Cradle to Grave

by Aline Templeton

  ‘So it’s not Lee Morrissey? You’re sure?’ Even as she spoke, Kershaw was aware it was an idiotic question.

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’ Lisa’s irritation was understandable. ‘And before you ask me, I don’t know who it is. It’s nothing to do with me. You’ve made me go through this when I didn’t need to – I told you my partner wasn’t at the house. So can I go now?’

  She shouldered her way past Kershaw and walked out, leaving the two women looking at each other, perplexed.

  ‘So who is this, then?’ the assistant asked.

  Kershaw groaned. ‘Blessed if I know. And what was he doing there? I can only tell you it’s going to cause all sorts of trouble. They’ll want top priority on the autopsy – can you pass on the message?’

  Alick Buchan looked small and shrivelled, sitting there in the interview room. He eyed DI Fleming and DS Macdonald like some cornered animal waiting for the spade to come down and split its head.

  As the helicopter brought them back, Fleming had watched him fidget, pick at his nails, sigh and cast hunted glances around him, looking as if he was feeling queasy – in stark contrast to Lisa Stewart, who had sat still as a waxwork model throughout. Buchan appeared still to be suffering the after-effects of his drinking bout: he stumbled coming out of the helicopter, and when Fleming shot out a hand to stop him falling, she could feel him shaking.

  She had warned Macdonald not to go in hard, and indeed the man was such a pitiful object that it looked as if he’d crack at the first question. Buchan didn’t even wait for that to come. With the recording formalities complete, he launched in before Fleming had finished saying, ‘Now, Mr Buchan—’

  ‘I ken it looks bad. I lost my temper, I’ll give you that, and I’d had a wee drink. But I never done this – couldn’t of! If you’d seen what I seen in the army . . . That was what set me going – the body.’

  ‘Crozier’s body?’ Fleming asked, startled.

  ‘No, no! I’ve telt you, I never done that. The body in the cottage – it was me was sent in. Not Crozier, oh, no! He doesn’t soil his hands – still the officer, him, and I’m just the poor bloody infantry. Brought everything back, that woman in Ballymena – I was in the army then, just a lad. It was her head too.’ He gave a shudder. ‘Then I went away home to have a dram – you can’t blame me. But I got angry, after. I went to the big house, I mind that, and I mind shouting at him. Then I lost my keys somehow and went to walk home, but I was that tired! Up half the night too. No wonder I was needing a wee rest, and it was raining, so I looked for a bit shelter. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  Buchan’s tone had become self-pitying and even slightly aggressive. Fleming suspected that when he wasn’t scared, he might have quite a nasty streak. She decided to push him a little.

  ‘So just by chance, you happened to fall asleep in the copse where Mr Crozier’s body was found later?’

  ‘I didn’t know that, did I?’ That was definitely aggression now. ‘I went to sleep, woke up, walked home. That’s the whole story. I never seen him. I never touched him.’

  At a nod from Fleming, Macdonald took him minutely through the story again, but it was still the same in every essential, right down to the hint of resentment that Crozier had been inconsiderate enough to go and get himself killed just where Buchan was enjoying a refreshing nap. He was more than willing to have the clothes he had been wearing forensically examined, and even seemed disappointed to discover that taking a lie-detector test wasn’t standard practice in a Galloway police investigation. The news that he was free to go, for the present, he received with incredulous relief.

  ‘Obviously thought we were going to throw him in the slammer straight away,’ Macdonald said to Fleming, as they walked back from the interview room.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I thought he’d make a confession on the spot. It’s disappointing – there he was with the classic means, motive and opportunity, but the terrible thing is, I can’t convince myself he was lying.’

  ‘Maybe he did it when he was completely fou and he can’t remember. Thinks he’s telling the truth.’ Macdonald’s attempt at optimism was only half-hearted, and he added, ‘Though he’d be clumsy, and surely there’d be traces on his clothes.’

  ‘I’m not saying I’m ruling him out. He’s got a massive chip on his shoulder and a grudge against the boss. But think about it – he’s very drunk, he staggers up behind Crozier, armed with a stone, and the man doesn’t hear him coming?’

  ‘Throws it, maybe? Knocks the man out – a lucky shot? Then gives another couple of bashes to make sure?’

  Fleming gave him a cynical look. ‘It would have to be. Trying to throw anything in the state he was in would more likely pitch him forward on his nose. And if he had seen Crozier there, which would be more likely – that he’d sneak up behind him or confront him with some more abuse?’

  Macdonald pulled a face. ‘Put like that . . .’

  They reached the foot of the stairs. ‘We may have to think about Jamieson – pull out the stops to track him down,’ Fleming said. ‘Now, the briefing’s at six, but I’d better see you and Ewan before that – say half five. And I think Kim should join the team too – I’m quite impressed with what I’ve seen.’

  ‘Tam might be back by then. He said he’d just have a quick kip.’ Macdonald grinned. ‘Can’t bear the thought of missing anything.’

  ‘That would figure.’ Fleming turned to go upstairs, then turned back. ‘Andy, do you know what’s wrong with Tam? There’s something eating him, but he won’t tell me what it is.’

  Macdonald frowned. ‘He’s not been himself for a while. He’s – he’s sour, somehow. He’s always had a sharp tongue, but he was never nasty. But now he’s . . .’ Macdonald stopped.

  ‘It’s unofficial,’ Fleming said quickly. ‘I’m worried about him.’

  ‘He’s got a real pick against Kim Kershaw – don’t know why. OK, she didn’t like Glasgow, but I’ve made the odd joke about the place myself, plenty times, and he just gives as good as he gets – better, usually.’

  ‘I got the impression he resented her sending her daughter to boarding school, thinks it shows she doesn’t care about her, and of course he’s ultra-sensitive because it’s always been a tragedy for him and Bunty that they couldn’t have children. But for a working mother with crazy hours, it’s actually a good solution.’

  ‘Ewan thinks the kid’s got problems,’ Macdonald said. ‘Don’t know why – he’s never forthcoming – but he’s usually right.’

  ‘He is, isn’t he?’ Fleming was thoughtful. ‘Kim certainly didn’t say that, but maybe she doesn’t like talking about it. I’ll put out feelers. Thanks, Andy.’

  ‘It can’t wait, you know that,’ Cara Ryan was saying as Cris Pilapil opened the sitting-room door. She was standing looking down at her husband, who was slumped on a sofa with a half-full tumbler of whisky at his elbow, but now she broke off and left the room, looking through Pilapil as if he weren’t there.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Ryan scowled. ‘Yes? What is it?’

  Pilapil didn’t come further into the room, as if he were reluctant to breathe the same air. ‘I thought you’d like to know. Alex has vanished.’

  ‘What did you want with my father-in-law’s lawyer anyway?’ Ryan’s tone was sharp. ‘And what do you mean, vanished? Do you mean you’ve been trying to contact him and failed?’

  ‘No,’ he said coldly. ‘I mean, his girlfriend has been on the phone demanding to know where he is. He was meant to be here by now and she can’t raise him on his mobile.’

  ‘You may not have thought to tell her we’ve been cut off from the outside world, so he couldn’t be here. And that beyond Watford there are plenty of dead spots. She probably doesn’t know that.’

  ‘I told her, yes. But it also seemed to me that since he wasn’t here, cut off from the outside world,’ Pilapil mimicked him, ‘it was odd he couldn’t find a phone to call his girlfriend. She’s getting hysterical.’

>   ‘I didn’t know Alex had a girlfriend. Must be a recent acquisition, and if she’s the possessive type, he may well be trying to dump her. Quite a good method – come up to the wilds of Scotland and vanish.’

  ‘He’s vanished, yes. That’s what I said. And she’s talking about the police.’

  Galvanised, Ryan sat up. ‘Oh for God’s sake! The police?’

  Pilapil gave a thin smile. ‘Yes, I thought you’d want to know that.’

  ‘The last thing we need is the police mucking around at that end too. Stall her. Tell her he just phoned and he’s gone on to do some business in Glasgow – no, better still, Inverness. I bet there are dead spots around Inverness – or at least she’ll think there are.’

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to. But—’

  Joss Hepburn appeared behind Pilapil, who stood aside to allow him into the room. He looked from one to the other. ‘High-level conference?’

  ‘Problems,’ Ryan said grimly.

  ‘Do I want to know?’ Hepburn, pulling a face, went to sit down and noticed Ryan’s whisky. ‘That looks good. Fix me one of those, Cris.’

  Pilapil snarled, ‘I don’t take orders from you, or anyone. Gillis was my boss and he’s dead, though that doesn’t seem to have bothered any of you much. I’m keeping things going for his sake, but for something like a drink, you can damn well get it yourself.’

  Hepburn stared. ‘Hey, hey! Whoa, man! It was a casual request, not an invitation to start World War III. Just tell me where to find it, and I’ll bring you one too. You sound like you need it.’

  Abashed, Pilapil bit his lip. ‘Sorry. Sorry, Joss. I overreacted. I just get tired of being treated like a slave. But I’ll get it – Scotch?’

  He went out, and Hepburn turned to Ryan. ‘Have you been winding him up? At a time like this it’s really not smart to alienate one of the key players.’

  Ryan brushed that aside. ‘We can buy him. But we could have problems. Alex has disappeared.’

  ‘Alex? He was meant to be coming here – doing a job for him, Gillis said.’

  ‘Whatever it was, he’s gone off the radar. And he seems to have picked up a neurotic girlfriend who’s talking about getting in the police to look for him.’

  ‘She can’t,’ Hepburn said flatly. ‘Until we get that end tidied up it would be a disaster. We’ve got to find Alex before the cops start taking an interest there too.’

  ‘Can’t you take care of that? Persuade your Madge to lay off? Charm’s your stock-in-trade, after all.’

  Hepburn looked at him with dislike. ‘I know this will take you totally out of your comfort zone, but she’s straight.’

  ‘Still got a soft spot for her? How touching. So if you can’t hack it with charm, what about blackmail? Surely there must be one or two stories you could threaten to feed to the tabloids? “DI’s Past as a Swinging Groupie”?’

  ‘She’d probably tell me to publish and be damned. But if the worst came to the worst . . .’ His mouth twisted in distaste as he looked at Ryan. ‘You have no idea how much I regret having to associate with someone like you.’

  Ryan gave his sneering smile. ‘That’s only because you tell yourself pretty stories about the kind of person you are and I rub your nose in reality. OK, you want to hit me – shooting the messenger, that would be.’

  ‘I wouldn’t. You probably carry a knife.’ Hepburn stood up and moved away, though, as if despite what he said, the temptation was there. ‘Anyway, I take it you’ve told all the others what’s happened?’

  ‘I told them we have this end covered, but they’re not pleased.’

  ‘They’ll be even less pleased when they hear this about Alex. I hope to hell he decides to turn up soon.’

  Pilapil came in, carrying a tumbler of whisky. He held it out to Hepburn.

  ‘Thanks, Cris. But do you mind if I take it in the kitchen? I’d enjoy it more with better company.’

  Ryan watched him go with an indifferent air, but once the door shut, he picked up his own glass and downed what was in it. The pulse in his temple was throbbing again.

  ‘But it’s my account, isn’t it? Surely I can close it if I want to?’

  ‘Sorry, Miss Stewart.’ The young bank clerk ran a finger nervously round the inside of his shirt collar, which seemed unaccountably tighter than it had been when this interview had started. ‘I’ve explained, it’s a joint account, and to close it you need the signature of the other party.’

  The woman was finding it hard to sound reasonable. He was afraid she’d lose it altogether.

  ‘Look, it was my account originally. You can check back over your records and you’ll see. I only put my boyfriend’s name on it because we were living together, but now I’ve thrown him out and I don’t want him to get my money.’

  The words, ‘More fool you,’ suggested themselves, but he reverted instead to the formula: ‘Sorry, but you need the other signature. He has to agree, you see.’

  ‘But he won’t, will he? He’s going to go on drawing out money and spend it on the woman he’s taken up with.’

  She was definitely losing it now. The clerk’s neck was sticky with sweat; he undid his tie a little, and suddenly inspiration struck. ‘Your account allows money to be withdrawn on a single signature. You can’t close the account, but you can withdraw the money yourself, before he does. You have another small savings account with us – you could pay it in there.’

  For a terrible moment, he thought she was going to kiss him.

  Lisa was relieved she had got to the bank before Lee had. Finding her money was still there, and putting it safely out of his reach, was security. Far too much had gone already, but there was enough so that Lisa wouldn’t have to go to some well-meaning but interfering organisation for a hand-out. She’d had time to buy toilet things and a tote bag before the shops closed, and now she was in this cheap room in a small guest house in a Kirkluce backstreet.

  It wasn’t great. The skimpy curtains, wavy around the hem, were a depressing oatmeal, the bedcover was brown with orange stripes and the carpet was thin, synthetic and stained. There was no en suite, and the washbasin had been installed by someone who had mastered only the most basic principles of plumbing and joinery, but there was a little tub chair to sit on and she could lock the door and be on her own. Compared to her recent accommodation alongside the feed sacks, with every breath of dusty air she took begrudged, it was luxury enough.

  Lisa was still trapped, though – trapped and exposed and vulnerable. The police knew where she was and had told her to stay there; if she disappeared, it would look suspicious, but she wouldn’t feel safe until she could slip on her cloak of anonymity and vanish again. Though she’d always been traced before, now it was different. Gillis Crozier was dead. She only hoped that was enough to liberate her.

  She sat down and took out the thought to have a look at it. She didn’t contemplate the reality of bloody death; she had a talent for withdrawing from unpleasantness, honed in her childhood. It had been developed for self-preservation when, aged six, she’d found out from a helpful neighbour that her estranged father hadn’t, as her mother had told her, died in a car accident, but in a brawl in prison. It came in handy later too, when her mother suffered her long, harrowing terminal illness. Lisa thought of it sometimes as having an armoured shell she could get inside, like a tortoise.

  It hadn’t protected her from the poison of Crozier’s messages, but it had worked all right this morning, when she’d gone in to see the body. She’d been able to do what she had to do, untouched, and her thoughts now of Crozier, dead, were framed only in terms of her freedom. But she couldn’t be sure – there were others who hated her as well. Could she only stop being afraid after they too were dead?

  Lisa could hardly remember not being afraid.

  It had been all right at first when they arrived at Rosscarron Cottages. That night there had been a beautiful sunset over the Solway Firth and they’d brought a wine box with them and drunk too much and got giggly and made love. I
t had almost been like the first days all over again.

  But in the morning they woke to rain and after that it never seemed to stop. The windows of the cottage were small and it was dark and depressing. Then there were people close by to be avoided, renting the holiday cottage at the farther end. One week there were small children, and as they played on the shore she’d watch from the window with tears in her eyes. She loved tiny kids. They didn’t judge you, reject you, lie to you.

  She and Lee were getting on each other’s nerves. The dream was disintegrating into permanent bickering.

  The only good thing was, there were no messages. Crozier hadn’t found her, hadn’t thought to look so close at hand, most likely. Maybe Lee was right – this was the way to handle it. And supposing Crozier managed to kill her here, without leaving a trace – it would be over then, wouldn’t it? Sometimes she thought that would be better than having to live in permanent fear.

  Then Crozier at last arrived at Rosscarron House. There were posters everywhere for the Rosscarron Festival the following week.

  She’d wanted to go and confront him immediately. Lee wouldn’t. She could tell he was making excuses; she didn’t know why, and he wouldn’t admit that he was. They had one of their worst ever rows, with her screaming and throwing things. If he hadn’t dodged her granny’s cast-iron frying pan, Lee would have been on a trolley in the mortuary too.

  All he would say was that the guy would be busy, wouldn’t want to be bothered at the moment. ‘You want to get him in a good mood, don’t you? Talk him round?’ It sounded reasonable enough, but somehow she knew he’d some sort of plan he wouldn’t tell her about. He denied it and got angrier than ever when she asked.

  He went off in the car most days – for a bit of personal space, he said. Which left nothing for her to do but walk, walk and think, and when it was even briefly dry, go up to the seat on the bluff above the cottages and try to tell herself that one day it would be all right.