Evil for Evil

by Aline Templeton

  The dog, sensing it was being talked about, moved to stand beside its master and Lovatt fondled its head.

  ‘There are plenty of dogs like this around the Bosnian villages. OK, he could be second-, third-generation wolf – how would I know? Maybe more. The point is, he’s domesticated, he’s intelligent, he’s extremely well trained.’ At a hand gesture, the animal sat.

  Lovatt was clearly familiar with the legislation. First-generation wolf, licence needed. Second generation, fine.

  ‘How did you get it into the country?’ Fleming asked, and saw his face take on a wary look.

  ‘I spent a bit of time in France. He was quarantined there and came over on a pet passport.’

  ‘Vouched for by an army vet, do I take it, sir?’ Fleming’s tone was dry.

  ‘As it happens, yes.’ Lovatt met her eyes squarely.

  ‘I see. Well, Major Lovatt—’

  He interrupted her. ‘I don’t use the rank. I prefer Mr or Matt – that’s fine.’

  ‘Mr Lovatt, then. I’ve seen the provision for the dog as we came in and I believe it would comply with the regulations anyway. I take it there have been no complaints?’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Then I think we can leave it at that.’

  Fleming noticed the dog’s pricked ears relax even before the man nodded and said, ‘So what can I do for you, Inspector?’

  The door was standing open on a room looking out over the bay, and she could see chairs and sofas. ‘May we …?’

  As she spoke, a door at the back of the hall opened and a woman appeared. She was slightly built, with long dark hair, pale-blue eyes and an air of helplessness.

  ‘Matt, I need you,’ she said.

  Lovatt turned with evident irritation. ‘What’s the matter, Lissa? I’ve got people here—’

  ‘It’s the jelly.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s not gelling – it’s all runny. I need you to come and see …’

  ‘I can’t come just at the moment,’ he said with elaborate patience. ‘I’ll come when I’ve finished here – all right?’

  She gave him a tragic look. ‘Oh, I know. It’s not important, is it? Fine.’ She drifted back through the door under the stairs.

  Fleming blinked. Wow! Straight off the ‘passive aggressive’ page in the psychology textbook. Still, not her problem. She followed Lovatt into the sitting room.

  It was a big, square, very traditional room – fireplace in the middle of the wall opposite the door, double sash windows across the front of the house – and very traditionally furnished and decorated too. The deep sofa had chintz covers in a Jacobean print and there were armchairs and occasional tables which were definitely antique. The Regency-striped wallpaper, celadon green and gold, was faded and rubbed in places, with darker patches where pictures had once hung. It was a functional, indeed comfortable room, but clearly one which had not benefited from recent attention.

  On the to-do list, perhaps, Fleming reflected. Setting up a deer farm couldn’t be cheap and there would be other priorities. Running it as a sort of unofficial charity, as Georgia had told them he was, wouldn’t help cash flow either.

  MacNee was asking him about the island, and Lovatt looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes, I’m over there most days – if not me, then Kerr Brodie who is … well, my foreman, I suppose you could call him. We’ve fallow deer over there.’

  ‘Ever been in the cave round the back of the island?’

  Fleming eyed Lovatt narrowly. The rigidity of the damaged side of his face made for a certain lack of expression, so it was hard to be sure, but she couldn’t see any sign of sensitivity to the question.

  ‘The little cave? I took a boat in once, shortly after we got here, but it’s not much of a cave really, just a hollow in the rock face.’

  ‘Didn’t notice anything?’

  Fleming stepped in as Lovatt shook his head blankly.

  ‘Mr Lovatt, I understand you inherited from your grandmother. Did you visit regularly?’

  ‘Well, no. My parents divorced when I was young and my mother never got on with her. I don’t think there were even childhood visits, unless I was too young to remember.’

  ‘So the first time was after she died?’

  ‘Yes. The will, frankly, was a shock. I knew my father came from Scotland and nothing else. But I was just coming to the end of my commission and I’d always wanted to farm – perhaps it’s in the genes.’

  ‘And your father – would he have expected the farm to come to him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps, but we’re not in touch – I lived with my mother and they were estranged. But can I ask what all this is about?’

  Fleming gave him the bald facts, and he looked amazed.

  ‘And it’s been there for years? It was there when I went into the cave?’

  ‘We’re not in a position to say just yet. But depending on the tide it was above eye level, so it certainly could have been. You have no idea who might have had access in past years?’

  She wasn’t hopeful of an enlightening answer and she didn’t get one. ‘Anyone with a boat,’ he said, and she knew that already.

  ‘Tell me about Brodie,’ MacNee said suddenly. ‘How did you come to employ him?’

  ‘Kerr? He was in the regiment. NCO, short-service commission. Stood on a landmine a month before he was due to leave. Unbelievable bad luck. Then when I was setting up here I talked to a vet who pioneered deer farming in Scotland, and when he told me about the research showing that shooting the animals on site was more humane than sending them off for slaughter, I thought of Kerr Brodie immediately. Handy man with a gun, Kerr.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ MacNee said dryly and Fleming looked at him sharply. There was something about the way he said that …

  ‘He was at a pretty low ebb,’ Lovatt went on. ‘But this place helped him, like it helped me. And he helped us – Lissa and I both have had …’ he hesitated, ‘Well, problems of one sort and another. Kerr’s been very helpful in the past.’

  In the past? Fleming noted the curious phrase, but said only, ‘And you’re giving a chance to other soldiers, I hear.’

  He looked awkward. ‘Oh, well – we can manage one, or perhaps two – and of course they help round the farm. I just hope the TV interview won’t raise expectations we can’t fulfil.’

  ‘The television people are back today again, which may be even less welcome.’ Fleming got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Lovatt. There will be officers dealing with the situation on the island, but they shouldn’t have to trouble you here.’

  As they walked back towards the inn, Fleming said, ‘What did you make of him? Seemed straightforward enough.’

  MacNee was more cynical. ‘Oh, an officer and a gent, no doubt. They’re always so good at the surface stuff you never get to see what’s underneath. And if he’s a pal of Kerr Brodie’s,’ he almost spat the name, ‘you’d better count your fingers after shaking hands.’

  So she’d been right: there was some sort of history with this man. But with TV cameras and some obvious reporters waiting around the inn, it wasn’t exactly the moment. Fleming groaned.

  ‘The vultures are gathering. Take a deep breath, Tam, and count to ten before you open your mouth.’

  He muttered something about whisky and facing the devil – Burns, presumably, but she didn’t stop to listen.

  There was something mesmeric about driving at speed up the sweeping northern motorway, the traffic thinning as she crossed into Scotland and on through the brooding moorlands of the Borders. Elena Tindall had the car radio on but lost in her own thoughts she was hardly aware of it.

  Until the news bulletin. She gasped. It couldn’t be! Not now! The car behind her blared its horn as she suddenly slowed down. Shaking, she got out of its way and it flashed past her with another angry blast.

  She drove on in the inside lane until she reached a lay-by, then pulled in thankfully. She collapsed over the steering wheel, dizzy with the thoughts whirling in h
er head.

  It was so cruel, when she had at last a chance of healing the wounds that had tormented her for so long, when she had everything in place and her way clear. To abandon it now …

  But why? The question came from somewhere in that steely core that had saved Elena from going under long ago. It needn’t matter; viewed from another angle it could even be an advantage.

  She still felt shaky, but she sat up and started the car again. All she needed to do was stay calm and confident.

  Christie Jack walked back from the pub in a thoroughly bad mood. Andy Macdonald had apologised for his deception several times while she assured him it didn’t matter – which wasn’t true – until at last she snapped, ‘Look, let’s talk about something else, OK? Why are your pals here anyway?’

  Once he’d told her about the skeleton on her lovely island, which she’d have preferred not to know, the conversation stalled. It got stickier and stickier until at last she’d finished her drink and could leave.

  Oh, it wasn’t that she’d any particular problem with the police. Some of her own early experiences had been, well, unfortunate – Andy must somehow have picked up on that – but she’d been in the army since and her attitude to authority had changed. His job was like any other – you got good cops and bad cops. There’d been some right psychopathic bastards in the army.

  Christie just couldn’t take being conned. He’d sized her up and decided to deceive her. Maybe he’d reckoned once she got to know him she’d be too charmed to walk away, or maybe he wasn’t planning to be around long enough for it to matter. Either way, it wasn’t a good start. In any case, right now she wasn’t looking for involvement with anyone. Anyone else.

  Not that Christie was what you could call ‘involved’ with Matt Lovatt. He treated her like just another army comrade, and sometimes she wondered if he even noticed she was female. A couple of times, though, they’d really connected and he’d laughed like she’d never heard him laugh before.

  It had been just hero worship, a teenage-type crush on this really great guy. Even though he and Lissa slept in separate bedrooms – separate wings, in fact – how their marriage worked was none of her business. Maybe he snored. Or she did.

  But then, last night …

  Last night, Christie had come home late from the pub. She’d enjoyed talking to Andy; she hadn’t talked and talked that way since she left the army and she was high on the unaccustomed pleasure. Her head was buzzing and there was no way she could sleep until she’d come down.

  She went to sit at her bedroom window, as she often did, looking out over the bay towards the islands. The moon had gone down and as the Innellan street lights went out the night sky suddenly become a pitch-black background to a million million stars. Yet even with that deep peace, broken only by an occasional startling bellow from a stag, Christie’s mind was still sparking and fizzing.

  Tea – that was the answer. She’d make a cuppa – and grab a biscuit or two as well. It was a long time since supper. She opened her door, then heard another door being quietly opened. She drew back, closing hers over, and swore silently.

  That would be Lissa. She and Christie had the only two bedrooms to the front of the house; Matt’s was in the wing towards the back, up some stairs which came off the landing on the main flight, and Kerr had a bedsitter and bathroom on the ground floor, near the kitchen.

  For a moment Christie paused. She’d rather stay awake all night than sit with Lissa at the kitchen table – but maybe she was going to the sitting room or something, and Christie could sneak past unseen. She was getting fixated on the idea of tea now, and the Hobnobs were calling her.

  She opened the door again and tiptoed across the landing to look over the banisters. She could hear the wheezy ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall below, and also stealthy footsteps padding down the stairs.

  But it wasn’t Lissa. It was Kerr Brodie in his dressing gown, and he’d come from Lissa’s room.

  Stifling a gasp of shock, Christie shrank back hastily in case he should feel her eyes upon him. She was a little afraid of him already and he’d take it badly. She retreated, waiting until she could be sure he was out of earshot before she risked closing her door.

  What the hell was going on? Did Matt know about this? And if he did, did he care?

  She went back to her seat, oblivious to the stars and the night sounds, struggling with this unwelcome knowledge. She felt protective anger thinking of Matt being hurt, Matt who was the soul of honour and decency in her eyes. Lissa was his wife, after all; sure, their relationship was rocky, but that didn’t give Kerr the right to take advantage. What a bastard! Matt had given him a job, a life, even, and this was his repayment. She’d always been wary of Kerr – not wrong there!

  But maybe Matt knew. She’d heard of open marriages, of course, though she always wondered how you dealt with possessiveness and jealousy. She was damn sure she couldn’t do it.

  Either way, it changed things. If Matt accepted it, he was free to enjoy sauce for the gander. And if he didn’t, he’d suffer less if there was someone to hold his hand when he found out. Her, for example.

  She thought about it as she walked back after her awkward meeting with Andy. Actually, she’d been thinking about it all day. She’d rather not have known, and facing Kerr over breakfast hadn’t been easy, especially when Lissa came in.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he’d asked her.

  ‘Very well, by my standards,’ Lissa had said, giving him that faint, weary smile that always made Christie want to slap her.

  So Christie had no scruples. She’d worked out her strategy; now she only needed campaign tactics that wouldn’t utterly humiliate her if Matt wasn’t interested.

  Take it gently, she decided. First objective – get him along to the pub, where they could get to know each other better over a beer or two. Lissa wouldn’t come and if Kerr came he’d get talking to the locals as he always did.

  Yes, that was it – a series of small strategic objectives. Not tonight – Andy would still be around tonight, and that could scupper her plans. Tomorrow night, then. Her stomach gave a little nervous jump at the thought.

  Catriona Fleming looked round the bleak double room. The furniture – two beds, two wardrobes, two desks, two chests of drawers, two chairs with sagging webbing and wooden arms – was way past its best and the walls, an indeterminate shade of grey, were daubed with abandoned Blu-tack, the surface lifted in places by illicit Sellotape. Her room-mate hadn’t arrived yet – just as well, since all the floor space was taken up by Cat’s belongings, dumped by her father and brother before they left.

  She’d a hollow feeling inside, thinking of her comfortable room at home, of her family, irritating but always there when she needed them – but she mustn’t start feeling homesick already! She’d been counting the days to the start of Life with a capital L. She was nervous about the room-mate, but then Cat got along with most people OK.

  She was disappointed Will wasn’t here to meet her. She’d texted him, but his hours at the hospital were so irregular, he could be sleeping. His phone had been off the last couple of days.

  Without much hope Cat phoned him and her spirits soared when his voice, not his voicemail, answered.

  ‘Will!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m here, at the residence. Where are you? Can you come round?’

  ‘Hi, Cat,’ he said. ‘Right, right. Er … tell you what, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. OK?’

  ‘Brilliant. See you.’

  With renewed vigour, Cat set about unpacking, shoving everything into the wardrobe to be sorted out later. The older residence was a lot cheaper than the newer, smarter ones, and once she’d a few posters up and her own things round her, the room would be fine. It just needed TLC, and indeed was looking better already with the floor cleared and the bed made up.

  She was spreading a brightly coloured rug over it when Will’s knock came at the door. She flung it open.

  ‘Ta-ra! Get me – Catriona Fleming, real, genuine
student! At last!’ She flung herself into his arms, holding up her face to be kissed.

  Will fielded her awkwardly, planting a kiss somewhere near her mouth, then moved her aside to survey the room.

  ‘God! A bit dismal, isn’t it?’

  Feeling deflated, Cat shut the door. ‘It’ll be fine once I’m settled in.’ She linked her arm through his. ‘Now, Will Irvine, there’s work to be done. That case has to go on top of the wardrobe—’

  ‘Cat, we need to talk,’ he said, and something in his look and voice turned her heart to stone.

  She sat down on the bed abruptly, and listened while he told her about the other medical student who had been working at the hospital with him. She listened in silence, afraid that if she opened her mouth she might start screaming, or be sick, or something equally humiliating.

  Will, her lovely Will, was saying, ‘We’ve always been straight with each other and I knew you’d prefer not to get stuff like, you know, “I think we need a bit of space.” Then you’d hear about Elaine and it would be worse that I hadn’t told you face-to-face …’

  He seemed to be patting himself on the back for heroism. ‘Oh, you think?’ Cat muttered. Her throat felt so tight she could hardly get the words out and her lips were oddly numb.

  Will looked sheepish. ‘Well, it was just a boy-girl thing, Cat. You can’t have expected it to last.’

  A boy-girl thing? This from Will, the love of her life, who had always talked about ‘for ever’? She found her voice.

  ‘Get out! Get out right now. I never want to see you or speak to you again.’ She jumped up and seized her mobile from the desk with trembling hands. ‘See? There’s your number – I’ve deleted it. If you phone me, I won’t answer. I’m deleting you from my life as well.’ She flung the phone down on the bed.

  It was a good line. She was rather proud of it, as Will, murmuring some crap about having hoped they could be friends, departed.

  ‘Good riddance!’ she shouted down the corridor after him, and slammed the door. But then the tears came.