Cradle to Grave

by Aline Templeton

  She’d slept badly ever since Crozier arrived. Then came the night when she hardly slept at all, sitting downstairs in the little sitting room, wrapped in a comforter that had belonged to her grandmother.

  What did Lee do when he drove away from the cottage? He wasn’t going to the pub – she would have smelled beer on his breath. He couldn’t be meeting anyone – he didn’t know anyone around here.

  At last it came to her. You couldn’t email from here. She knew there was an Internet café in Kirkcudbright.

  It was Thursday morning. Lee had gone off in the car, and when he came back, she was ready for him. ‘There’s a couple of things I need in town,’ she said, and used his own excuse about personal space when he offered to come with her, as he usually did when they went shopping.

  It wasn’t hard to find out what was going on. He had an email account under the name Jazza, for some reason, and he didn’t know she’d happened to see him keying in the password once. She remembered it, and keyed it in now.

  And there it was, the evidence of her own folly. She spooled back through all the emails sent to ‘Tanya’ – dozens of them, over these last few months – and opened some at random. He was working abroad, was he, but would be coming back soon? It hurt that Lee – Jazza! – was writing words of love he’d never used to her, but what stabbed her to the heart was his cruel description of the ‘colleague’ he was always complaining about, a stupid, ugly, neurotic woman, pop-eyed and overweight.

  She opened the most recent one. ‘Not long now,’ it finished. What did that mean? Maybe it just meant once he had sorted out Lisa’s problem with Crozier, but somehow it didn’t sound like that. It sounded as if he had a job to do and it gave her a sick, terrified feeling inside.

  She was so angry she didn’t bother to read Tanya’s responses, or any of the other emails, and she had worked herself up into a furious rage by the time she got back to Rosscarron. Better to rage than to give way to panic and despair.

  But fear lurked, like a rat gnawing away in the corner of her mind. Why had he persuaded her to come here, and what was he going to do?

  And Lisa still didn’t know the answer, still felt she was blundering about in the dark. And the text – what was that about? She fished out the phone, read it again and sat considering it for a long time. At last, very deliberately, she pressed ‘Delete’, followed by ‘Compose.’

  Frowning at her computer screen in concentration and tapping her finger on her front teeth, Fleming was reading the reports that had come in when there was a knock on the door and DC Kershaw appeared, standing on the threshold as if uncertain of her welcome.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, boss, but I wanted a word ahead of the meeting, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Fine. Take a seat.’ Fleming shut down the program and swung her chair round to face Kershaw. ‘Was Lisa Stewart all right about making the identification?’

  ‘She didn’t, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Fleming pulled a face. ‘Still, can’t blame her for getting cold feet, I suppose. Not easy, to do that.’

  ‘Sorry, no. She didn’t get cold feet – just the opposite, in fact. She was so calm it was weird. She just went in, looked at the body and said it wasn’t her boyfriend.’

  ‘Wasn’t? Who was it, then?’

  Kershaw shrugged. ‘No idea. She said she didn’t know, had never seen him before, couldn’t think why he should have been in her house. Absolutely flat – that was all there was to it. Nothing to do with her.’

  ‘I’m struggling to get a handle on this,’ Fleming said. ‘A completely unconnected man somehow found his way into her house and managed to get himself caught up in a landslide which killed him – that’s the story?’

  ‘As far as there is one. I talked to Lisa afterwards and she was adamant. She’d told us her boyfriend wasn’t there, that he’d been two-timing her and she’d thrown him out. He wasn’t there, just as she said, and because we didn’t believe her, we’d put her through an unnecessary ordeal – though I have to say she didn’t show much sign of being upset. Quite aggressive, to be honest. After the trial there were claims she had issues with anger management and I’d believe that.’

  ‘I don’t remember a lot about that case, except that when she was acquitted, there was a fuss because if it wasn’t her, it had to be the baby’s brother,’ Fleming said. ‘And to tell you the truth, having observed Nico Ryan at close quarters, I wouldn’t find it hard to believe.’

  Kershaw was unconvinced. ‘There’s something weird about her,’ she insisted. ‘Very stand-offish. I asked her if she needed somewhere to stay, and told her Dr Forbes, her neighbour, had suggested she went to the hotel she’s staying in herself – even offered to pay for her, if that was a problem – but she turned that down flat. Didn’t even seem grateful. She’s booked herself into a guest house in Kirkluce.

  ‘Anyway, I told them at the mortuary that the autopsy should be high priority and I just wanted to clear that with you.’

  ‘Of course. We’ll need every scrap of information as soon as possible to try to establish identity. I wonder if there’s a report in on the clothes already? Hang on . . .’ Fleming turned to the computer again. ‘Here we are.’ She read the list, then looked up, frowning. ‘That’s an odd thing. He was wearing a casual shirt and trousers. Nothing in the pockets – nothing at all. If he wasn’t wearing a jacket, on a day when it was coming down stair-rods, he must have driven there. So where are his car keys?’

  ‘He could have put them down on a table when he came in,’ Kershaw suggested.

  ‘Yes, but no money, no wallet? You don’t go into someone’s house and empty out your pockets, even if you’re a regular visitor, which allegedly he wasn’t.’

  ‘His car would be there too, presumably,’ Kershaw pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but under a few tons of rubble from the cliff face. Remote rural areas are way down the priority list for the council, so it’ll probably be weeks before they get round to clearing it. I think I might give the mortuary a call, find out when we can expect a full report.’

  Kershaw waited as Fleming was put through, then heard her say, ‘Oh, better still. I’ll hold.’ She mouthed, ‘The pathologist wants to speak to me himself. Hello? Yes, Marjory Fleming here.’

  She listened intently, her face registering shock. Then she said, ‘I – I see. Yes, the report just as soon as you can. Thanks.’

  She put the phone down and stared at it for a second. ‘I’m feeling a bit stunned. He did say after a cursory examination at the site that the fatal injury wasn’t from a falling beam and now he’s had a better look. He hasn’t had time to complete the autopsy, but the cause of death was definitely a blow to the base of the skull with some heavy object, about an inch and a half deep. Mr X was murdered.’

  Kershaw’s eyes narrowed. ‘Was he indeed,’ she said slowly. ‘Look, I know this is going to sound crazy, but . . . No jacket, no wallet, no keys. That would only be normal for someone living in the house.

  ‘It seemed really strange that when I asked Lisa Stewart for a contact to do the second ID, she said she couldn’t think of anyone – didn’t know his family, didn’t know his friends or where he worked, hadn’t any neighbours because they’d moved about. I’m just beginning to wonder about Lisa Stewart. Suppose she was lying. Suppose it had been her boyfriend, murdered – who would be our prime suspect?’

  Fleming looked thoughtful. ‘When you put it like that . . . I was going to tell you all at the meeting that after the interview with Buchan I seriously doubt if he’s our man. And what was Lisa Stewart doing, hanging around in the vicinity of a family she would have had every reason to avoid?’

  ‘Gillis Crozier made a death threat after she was acquitted,’ Kershaw said. ‘The bereaved grandfather – no one thought a lot about it, really. But if she believed she was in danger, it wouldn’t be a bad motive for killing him.’

  ‘I think,’ Fleming said grimly, ‘we need to take a much closer look at Miss Lisa Stewart.’

>   12

  Perched on the edge of the table at the back of DI Fleming’s office, behind the chairs where his three colleagues were seated, Tam MacNee listened to DC Kershaw expounding her theory, his lip curling but only inwardly. He’d no appetite for another run-in with Big Marge.

  The others might be impressed, but he wasn’t. Kershaw had maybe shown that Stewart had a motive for killing Crozier, right enough, but in his view the rest of it was far-fetched, and not worth the effort of dragging it along to the party.

  He’d no time for Kershaw anyway, snotty cow! Glasgow wasn’t good enough for her and neither, obviously, was he – and her poor kid, bundled off to strangers! That told you all you needed to know.

  MacNee was in kind of a black mood anyway. To add to his troubles, he was suffering the after-effects of his exertions in cold water as well as lack of sleep. Being indestructible was one of his small vanities, but today he was just feeling wabbit. It was a sign of age, probably, to be so wiped out, and that didn’t cheer him either.

  At least his worrying yesterday had been unnecessary. The animals were fine: his neighbour had done the needful, noticing that his car wasn’t back. She was a treasure, that woman, neighbourly without being nebby. When she asked how Bunty was and he said, ‘Fine,’ she’d left it at that.

  Kershaw was getting a lot of support now. There was Campbell, even, usually the voice of common sense, piping up with, ‘If she could murder a wee baby, her ex would hardly be a problem.’

  ‘If !’ MacNee said. It came out more aggressively than he had meant it to and the three heads turned.

  Across the desk, Fleming frowned. ‘Yes, Tam?’

  ‘Stewart got acquitted, right? Or doesn’t that count any more, if someone’s got a hunch she was guilty after all? I’ve seen enough of Nico Ryan to put money on him being happy to take his wee sister outside and leave her there, just for a laugh. That one’s a bawbee short of a shilling.’

  ‘I’ll give you that,’ Fleming acknowledged, and Macdonald chimed in with an account of his macabre conversation with the child.

  ‘There you are,’ MacNee said triumphantly. Without realising he was doing it, he shifted on the table to move closer to the group.

  Kershaw’s lips tightened. ‘You’re not actually suggesting that the kid went out and bludgeoned his grandfather to death? For heaven’s sake—’

  ‘Never said that, did I?’ MacNee could feel his hackles rising. ‘All I’m suggesting is that you’re making a lot out of there being no car keys or wallet on the body in the cottage. Like if you killed someone you’d leave ID to help us out? And no jacket’s the giveaway – you wouldn’t have walked even a hundred yards on Wednesday without a jacket.

  ‘We’re not needing fancy theories when there’s an obvious suspect – the man who nearly killed the both of us.’ He gestured towards himself and Fleming.

  ‘Jamieson, assuming he sabotaged the bridge,’ she said slowly. ‘Certainly . . .’

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way.’ MacNee was leaning forward now as he urged his point. ‘Whoever did cut through the supports of that bridge was prepared to take lives and I’m saying I doubt if Lisa Stewart just happened to be carrying a chainsaw when she escaped the landslide.

  ‘And the man they found in her house – she said from the start it wasn’t her boyfriend, because he’d left. Your report’ – he nodded towards Kershaw – ‘even said the neighbour saw him leave with a suitcase. So when Stewart looks at the body and says it isn’t the boyfriend, suddenly she’s lying? If you hadn’t chosen to believe the jury got it wrong – after listening to the whole case, remember – she wouldn’t be in the frame at all, would she?’

  Kershaw’s face crimsoned. ‘Look, MacNee—’

  ‘Hold it right there,’ Fleming said. ‘Both of you.’

  Kershaw looked down at her lap. MacNee held the inspector’s gaze defiantly for a moment, but then his eyes dropped too.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ she said coldly, ‘but I was under the impression this was a team and that discussions like this are a chance to throw around ideas, not a competition to see who’s got the best one and to hack down anyone who thinks differently. If anyone starts getting possessive about a theory, the whole thing’s pointless. Maybe it’s Stewart’s partner, maybe it isn’t, but—’

  ‘If it’s not, he’s got to be somewhere else,’ Campbell put in.

  ‘Good point. Of course he does. We can post an alert and appeal for him to get in touch, and that would settle it. You deal with that, Ewan.’ Fleming glanced at her watch and got up. ‘Time we went down for the briefing. But I’m tasking you two now. Kim, I want you to take on tracking down Jamieson. Tam, you can check out Lisa Stewart – get the number of Morrissey’s car while you’re at it. And both of you can grow up.’ She swept out.

  In an awkward silence, Campbell looked from one to the other sardonically. ‘That’s you telt, eh?’ he said, as he and Macdonald followed Big Marge out.

  MacNee didn’t look at Kershaw, but he suspected that, like him, she was grinding her teeth.

  Nico Ryan was jumping on and off one of the sofas in the sitting room. U2’s Rattle and Hum was playing over the speakers and Nico was singing tunelessly along to ‘Helter Skelter’ now. He must, his father decided irritably, be tone deaf.

  Cara was sitting beside Declan on a sofa at the other end of the room with a half-smile on her face, apparently oblivious. She could sit like that for hours, which was beginning to get on Declan’s nerves too.

  ‘Cara!’ he said loudly. She didn’t respond and he tugged at her hand. ‘Hello-o? Anybody there?’

  She turned her head slowly. ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Can’t you find something for Nico to do? He’s driving me crazy.’

  ‘He’s got something to do.’ She gestured to the child, now dancing to the music with extravagant abandon. ‘He likes it.’

  Declan drew a deep breath. ‘I don’t. Look, we’ve got a problem here. He’s had his medication but he’s still going wild because he’s bored out of his skull. You know I need a clear head just now – how can I think with that going on all the time? If you won’t make an effort to occupy him, why don’t we get in a local girl, or a boy, better still, who could take him out, play football, tire him out—’

  ‘No!’ Suddenly the passive blue eyes were blazing. ‘No! How could you even say those words? You know what happened.’

  Declan sighed, running his hands through his hair. ‘Of course I frigging know. But he’s worse up here, where there’s nothing for him, no school or anything.’

  ‘We can’t leave. Not yet.’

  ‘I know that too. Of course I do. For a start, the police want us here, and what they want, they get, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Cara said, but he could see she had drifted away as she usually did when she had no more to say.

  In sudden irritation, Declan seized the remote control and killed the music. Nico’s face turned puce with rage.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ he yelled, and launched himself at his father, swearing and kicking, while Declan, grim-faced, held him off.

  Cara looked at her son, raising her voice a little to be heard. ‘You know Mummy doesn’t like to hear swear words, darling.’ Then she turned to Declan, holding out her hand. ‘Give me that. Nico likes the music.’

  With a helpless shrug he gave it to her and left the room.

  Nico’s tantrum stopped as suddenly as if a switch had been flicked. Smirking, he started dancing again as ‘Van Diemen’s Land’ began.

  The rain had come on again. It should still have been light, but the sky was leaden grey and a heavy dusk had fallen as Marjory Fleming, feeling limp with exhaustion, turned on to the Mains of Craigie track.

  The house, she always thought, looked like a child’s drawing with its two windows up, two down, and the seldom-used front door in the middle. Tonight, with most of the windows lit, it looked so cosy and welcoming and, well, normal, that weak tears came to her eyes.
>
  I must be in a bad way, she reflected, as she drove round to park in the yard by the back door. Get a grip, woman!

  But as Marjory got out of the car and Bill’s dear, familiar figure appeared at the back door to greet her, with Meg the collie bounding around giving welcoming barks, she had to sniff and gulp before she could greet him with a smile.

  He looked at her face with dismay. ‘For heaven’s sake, lassie, what have they been doing to you? You’re looking like the wrath of God!’

  ‘There’s nothing like a compliment to make a woman feel better – and that’s nothing like a compliment,’ she joked, as he hugged her cautiously. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  ‘I can only hope not,’ Bill said, as they walked along to the kitchen. ‘Seriously, though, how are you feeling?’

  Awful, was the honest reply. ‘I’ve – I’ve felt better,’ she said.

  ‘I see. Awful,’ Bill said. ‘You’re going straight to your bed. Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘No need, honestly. It was just a bash on the head and now I’m shattered. It’s been a tough couple of days.’

  ‘You said you were snowed under when you phoned, and it’s on the news this evening. What’s—’

  Cat appeared from the hall as he spoke. ‘You’re late, Mum. Wow! You look terrible!’

  ‘Gee, thanks!’ Marjory said.

  ‘I’m sending Mum to bed,’ Bill said. ‘There’s soup left, isn’t there, Cat? Just heat it up and put it on a tray. I’ll bring her a dram – she’s looking as if she needs it.’

  ‘You could say,’ Marjory said with feeling. ‘Is Cammie in his room? I’ll look in on my way to bed.’

  He hadn’t come down to see her, as Cat had. As Marjory climbed the stairs, which seemed much steeper than usual tonight, she told herself not to be oversensitive, but their relationship had been dented earlier this year when Cameron had felt she put her work before her family. With a certain justice, she sometimes thought guiltily.