement from Denise.
Then she said, ‘Yes, that’s right,’ in a colourless voice.

  Macdonald got up. ‘Thank you both. There’s nothing further, at the moment at least. But if anything else occurs to you, however trivial, you can contact me on this number.’ He put down a card on the coffee table. ‘I’ll let you get back to your paperwork, sir.’

  A haunted look came over Crichton’s face. ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘My wife will show you out.’ He left.

  Macdonald said quietly, ‘You didn’t sound terribly sure about your husband’s movements last night. Would you have known, if he’d gone out?’

  Denise looked at him with something like panic. ‘Yes, of course I would!’ she cried wildly. ‘That’s an outrageous suggestion. He was here all night.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’m glad to have your confirmation. Thank you for your time.’

  But, he reflected as he went back to the car, what validity did an alibi have when it was given by a bully’s victim?

  Daniel Lee’s windowless office was minimalist in style with a glass desk, sleek pale leather chairs and a bank of glossy white filing cabinets against high-gloss white walls. Two Perspex tiered trays held papers neatly piled but there was no form of decoration or ornament to soften the chilling impersonality of the room. The mobile telephone lying on the floor was the only sign of disorder.

  Light from aluminium downlighters reflected with almost painful effect and Marnie, dazzled as she stepped in from the dark landing, stopped dead.

  Ahead of her, Drax spun round with that quickness of movement she remembered so well and putting an arm that felt like a steel bar around her waist he propelled her into the room, closing the door behind them.

  ‘You wanted to see me. And here I am. Sit!’ He pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  The image flickered into life.

  ‘Sit!’ he says, pointing to the battered sofa in the lounge.

  She doesn’t want to sit. He thinks it’s funny, treating her like a dog. But this isn’t funny. She realises Mum’s told him what she said and now he’s going to make her pay for it.

  She doesn’t know why she even bothered saying it in the first place because she knows there’s no way Mum would ever leave him and find somewhere he doesn’t know about, just for the two of them, so he would never come.

  ‘You and your mum on your own?’ He’s laughing at her. She hates being laughed at. ‘Using what for money? I’m the one who gives you everything. If it wasn’t for me, you know what would happen? Your mum would have to go on the game – you know what that means?’

  She’s ten, of course she knows. Dry-mouthed, she nods.

  ‘Of course, there’s you too – could get a bit more for you, being underage.’

  He’s leering at her in that way that frightens her and her mum’s looking at her as if she blames her not him.

  He’s going on. ‘She’s useless, you see, your mum.’

  ‘Why do you want to keep her, then?’ The words come out of her mouth before she can stop them and she’s feeling sick with fear and waiting for him to hit her.

  He doesn’t. He laughs. ‘Let’s just say she has a special characteristic that suits me. She’s my slave, aren’t you, babe?’

  And her mother, horribly, is laughing too. ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘I’m your slave.’

  ‘For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?’ Drax’s voice cut across and she came back to the present. His strongly marked brows had shot up and his dark, dark eyes were wide with what looked like alarm. ‘That’s weird, you’re—’ Then he stopped. ‘You’re doing that thing Anita talked about. You’re going back in time, aren’t you?’

  Marnie said nothing. She didn’t know what to say so she went to the chair he had indicated and sat down. Drax didn’t go to the other side of the desk; he sat on it, just beside her, and bent forward staring into her eyes as if they might operate like a film screen.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he demanded.

  She moved back in her chair, blinked, turned her head. ‘Nothing. It’s random, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘What can you remember about when you were at Clatteringshaws and your mother worked for me?’

  Everything, every last little thing, was the truthful answer, right up to the moment when she came back on Halloween and someone hit her on the back of the head.

  ‘Nothing much,’ she said. ‘Just scraps of things, pictures—’

  ‘Do you remember the night your mum had a lot of people to take somewhere and it all got a bit difficult?’

  Of course she did. She was even now trying to fight down the pictures: a whole load of foreigners, packing into the Clatteringshaws house, men jabbering, her mother shouting at them and her sent to her bedroom in a hurry …

  Marnie frowned. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  Drax was still staring at her. ‘You’re lying, aren’t you? Anita said you remembered everything. Absolutely everything.’

  He got up abruptly and went round to the other side of the desk and sat down. ‘She’s dead, you know.’

  Through stiffened lips Marnie said, ‘I was afraid it might be her.’

  ‘There are a lot of bad, nasty people around. I expect you’ve realised that by now.’

  Oh she had, yes, she had. Marnie nodded.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to upset them now, would you?’ In the harsh light, his dark eyes seemed to glow.

  Transfixed, she shook her head this time.

  ‘The question is, are you as good at forgetting as you are at remembering?’

  She grasped at that. ‘No one’s going to ask me anything. Once you’ve told me what I want to know I’m going to disappear.’

  ‘Smart decision. That’s a useful talent, especially when the police have you as a suspect – which they will, of course, since you visited her. Where are you staying at the moment?’

  Her stomach had lurched at the mention of the police, but she said only, ‘You can’t think I’m going to tell you.’ Did he imagine she was stupid?

  ‘Just testing.’ He sat up abruptly in his chair, his mood changing. ‘I’ve got too much to do to spend any longer with you. Far too much.’

  There was something he was angry about, something that was nothing to do with her, and she wondered what it was.

  ‘So you’ve got two minutes to ask whatever it is you want to know.’

  ‘Where’s my mother?’

  ‘Karen? That’s easy. I don’t know. How would I? What is it – twenty years since I saw her? More? She could be anywhere. All right? Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Did you kill her?’

  That amused him. ‘Kill her? Why should I? Disposing of a body is quite a hassle, they tell me. So …’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t, no.’

  He got up, but Marnie didn’t. She’d come this far and got nothing; what had she to lose now if she asked the question she hadn’t had the courage to ask all these years ago.

  ‘Are you my father?’

  His lip curled in a sneer. ‘Your father? Who knows? I shouldn’t think your mother knows either. She was such a little tramp you could have been anyone’s.’

  The casual cruelty of the reply hit her hard. She got up, trying to master her tears, and stumbled to the door. His laughter followed her as she went downstairs.

  The Asian woman she had seen before was standing in front of a cleaning cupboard, winding up the cord on the vacuum cleaner. There was a man standing at the DJ bench wearing headphones who glanced up incuriously as she passed.

  When she reached the car park there was a young Asian man sitting in a small grey car with a dent in the wheel arch nearby, waiting patiently for his girlfriend, she guessed. She saw him answer his phone; that would be her, probably, saying she was just about ready to leave. It must be wonderful to be someone who had another person who cared enough to come and wait to take you home, instead of driving miles by yourself in the bleak darkness to a half-derelict house where all that waited for you was loneliness. She
’d never know now what had happened to her mother. She’d have to live with the deafening silence, and tomorrow she might as well go back to London.

  But as she drove out of the car park, she saw the little grey car was driving off too, so her romantic notion that he was waiting to take his girlfriend home was just that. Ah well.

  DC Hepburn woke suddenly as the car braked for a traffic light. She had again had a very disturbed night and she’d fallen so deeply asleep that for a moment she couldn’t think where she was. She sat up, rubbing the crick in her neck.

  DS MacNee was at the wheel. He was looking at her quizzically. ‘Dearie me, lassie, you’re far too young to be needing a nap in the afternoon. Too many nights out on the razzle, I don’t doubt.’

  Her eyes prickled with tears at the injustice, but she said only, ‘Oh well, you know how it is,’ as jauntily as she could.

  ‘I knew once, right enough,’ MacNee said, ‘but it’s so long ago I’ve almost forgotten. Anyway, you did the smart thing. The traffic was nose-to-tail all the way in – took an hour and a half longer than it should have. We’re nearly there, though.’

  Yawning, Hepburn looked around. It was an unappealing area of Glasgow, industrial buildings and run-down tower blocks. ‘Funny place to have a nightclub,’ she said.

  ‘This is a major road with good bus services,’ MacNee pointed out. ‘And if you’re out here you don’t get grief because the neighbours complain. Quite a nice little business. That’s it there, look.’

  He pointed to a display of flickering lights just ahead. It was evening now, very dark with drizzling rain falling and as they turned into the car park and got the full benefit of the sophisticated show of neon, Hepburn thought it looked quite inviting despite its bleak surroundings.

  ‘Very jazzy. And Zombies – it’s a good name.’

  MacNee snorted. ‘If you say so. All I can say is, they’ve come a long way from the local Palais. Seemed exciting enough at the time.’

  There were quite a lot of cars in the car park now and there was a man standing outside the entrance smoking, a bullet-headed young man of impressive physique with a fine collection of visible tattoos.