She gets back to sitting on her bed just before her mother opens the door. “I’ve to take these people to where they’re staying,” she says. “And you’re not to say anything about them to anyone – anyone at all, understand? If you say anything to anyone at school I’ll find out and I promise you, you’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Sometimes she wishes that anyway but she just says, “All right.” She cries a little bit after they’ve gone and when she switches on the telly Cheggers is over and it’s just a boring documentary.
‘Then it stops,’ Marnie said, as if she’d been watching a film.
Fleming felt as if she too had seen it passing before her eyes. ‘That’s incredibly helpful, Marnie. I – I don’t suppose you remember when it was?’
‘Fifteenth of October, 1993.’
Fleming gaped. She had thought she was chancing her arm to ask the question. ‘You can remember the date too?’
‘It was just a couple of weeks before everything – well, stopped.’ Marnie sounded weary. ‘I really don’t want to go back over that.’
‘No, of course not,’ Fleming said. ‘Can I just check a couple more things with you? You didn’t see or hear anything suspicious on Friday night before the break-in, right? And the fire-bombing – nothing then, either?’
‘No. But I’ve been – well, going over what happened before. I’d been to see Drax and there was a car pulled out of the car park there right behind me.’ She stopped again, with the odd look on her face, but this time after a moment she went on normally. ‘The person driving it was an Asian. I’m not good on makes of car but it was quite small, grey and with a big dent in the wheel arch.’
‘We’ll circulate the description – try to get him picked up.’ This was fascinating. Nick Alexander would pay good money for this sort of stuff – or at least trade favours.
But it made her even more anxious about Marnie. ‘Look, I can assign officers to look after you that I know well enough to promise their absolute discretion. I don’t want to alarm you but what you know puts you in serious danger.’
‘Oh, I think even I’d have managed to get the message by now. No, thank you. I’ll feel safer looking after myself.
‘Is there anything else? If there is, you’d better ask me now. According to you I might not make it through to the morning.’ She gave a sarcastic laugh.
Fleming didn’t smile. ‘I trust that won’t happen. Be very, very careful. And thank you for this – it will help, I promise you.’
‘Just get him,’ Marnie said. ‘I want him to pay.’
Fleming had just opened the car door to get out when she remembered a question she hadn’t asked. ‘This is the last one, I promise. Do you know what Drax’s business was?’
‘Not exactly, but I know it sold builders’ supplies. Mum was always having problems about deliveries.’
‘Builders’ supplies,’ Fleming said slowly. ‘Right.’
Marnie got out to let Hepburn climb through. The last they saw of her was as she stood in the dwindling light, scanning the car park for movement and perhaps a small grey car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Fleming sent for MacNee as soon as she got back to her office. He appeared so quickly she thought he must have sprinted up the stairs and he gave her no chance to tell him what she had gleaned from Marnie before he burst out triumphantly, ‘Oh, we’re motoring now!
‘See Marnie’s mum? She was working for Daniel Lee. He’d set up a business selling supplies for builders – and guess who was one of his big clients? No prizes.
‘Then – this is in 1993, right? – the Immigration lads asked us to take a wee look at it – something not right, not sure what. Ten minutes later, business closes, no sign of Lee. They’d obviously nothing solid against him – reckoned they’d scared him off and left it at that, maybe. So then Marnie’s mum disappears. And if you ask me, she’s in a shallow grave somewhere.’
‘Knew too much – and Marnie left for dead. It all works,’ Fleming said. ‘Marnie told us about the business. And she also told us that she witnessed the arrival of a contingent of Asians – that fits with Immigration. I tell you, Nick Alexander will be eating out of my hand when I give him this.’
‘That’s good, because there’s more. They fingerprinted Crichton when they took him in, right, and I got them to check against the SOCOs’ report on Anita Loudon’s house. He claims he didn’t know her, claims he didn’t go in because there was someone with her already, but there they were in two or three places.’
‘Nick said he’d let us talk to him when they’d finished with him but I’m going to insist that’s first thing tomorrow. And whatever he says, I’m going after Lee as well. The trafficking is Nick’s problem but Anita Loudon’s murder is mine and I’m tired of mucking about.
‘I’ve had the first of the forensic reports and it’s not that helpful. They’ve found fibres they think came from a tartan rug of some kind – green and black – that the body was wrapped in before it was dumped—’
‘Likely it’s ashes by now.’
‘Mmm. Anyway, not much we didn’t know. They can tell us the position she was in when she was transported, inside a car and not in a van or a boot, apparently – something to do with the lividity pattern – but it doesn’t get us a lot further. I’d more or less assumed they wouldn’t have carried the body across the street and along to the park.
‘So if Crichton keeps his mouth shut we’re still in trouble. Marnie’s evidence may bolster Nick’s case but it doesn’t do anything for ours.’
‘Did you find out where she’s staying?’
Fleming shook her head. ‘Refused to tell us. But she’s adamant that she’s got it sorted and she wouldn’t listen. It worries me, though.’
‘She’s a grown woman,’ MacNee pointed out. ‘Old enough to know better, even if she doesn’t.’
‘I suppose so. Right – I’ll get on to Nick now. But that was a great job, Tam. Thanks. See how rewarding trawling the records can be?’
MacNee gave her a look that would have curdled milk at a hundred yards and he shut the door in a marked manner as he left.
Smiling, Fleming placed her call. Nick Alexander was, indeed, suitably grateful.
‘Even if it doesn’t relate to the present investigation it’ll be enough to let us swear out a search warrant. I’ll put that in hand right away. Thanks, Marjory – that’s really helpful.’
He was about to ring off. ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘That wasn’t a present, that was the first part of an exchange. Your part is to let us have a go at Grant Crichton first thing tomorrow morning, whether your lot have finished with him or not.’
He wasn’t keen. ‘Well, soon, I promise.’
‘Not good enough. First thing.’
With a heavy sigh he said, ‘Oh, I suppose so. We can let you have an hour. The evidence from the girl should mean we can get an extension to twenty-four hours for questioning.’
‘Very generous,’ Fleming said caustically. ‘Is he cooperating at the moment?’
‘His brief’s muzzling him. We’re tempting him with the usual “dish your pals and we’ll see you right”, but he seems scared of the solicitor – or more likely the guys behind him. Doubt if he’s got Crichton’s interests at heart.’
‘We’ll stress that too when we see him. Maybe we can get him to sack his brief.’
‘You think the next one will be better?’ Alexander’s opinion of criminal defence solicitors was inevitably low. ‘Anyway, you will look after the girl, won’t you, if there have been two attempts on her life? She could turn out to be a very useful part of the prosecution’s evidence.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ Fleming said hollowly.
She wished she was in a position to do just that. Marnie’s stubborn conviction that she could look after herself filled her with foreboding.
Now, however, there was nothing to stop her going home. Cammie had reported that Bill was tired but looking amazingly well and Janet Laird would be making
up for not having had the chance to worry herself silly about her son-in-law by waiting on him hand and foot, but she needed to be there, to touch him, just to make sure he was real and there at home and not, as she had feared during those terrible hours, gone for ever.
There was a phone message waiting for DS MacNee when he went back to the CID room. He raised his eyebrows as he read it, then called Shelley Crichton’s number.
Despite having asked him to contact her, she still sounded frosty. ‘Oh – Sergeant MacNee. Yes, well – I have been considering the statement I made to the police earlier and I think it may have been … er … misleading.’
MacNee scented blood. ‘By “misleading” do you maybe mean “untrue”?’ he suggested helpfully.
There was an icy silence, then she said, ‘If that’s the way you want to put it. I stated that I had not been at Anita Loudon’s house the evening she died. The reason I didn’t—’
‘Was that you felt it would mislead us since you didn’t actually kill her?’
He heard a little gasp. ‘Well, I—’
‘Mrs Crichton, I’ve had that said to me by folk who were innocent and folk who were killers too. Doesn’t impress me. Never mind reasons, just give me the facts.’
The temperature dropped another few degrees. ‘Very well. I went round to Anita’s to ask her to be truthful about the girl who had visited her. She denied flatly that it was Kirstie Burnside’s daughter but I knew it was a lie.’ There was a wealth of scorn in her tone.
That was pretty rich, coming from her, but MacNee didn’t point it out, saying only, ‘How did that make you feel?’
‘Oh, you want me to say angry, murderous, don’t you? But I won’t, because it wasn’t true. I felt frustrated and depressed. All my life I had wanted to confront Kirstie Burnside with the reality of what she had done, just to show her what it had done to me, tell her about my blighted life – and in all honesty I don’t know what I might have done if I had found her. That’s different, but the question isn’t going to arise.
‘But when I left Anita at around half past seven she was certainly alive. That’s all I have to say.’
MacNee found himself actually feeling sorry for the woman. He said, in a kinder tone, ‘Thank you, Mrs Crichton. It was very wise of you to admit this now. You will have to come in and make another statement and there may well be further questions we would want to ask you at that time.
‘Now, is that everything? I can warn you that trying to change your statement again wouldn’t be smart.’
There was a long pause. Then she said, ‘Not about the statement, no. But I got an anonymous phone call on Thursday – a man’s voice. He told me that Kirstie Burnside’s daughter was living in an abandoned cottage out by Clatteringshaws Loch.
‘I was tempted to go out there, try to get her to tell me where her mother was. But I knew what had happened to Anita – and to tell the truth I wasn’t sorry. I believe she deserved all she got – she knew about that woman’s mockery of my remembrance of my son.’ There was a break in her voice as she said that.
‘But it scared me. Putting the body where Tommy lay – that was to fool you into thinking I had done it – or Grant. He has his faults, God knows, but he would never desecrate the place like that.
‘So I didn’t go, and I was thankful, after what happened then. Someone was trying to put me at the scene and if you had the least evidence against me I knew I would be done for.
‘So I’m telling you now.’ The voice was hard again.
MacNee was under no illusions about her reason for making contact. She was trying to put herself in the clear, but he was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, despite her low opinion of the police. He pressed her about the phone call but she genuinely seemed to have no idea who the caller was and he let her go, with the warning that she should attend at the Kirkluce headquarters in the morning. They could always trace the call later if they needed to know.
He had little doubt himself that Daniel Lee had made that call. And he could only hope that Marnie had been wise in her choice of accommodation.
Marnie’s safety was on Louise Hepburn’s mind too as she drove home. There was nothing she could do about it and her own attempt at protecting her couldn’t exactly be described as a triumph. If it hadn’t been for the alarm, she thought with a shudder, she might have gone in and found her dead in the morning.
There was no doubt, though, that Marnie was currently in serious danger. What she knew about Daniel Lee could be vital evidence towards prosecuting him for trafficking and Louise had no doubt that he knew that. If only he could be picked up and brought in for questioning, she suddenly thought, it would solve the problem.
Would Fleming have thought of that? She didn’t have the nerve to phone and suggest it; even though being taken along to the interview with Marnie suggested forgiveness of a sort, she’d still be well advised to keep her head below the parapet meantime.
She might get her chance at the briefing tomorrow. And she tried to quell the thought that tomorrow might well be too late, if Marnie had got it wrong.
As Louise neared Stranraer she began to think about her own immediate problem. She’d spoken again to the helper and she was delighted to keep coming for the time being – ‘Never tasted anything like thon beef stew’ – but it wasn’t any sort of solution. Fleur would need more and more care as time went on.
The miasma of misery started to envelop her again as she parked outside the house. To her surprise, lights were blazing upstairs and downstairs when normally Fleur would either be in the kitchen or the sitting room. The helper shouldn’t have left yet so perhaps she hadn’t wanted to stop Fleur if putting lights on in empty rooms was her latest whim, but Louise felt a lurch of unease as she let herself in.
There was a suitcase in the hall and even as she stared at it a tall, elegant figure came hurrying down the stairs towards her.
‘Tante Coralie!’ she exclaimed in amazement as her aunt swept her into a scented embrace with a flood of rapid French.
‘My dear, you should have told me! Your maman phoned me early this morning, so confused, not happy. There is a nice lady living here who is very kind, she told me, but she thinks there is something wrong with her because she doesn’t understand anything you say and Fleur is afraid she is responsible for looking after her. So I just grabbed my credit card and headed for Charles de Gaulle – and here I am!’
Louise’s heart was wrung. ‘Oh poor, poor Maman! But I didn’t know what to do – I know she needs me all the time but it’s difficult at work just now so I can’t even take time off, and anyway I can’t think what to do except give it up and look after her—’
Her aunt put her arm round her shoulders and led her firmly through to the sitting room.
‘Fleur is asleep – she thinks it’s bedtime. I let her go and I sent the “nice lady” home so we could talk.’
The fire was lit in the hearth and two glasses and a bottle of red wine, open already to breathe, stood waiting on a small table. As Coralie poured it out, Louise felt the tears coming to her eyes. It was so comforting, so reassuring, to have someone cherish her, ready to help her find some sort of solution.
‘But you mustn’t cry, my dear!’ Coralie exclaimed. ‘It’s all right now. I told Fleur whenever your dear papa died that she must come back to France, but you know how totally stubborn she is, especially when she is wrong. She would never listen to reason, never!’
Louise blew her nose to stifle a giggle. Fleur and Coralie had demonstrated their genuine affection for each other by constant sisterly bickering, each as determined as the other that her way was the only way.
‘It’s very sad for me too, you know,’ Coralie went on. ‘She is my dear big sister and I can see the terrible tragedy that lies ahead. But she would never have wished to ruin your life by burdening you with her care – not our loving, generous Fleur.’
They were both crying a little now. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but she wouldn’t want to le
ave me,’ Louise said. ‘I thought she’d decide to go back to France after Dad died but she said it mattered more to be with me than anything else.’
‘I know, and she is a very loving mother. But we must face reality, Louise. The time will come when she doesn’t fully understand where she is, but meantime I can take her back with me “for a holiday” and you can visit – it’s not hard to get to Paris for the weekend, you know.
‘And there won’t be a language problem. She’ll enjoy having people to talk to and when the time comes the good sisters from the convent will look after her kindly.’
Louise twisted the glass between her hands. ‘You – you make it all sound so easy,’ she said.
Her aunt gave her a look of exasperation. ‘Oh, you Scots! Always the hair shirt! You think there’s something wicked about life not being miserable.
‘And you know, I want to see the last of my sister too, before … before she goes away completely.’
Her composure gave way and Louise went to hug her as they sobbed together. Not for long, though. Coralie produced a lace-trimmed handkerchief, mopped them both up and refilled the wine glasses.
‘We’ve lots of arrangements to make. But there is a casserole in the oven that will be less than right if we don’t eat it now and I think for once we may be inelegant and eat off our knees in front of this cosy fire.’
Even though it was a different house, Marnie felt as if she’d gone back to childhood, arriving yet again as the Morrisons’ guest, experiencing the same awkwardness about accepting hospitality that wouldn’t be repaid. She had never told her mother that she went there; any suggestion of contact with Gemma always provoked an outburst.
She took the bag holding the bare essentials she had bought out of the car, looking back along the road as she did so, though there had been no traffic at all on the last half-mile to the farmhouse and she could be fairly sure no one had followed her.
Gemma greeted her with her usual cheerful warmth. ‘Come in, quickly! It’s so cold, isn’t it!’ As she drew her into the house and shut the door behind her, she turned to scan Marnie’s face anxiously.
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