Bad Blood

by Aline Templeton

  The wind was getting up. The trees outside the window were starting to sway with a low, keening sound, casting shifting shadows across the room. Sick with worry, she lay curled in the foetal position willing sleep to come to her. Then it would be tomorrow and she would have the misery of the night behind her. She’d rather deal with the demons of the day than the demons of darkness.

  Louise Hepburn woke suddenly. She had no idea how long she had been asleep or what it was that had wakened her but she sat up in bed.

  It was a windy night. She could hear the roaring of waves breaking on the shore just across the road and she could feel, too, a powerful draught sweeping in through her open bedroom door. That must have been what roused her.

  Alarmed, she jumped out of bed. Had her mother opened a window somewhere? The rain would come pouring in on a night like this. Shoving her feet into slippers she went out onto the landing.

  Not a window. The wind was blowing up the stairs from the open front door. Oh God! Fleur must have got up and gone out – on a night like this! In a flimsy nightie she could be hypothermic in minutes. And how long had she been gone? Louise had no way of knowing and she was feeling panicky as she grabbed a dressing gown and sped downstairs.

  She ran out into the garden, looking wildly about her. She was soaked through before she reached the front gate and looking up and down the street she couldn’t see her mother. Cars were driving past but with the waves breaking right over the farther pavement there was, unsurprisingly, no one out on foot that she could ask.

  Could Fleur have wandered across the road onto the shore, been swept away? With a sob in her throat, Louise ran across to look helplessly at the heaving waters of the loch. What was she to do?

  She turned back and there coming along the street towards her was her mother, dressed in the yellow oilskin and sou’wester that was her customary wet-weather gear, along with stylish floral Wellingtons. She was carrying an empty shopping basket and as she neared Louise she broke into a trot, exclaiming in horror.

  ‘Louise! My little one, what are you doing? You are soaked to the skin – what are you thinking about? Get inside at once and change out of these wet things while I make you a tisane so you don’t catch your death of cold.’

  Struck dumb, Louise allowed herself to be scolded and chivvied back inside. When at last she got a chance to speak, she said, ‘What were you doing out anyway, Maman?’

  Fleur’s face clouded. ‘I just went along to the shops, but I think it must be a holiday. They were all shut.’

  ‘Mmm.’ As her mother went through to the kitchen, Louise locked the door and put the key in her pocket. ‘Don’t worry about the tisane. I’ll just have a hot bath and go back to bed. I don’t need to be in early so I’ll have a bit of a lie-in, all right? Don’t wake me.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. You work too hard.’

  Fleur went through to the kitchen – to do what? Louise wondered wearily as she ran her bath. Have breakfast? Lunch? This couldn’t go on. She’d been trying to pretend it was just temporary confusion, but now she’d have to call in the doctor.

  During the day Fleur would be safe enough. She wasn’t in the habit of going very far – she’d never learnt to drive so it would just be into the town or along the shore for a walk, perhaps, and if she mixed up morning and afternoon it wouldn’t matter.

  But the nights were the problem: Louise was terrified now that next time Fleur really would go out in her nightclothes. She could lock the doors, but if her mother was determined to get out she might climb out of a window and hurt herself that way.

  It was bad enough being wakened because Fleur was confused about time. Listening all night for any sound of movement was impossible, if she wanted to keep her job.

  What she needed was an alarm system that would tell her if her mother was opening a door or a window. She could arrange that tomorrow – that and the doctor’s appointment.

  She was just too tired to worry any more. After the warmth of the bath, sleep overwhelmed her the moment she shut her eyes.

  Michael Morrison, too, was aroused out of a deep sleep in the middle of the night. At his side, Vivienne was twitching and moaning, giving little cries of distress and he touched her gently, murmuring, ‘Sssh, sssh, it’s all right, darling.’

  She woke instantly, looking round her in bewilderment and then began to cry. ‘Oh Michael, it was a terrible, terrible dream!’

  ‘Just a nightmare, darling. That’s all. Go back to sleep.’

  ‘It was Anita – and her head – she was still alive, but—’ She began to shudder violently.

  He switched on the light and took her in his arms, patting her soothingly. ‘Put it out of your head. I tell you what – I’ll go down and make you a cup of hot milk, shall I? And then you can take another of your sleeping pills and get a proper rest.’

  Vivienne clung to him. ‘I’ll come with you. I don’t want to be left alone. It’s guilt, Michael – I feel I should have been able to help her, done something that night instead of letting her go back to the house alone.’

  ‘You did all you could. Now you just need to put it out of your mind, like we said. All right?

  ‘Come on, then – quietly, though. We don’t want to wake the Monster.’

  She smiled at that, tiptoeing along the landing with a glance at her grandson’s bedroom door.

  As Michael heated up the milk, he said, ‘You know, sweetheart, I was just thinking you ought to get away for a day or two. It’s going to be quite upsetting for you here with all that’s going on and you wouldn’t be opening the shop for a bit, anyway. Diana’s always asking you to see her in London – why not just take her up on it? It would do you good.’

  Vivienne said slowly, ‘Yes, I suppose it might. But I hate to leave you when you’re working so hard – and of course Gemma would be on her own with Mikey—’

  Michael laughed. ‘Stop fussing. Gemma’s a big girl now and, anyway, I’m here to see she’s all right. Get Diana to take you out for some retail therapy and you’ll be a new woman.’

  Vivienne’s relief showed in her face as she allowed herself to be convinced. As they went back to bed, she was talking happily about an exhibition she wanted to see.

  Michael stayed awake until he heard his wife’s breathing become soft and even. He was feeling a certain sense of relief himself. His responsibilities were weighing on him painfully and at least he wouldn’t have to worry about Vivienne, for the moment, anyway – though with so many threatening clouds gathering one fewer worry hardly mattered.

  It was a long time before he got back to sleep.

  It was not quite nine o’clock when DI Fleming was informed that Daniel Lee was waiting in reception. She was surprised: to arrive at this time, driving through the Glasgow rush hour, would have meant leaving well before seven, an hour she would have thought unknown to nightclub owners unless approached from the other end.

  ‘Think he’s anxious about something?’ MacNee said innocently when she collected him on the way down to the interview room.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Fleming said. ‘Anxiety’s useful.’

  ‘Better than nothing, I suppose, now they’ve put a stop to waterboarding.’

  Daniel Lee didn’t look as if he was being gnawed by anxiety, though. He greeted them with an urbane smile, saying, ‘I thought we’d better get this nonsense cleared up as soon as possible. My time’s precious just at the moment.’

  ‘I feel just the same, sir,’ Fleming said cordially. ‘This way, please.’

  She eyed him narrowly as she ushered him ahead of her. She knew he must be in his fifties but he walked with the swagger of a young man in his skinny jeans. He was, she supposed, good-looking; he certainly had a compelling face and his eyes, so dark they were almost black, did have a magnetic quality but there was something about him that repelled her, though she couldn’t quite say why.

  In the interview room, she explained that while this was merely an initial interview, it would be recorded and he w
as entitled to have a lawyer present.

  He waved away the offer. ‘I don’t need to pay someone to tell me to keep my mouth shut. I want to get this cleared up.’

  When MacNee had completed the formalities, Lee cut in before Fleming could frame a question.

  ‘Look, I want to put on record that I was a total fool yesterday. I suppose I was … well, you can imagine what I was, when I heard that Anita had been killed. I’m sorry. Bad boy.’

  He caught Fleming’s eye for a second and then he smiled. His narrow face came alive and the dark eyes seemed to light up, charmingly inviting her into this delicious little conspiracy of understanding and forgiveness.

  Fleming had to control a quiver of revulsion. ‘We’re ready to hear whatever statement you wish to make, Mr Lee.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He held the smile and the tone was almost caressing. She realised that he didn’t know what the effect on her had been; interesting. Overconfidence was almost as useful as anxiety.

  MacNee was looking sick. Afraid he might start making retching noises, she hurried on, ‘For the record, you told DS MacNee yesterday that you hadn’t seen Anita Loudon or been in Dunmore for more than five years. I gather you wish to correct this statement.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked down at his hands for a moment and when he looked up his face was set in lines of sorrow. ‘This has been a terrible shock. I heard yesterday from one of my business contacts – I’m afraid I led you to believe that I didn’t know, Sergeant.’

  ‘Aye, you did that,’ MacNee said dryly. ‘Among other things.’

  ‘We were lovers, though I had my life in Glasgow and she had hers here.’

  ‘Not an exclusive relationship, then?’ Fleming said.

  ‘We were free spirits. We each led our own life, mine in Glasgow, hers in Dunmore.’

  MacNee was unimpressed. ‘Kept it kinna quiet, though, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we didn’t flaunt it,’ Lee said smoothly. ‘That was Anita’s choice. A small place, you know – a lot of old pussycats. But it was a strong relationship that went way back.’

  ‘Of course. Right back to Tommy Crichton’s murder, in fact,’ Fleming said. ‘Which brings us to the question of why Anita’s body should have been placed there, on the same spot.’

  ‘Oh yes, they said that on the news. Looks like some sort of revenge motive, doesn’t it?’ His expression was bland.

  ‘That’s what you think, is it?’ MacNee said. ‘So who’d want revenge on Anita?’

  ‘How would I know? We led our own lives so I’d hardly know if she’d got across someone.’ Then he frowned. ‘Though, hang about – I do remember her mentioning that she’d had a bit of a run-in with Shelley Crichton. Some sort of misunderstanding about a visitor she’d had, and Shelley got the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘You mean, when Marnie Burnside visited her?’

  Fleming’s question had thrown him, definitely. Lee’s eyes narrowed and his thin mouth became a taut, straight line, but the speed of his recovery was testament to his quick wits.

  ‘Well, well, that’s a name from the past! Marnie Burnside – good gracious. Anita didn’t tell me that. The last time I saw Marnie she was just a kid. Her mother was another old friend but I lost touch with her years ago.’

  ‘Another “free spirit”?’

  MacNee’s tone was heavily sarcastic but Lee didn’t rise to the bait.

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Let’s move on, then, to your movements around the time of Anita’s death. Start with Tuesday of this week.’

  As he hesitated, Fleming went on smoothly, ‘If you’re calculating how much we know already, Mr Lee, I would advise you to assume it’s everything.’

  He gave her a look of dislike, the charm switch now definitely set to ‘Off’. ‘I was ordering my thoughts, that’s all.

  ‘I left Glasgow on Tuesday, late afternoon, I suppose. I arrived at Anita’s house in the evening. I spent the night there. She had gone to work when I woke up and then I left again mid morning and drove back to Glasgow. End of.’

  ‘A very brief visit,’ Fleming said.

  ‘I’m a very busy man.’

  ‘Why did you decide to come down that evening?’

  Lee shrugged. ‘Hadn’t seen Anita for a bit. Nothing special going on at the club that night so I fancied a change of scene. It’s not illegal, as far as I know – not yet, at least.’

  There was an edge to his voice. He was getting defensive and MacNee picked up on it immediately and goaded him.

  ‘So – just bad timing, then? You come down one night and she’s dead the next? Just came down to say goodbye, maybe? One last night of love?’

  Lee’s face went white with rage. He grasped the table as if to stop himself coming round it to assault MacNee and Fleming could see the cords in his neck standing out.

  His voice sounded strangulated as he snarled, ‘Yes, if I’d known she was going to die, I would have said goodbye. I wish I had. It is a very sad end to a long friendship.

  ‘I think I’ve been as helpful as I feel like being, given your attitude. You’ll have to arrest me to keep me here and since you obviously haven’t the evidence to do that, I’m leaving now.’

  ‘Just one question,’ Fleming said. ‘Your alibi for Wednesday night?’

  He was halfway to the door. ‘Ask any of my employees. Or rather, since most of them are kids who have trouble knowing whether it’s Tuesday or Christmas, ask my secretary. She always knows what I’m doing better than I do myself.’

  He left the room. Fleming said, ‘Mr Lee has terminated the interview,’ for the benefit of the recording and MacNee switched it off.

  ‘Had that one all ready, didn’t he?’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes. Think you could get one of your Glasgow pals to send a couple of uniforms round to see his “kids” asap? And tell them not to bother with the secretary – we know what she’s going to say already.’

  MacNee gave her a cynical look. ‘And you think the kids won’t back her up? What’s the going rate for an alibi these days – twenty quid?’

  Fleming sighed. ‘Right enough. Even so, wouldn’t do any harm to keep up the pressure.’

  ‘The sort of pressure I’d like to put on that one would involve his windpipe. Remember the good old days when you could take them round the back, no questions asked?’

  ‘Tam, you shock me!’ Fleming said. But she was grinning as MacNee left.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It had been a wild night. The wind in the trees roared like a raging sea and with that, and the cold, Marnie kept waking up. In the early morning the storm abated and she fell into a deep sleep at last, waking only with the first signs of light at eight o’clock.

  She climbed out of her sleeping bag feeling grubby and disgusting, ready to sell her soul for a decent shower. Instead, she stripped off her clothes and exposed her shrinking, goose-pimpled flesh to a cold sponge-down in the kitchen and dried herself on a blanket. She’d forgotten about towels.

  It was a luxury to climb into the car and put the heater on. She listened to the morning news programme as she left the house but there was nothing fresh about Anita’s murder, just a statement that the police were pursuing several lines of enquiry. She clicked off the radio. It felt strange and scary hearing that, when you were one of the lines of enquiry being pursued.

  Despite having thought of nothing else in her waking moments she still hadn’t decided what to do. The picture DC Hepburn had painted of Marnie’s future as a fugitive had scared her but she wasn’t entirely convinced it would be like that; they’d find the real killer before long and they wouldn’t go to all that trouble to find her if she made it difficult for them. She could still hide; casual work in the catering trade wasn’t famous for keeping records.

  But then there was Anita’s will. She didn’t know what it would mean – a bit of money, perhaps, and that wouldn’t go amiss – her little savings account was nearly empty. But it could mean the police would decide she’d kille
d Anita for what she might get and really set out to nail her, though it wasn’t like Anita was wealthy. Working in a shop, what she would have had to leave couldn’t be much. The thoughts chased each other round and round her head till she felt dizzy with them.

  When she reached the police station in Kirkluce there were people hanging around outside with cameras and microphones; there was an edge of frost in the air this morning and they were stamping their feet and swinging their arms as their breath rose in steamy clouds.

  Marnie couldn’t face shouted questions, cameras shoved in her face, at least not yet. She drove on past and out of the town without any real idea of where she was heading – just not there.

  ‘Glenluce Abbey’. The signpost further on down the road triggered her memories.

  She’s staring and staring at the arches that spring up and fall back like water in a fountain so that she hardly hears Gemma and the others giggling or the teacher talking history. She’s gone to a quiet, beautiful place in her mind.

  She needed to think clearly, and where better? Marnie turned off the main road, up through the little village of Glenluce and then on down the narrowing roads until she saw the cluster of grey buildings that almost seemed to grow out of the landscape, the walls of roofless buildings like stone outcrops. She didn’t like the windows without glass, that looked like empty eye sockets in an animal’s weathered skull, but all round the ruined grandeur was a working farm like any other farm. There was only one other car in the car park.

  Perhaps, Marnie thought as she went to pay her entrance fee, there had been sheep in those same fields, tended by the monks, in the days of the abbey’s glory. She fended off the well-meaning, and probably bored, attendant, keen to tell her more than she wanted to know, and stepped out onto the springy turf, crisp with frost.

  It was very quiet. A sheep bleated and another answered, but that seemed part of the historic peace of the place. She ignored the remains of the great church and went unerringly to the ornate doorway leading into the chapter house.