Evil for Evil

by Aline Templeton

  ‘I thought there were just sheep,’ Zoë said, a little defensively. Clearly stirks being blatantly fattened for market had come as a shock.

  Bill, who had fetched them after school activities, obviously felt he had been cast in the role of First Murderer and had lost his usual ease of manner. Cammie, spellbound, spent most of his time just looking at her and though Zoë responded readily to Marjory’s efforts to keep the conversation going, it was definitely sticky, with the spectre of the abattoir an extra presence at the table.

  The food didn’t help, either. As part of her housekeeping duties Karolina kept the freezer well stocked, but there was no demand for vegetarian meals from the Fleming household and Janet had failed her daughter this time, having a few days away in Pitlochry with friends.

  Marjory was on her own, and even she couldn’t claim her veggie lasagne was a success. Some vegetables were hard, some mushy, and bits of the pasta had come out of the sauce and were crunchy.

  Bill, who had lapsed almost into silence, said, ‘Er … what is it?’ He was pushing his food round his plate.

  ‘Hard to say,’ quipped Cammie, cracking a burnt edge. ‘Hard – get it?’

  Zoë looked appalled. ‘That’s so mean, Cammie! It’s very … very nice, Mrs Fleming,’ she said, truth yielding to good manners.

  ‘You’re extremely polite, Zoë,’ Marjory said, ‘but I’m afraid my cooking is a family joke. I can fry a good rare steak, but that’s about it.’ As the words left her lips, a little silence fell as each person round the table had a vision of the steak oozing blood, though with presumably different feelings. Bill’s and Cammie’s, Marjory was fairly sure, were simple hunger.

  No, the evening had not gone well, and when he and Bill got back from running Zoë home, Cammie went straight up to his room.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting in Kirkluce the night Zoë’s coming to supper again,’ Bill said.

  Marjory looked surprised. ‘Is she? When?’

  ‘I didn’t say she was coming to supper. I said I would have a meeting that night, whenever it was.’

  ‘Bill, that’s not fair,’ Marjory protested. ‘She’s a lovely girl! When you think what some of them are like, you should be grateful. And being veggie’s actually a more moral stance in lots of ways than eating meat, you know.’

  Bill sat down at the table. ‘Yeah, fine. But it’s hard to enjoy your food when there’s someone opposite who sees blood dripping from your hands. Actually, it’s hard to enjoy a vegetarian meal cooked by you anyway.’

  ‘You say that whatever I cook.’

  ‘Not about bacon and eggs,’ he shot back. ‘Any chance?’

  ‘I took a lot of trouble with that, you know,’ Marjory said. ‘But – well, I have to admit I didn’t eat much of it either.’

  As she put in the bacon in the frying pan, she said, ‘Have you spoken to Cat today, Bill? I’ve left messages and she still hasn’t phoned back, so I’m not going to pester her if she’s sulking. I’d like to know how she’s getting on, though.’

  ‘Yes, she phoned home around lunchtime. Sounds fine.’

  Really, men! Marjory looked at him with some exasperation. She didn’t want to have to spell out how much she was missing her daughter, with an almost visceral sense of loss. ‘Details?’

  ‘That was about it, really. She’s OK, the residence is fine – didn’t say a lot else.’

  ‘Did she say if she was coming home at the weekend?’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. She said she wouldn’t be home. There’s a party or something.’

  ‘Right,’ Marjory said slowly, prodding the bacon. ‘I was wondering about her, because it was a bit odd. I was shopping at lunchtime and saw Mary Irvine. I haven’t seen her for ages, and I wondered if she’d heard from Will. She barely stopped – said she was dashing to a hair appointment, but it wasn’t like her. Usually I can’t get away from her, once she starts. You – you don’t think there’s anything wrong there, do you?’

  Bill looked alarmed. ‘I’d hate to think so. He’s almost one of the family now.’

  ‘I know. And it would be awful for Cat, starting out somewhere new, if … Do you think we should pop up to Glasgow to see how she is?’ She made the suggestion hopefully, trying not to show that she was grasping at any excuse just to see Cat, to have her physical nearness – always supposing Cat would allow a hug, in her present frame of mind.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Bill firmly. ‘You’ve got to accept that she’s left home. And if you’re uptight because Mary didn’t stop to talk, it’s daft. Maybe she did have an appointment.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve got a feeling—’ Marjory was saying, when the kitchen door opened and Cammie appeared.

  ‘Is that bacon I smell? Oh, great!’

  His father grinned. ‘Better than rabbit food, eh? Pity it didn’t work out. She’s a nice enough lassie.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Cammie said, but looking at him with a mother’s eye Marjory wasn’t as sure as Bill was that the spell cast by those big brown eyes had been broken.

  Eddie Tindall let himself into the darkened flat with a heavy heart. In the lounge, where in his mind’s eye his wife was always sitting smiling up at him, her gold hair gleaming in the pool of light from the lamp on the table behind the sofa, there were only great luminous patches of pale orange on the polished floor from the street outside in the oppressive, artificial silence the double glazing created. He pressed the switch to turn on the lamps and reflexively clicked the TV remote, though he went back out again immediately.

  Clive hadn’t called him, and Marianne had kept Eddie too busy to have much time to think about Elena. He was thinking about her now, though; he’d been late back, so perhaps Clive had left a message here. But through in his study there was no red light blinking on the phone.

  Without expectation, Eddie checked the bank account, but there were no new transactions. He could phone and check the credit card again, but it was a lot of effort to make, knowing it would be pointless. He was feeling very tired tonight, tired and old.

  He wandered through to their bedroom, then into Elena’s walk-in closet. Perhaps there might be a clue in what she had packed. But as door after door swung open to his touch, he looked helplessly at racks of skirts, dresses, trousers, piles of shelved sweaters. For all he could tell, she might have taken half her clothes with her, or nothing at all.

  Jewellery – he was more familiar with that, having bought most of it himself. The good pieces were kept in the built-in safe in his study, but when he opened it nothing was missing. A guarantee of her return? He tried to console himself with the thought, but though Elena enjoyed luxury, she had never been acquisitive.

  He could phone her. Hearing her voice would be the highlight of his evening, but he was becoming afraid to try her number. What if she didn’t answer? What if she never answered again? What if she did, and told him it was all over? ‘Eddie, I’m sorry, but …’ He buried his face in his hands.

  She’d barely been away two days. She’d often gone for three or four in the past, and she’d warned him she planned a longer break. So why did it seem like a crisis? He was being a fool. A stiff drink, that was what he needed. A drink, and a good talking-to.

  Back in the lounge, he poured himself a Scotch. On the big plasma screen, some birdbrained woman was simpering and giggling at an equally birdbrained man. Irritably, he killed the sound, though the flickering images were company, in a strange way.

  Sitting there with his whisky soothed him, same as always. OK, Elena wasn’t there and without her the flat was bleak and empty, but in another week or so she’d be back. He’d be able to laugh at his fears, unless he blew it now by overreacting. The problem was with his own idiotic imaginings. As if someone else had spoken the words, Eddie nodded affirmatively.

  But it didn’t convince him. The bank account and credit card were evidence that this time was different; he just didn’t know why, or what it meant for his marriage, and it was getting to him. He downed the Scotch in one and went
for a refill.

  The phone ringing startled him so that he almost dropped the glass. Clive, was his first thought, but no – it was Elena. She usually only phoned when he’d been trying to reach her.

  He tried to sound casual, unsurprised. ‘Hi, doll! I was just going to call you. How are you doing?’

  She was fine, it seemed, thoroughly enjoying the peace and quiet, having long walks. She wanted to know how he was, what kind of day he’d had, what Lola had left him for supper, and when he said he hadn’t eaten yet, warned him not to get stuck into the Scotch when she wasn’t there to keep an eye on him. At the end of the conversation, when he said, ‘Love you, sweetheart,’ she said, after a tiny pause, ‘I miss you, Eddie.’

  He switched off the phone and sat down again. On the screen, a woman was yelling at a girl with a trout pout and a Croydon facelift.

  He should be feeling reassured. Elena had said she was missing him. She’d been concerned, affectionate, forthcoming if not explicit about where she was and what she was doing there.

  His Elena was cool, reserved, detached, almost. This was totally unnatural. What could it mean? His hand was shaking as he brought the glass to his lips. What was he to do? He had to do something. Maybe Clive had found some clue, some promising line of enquiry. He could phone Clive – he had his mobile number.

  Clive, though, was not helpful. Eddie was a good client, but even so his irritation at being disturbed in the middle of his supper came through. Yes, he had feelers out and was hopeful. No, it was too early to expect results and he’d certainly contact Eddie immediately he’d anything to report.

  So there was nothing Eddie could do but sit there, amid the trappings of his wealth and success, meaningless now that they could no longer buy him his heart’s desire.

  Elena switched off the phone and grimaced, feeling drained and faintly nauseated. She just hoped this wifey-wifey performance would keep Eddie happy, stop him getting twitchy for a bit, at least. She didn’t need worry about him on top of everything else.

  She felt as if her nerves were being stretched taut, and then stretched some more, until they might snap at any moment. She was becoming irrational. Any sudden sound outside sent her heart racing; this evening she had drawn the curtains before it was even dark, and checked twice that the door was locked when she knew it was. But if she was locking some of her fears outside, she was locking herself in with the rest.

  Cal had seemed badly stressed. She’d been relying on Cal, Cal who before had seemed solid, imperturbable. Today he’d gone on a lot about his mother; she’d been driving him to the edge for years, and Elena was afraid that might actually tip him over – really afraid.

  Calm. She had to be calm. She had plenty of practice in that too, even when she was having to drown out the screaming inside her head.

  Yoga. That helped; sometimes she even felt her sanity depended on it. She sat down on the floor, took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

  The only problem was that as she lowered her head gracefully she found herself looking at the broad cuff bracelets on her wrists, which reminded her that in the drawer in her bedroom there was a pretty little knife which held the promise of even greater relief.

  Brodie was late tonight bringing fresh scoff, much later than usual. Fergie had meant to pluck up courage and ask for a radio, just for company – he’d keep it low, of course, and watch for any boat coming across.

  After one look at Brodie when he eventually arrived, Fergie thought the better of it. The man’s face was black with temper and he dumped down the carrier bag as if he had some personal grievance against it.

  ‘Thanks, Sarge,’ Fergie said, but very quietly, and he wrapped his arms across his thin body as if to make himself smaller and less visible. Invisible, preferably. Brodie looked ready to lash out, and famously wasn’t particular about his targets.

  He was eying even this diminished Fergie with distaste. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said with venom. ‘You.’

  Fergie shrank back, which seemed to rile Brodie even more. ‘God, how did I get myself into this? Sooner or later, you pay for every good deed – that’s the truth. There’s people sniffing around, and we can’t bring in a boat till we’ve neutralised them. You’ll have to stay here for as long as it takes.’

  Dismay made Fergie incautious. ‘Can you not just get me out of this place? Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe. Being alone all the time’s messing with my brain.’

  It gave Brodie the excuse he needed for venting his fury. ‘Your brain? Your brain? Don’t make me laugh!’

  Fergie quailed under the tirade of obscenity that followed, putting his arm up to cover his head as if he were being physically attacked. ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ he whimpered when his assailant paused for breath.

  Brodie looked at him with contempt. ‘You really are a snivelling little sod. Just get this into your tiny head – I won’t turn you in because you’d come apart. And I won’t knock you on the head and push you off the cliff because you’d come ashore on the current and they’d come around here asking questions. You’ve got food and shelter – think yourself lucky. Do as you’re told and it’ll all come right in the end.

  ‘These are your orders. Keep a strict watch. I’m giving you a key so you can lose yourself in the wood if someone’s coming that might search the building. And I don’t want it looking lived-in. Nothing left visible. Clear?’

  Fergie could feel Brodie’s eyes boring into him. ‘Right, Sarge,’ he said.

  Brodie maintained his laser gaze for a long moment. ‘And don’t go wandering about for the fun of it,’ he warned as he left. ‘Anyone sees you, we’re buggered, both of us, and don’t think you won’t pay.’

  As the door shut, Fergie’s knees gave way and he collapsed on to the mattress on the floor. He’d always been wary of Brodie, and Brodie when things were going wrong was seriously scary.

  He’d counted on the boat coming any day now. The way Brodie talked, it could be weeks – weeks of solitary in this creepy place. He felt a tightness in his chest and started taking gasping, shallow breaths as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air.

  It was getting properly dark now. The moon was casting beams of pale light on the splintery floor through the gaps between the slats. Under the eaves the restless shadows shivered. Fergie got up and went to look out.

  In bright moonlight the familiar landscape seemed strange, bleached of colour, with black spectral trees and dark mysterious hollows in the grass, but the air coming in was fresh on his face, damp and cool. His breathing quietened.

  For the first time, Fergie could go out and walk around. He’d heard the boat take Brodie back. He’d be disobeying orders, but who would know? Just a little walk. Freedom to take more than ten paces backwards and forwards. Freedom to look at something more than four wooden walls.

  He opened the door as quietly as he could, winced at the squeaking step, though there was no one to hear. Downstairs, the storeroom was musty with the smell of the feed for the deer, but once outside in the clear air he snuffed it like an animal. Trained not to offer a target, he kept close to the house and only moved towards the wood when he had the building between him and the mainland.

  From inside it had looked inviting, but under the sheltering branches it was deeply dark. The undergrowth was dense, and he tripped on an unseen tree root and almost fell. As he saved himself, a bramble raked the back of his hand and he licked at the ragged scratch, wondering how he’d explain if Brodie noticed it. Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all.

  The noises unsettled him too, stealthy noises from movement he couldn’t see. The deer, of course, it was just the deer, he told himself, but he didn’t know much about them anyway. Could they attack, if they took against you?

  Perhaps it would be better just to go back. He’d had his breath of air, and when he got that suffocating feeling he was free to come out. He turned, retraced his steps.

  As the trees thinned out, the moonlight caught eyes, glowing from a bush n
earby. He jumped, stepped on a stick which cracked like a pistol shot. He heard a bark, like an angry dog, and giving a shout of fright himself, stumbled back to the bothy without a thought for any watcher on the mainland. His heart was pounding as he stumbled up the stairs, flung himself into the room and shut the door, like a captive animal rejecting freedom for the security of its cage.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was mid afternoon on Thursday before the DNA analysis of the bones in the cave landed on DI Fleming’s desk and she seized on it eagerly. She’d been trying to temper expectation; while you could learn a lot from DNA, it didn’t come with name and address attached.

  Usually. But this one did – a name, at least. Delighted at this stroke of luck, Fleming read on.

  They had scored a hit with one on the police database in Manchester. There was no further information, no indication of a date or of any offence he had been charged with.

  Perhaps there wasn’t one. In Scotland, unless there was a conviction samples were destroyed after three years, but in England they were kept indefinitely, even if no charge followed the arrest. So that was another stroke of luck; innocent or guilty, they had his name, Andrew Smith.

  Andrew Smith. She said the name under her breath. It held the ghost of a man, where before there had been only dry, anonymous bones. If he had a record, she could flesh them out from interviews, details of associates, addresses – a treasure trove for investigation.

  If not … In that case, the missing person’s register would be almost their only hope, since trawling through phone books and voters’ rolls for one particular ‘Andrew Smith’ wasn’t likely to prove rewarding.

  She mustn’t be pessimistic, though. At least they had a starting point: a request for information from Manchester. But official channels were hardly noted for their speedy response, and it wouldn’t be easy here to argue for top priority. They’d have to be patient, and Fleming had never been good at that. She sat tapping her finger on her front teeth, thinking.