Evil for Evil

by Aline Templeton

  ‘We’ll let that one pass. The other?’

  ‘When I said “Andrew Smith” he definitely reacted. I’d be prepared to swear the name meant something to him. He managed to cover it up, playing with the dog – scary animal! I wasn’t sure it was a dog at all, it looked more like a wolf. He really looked shocked when I told him why we were asking – I’d be surprised if that was faked. I think we could definitely get results if we lean on him. If that’s not going to turn out to be bullying.’

  It was a cheeky remark, but Fleming chose to ignore it. ‘It sounds as if you may have got somewhere – I’ll give you credit for that. Christie Jack – well, I think given the profound apologies I will make on your behalf, it doesn’t need to go further.

  ‘I’m prepared to add you to the team on this case and see how you get on. The first rule is, you don’t go out on your own – we work together.’

  Hepburn was beaming. ‘Thanks, ma’am. I do understand.’

  ‘So, Louise – where do we go from here?’

  ‘You tell me, ma’am.’

  The submissive reply made her laugh. ‘Fair enough. I’ll get you all in tomorrow, and you can make your peace with Andy Macdonald.’

  She was a bit cocky, Fleming thought as Hepburn took her leave – but that wasn’t altogether a serious fault, if it meant she was full of ideas. She’d her wits about her too, clever enough to make the right noises when challenged. But why did Fleming suspect that there was something she wasn’t being told?

  It had to be tonight. Tomorrow’s forecast was for clearing skies and dropping temperatures, and though the new moon would only be a thumbnail, starlight in a frosty sky could be too bright for deeds of darkness.

  The clouds were heavy tonight, though. At eleven o’clock, just as the street lights went out in Innellan, Tam MacNee drove up the track into the position he had taken the previous night. When he switched off the headlights, the darkness seemed to swoop round him, thick as fog; when he put down his window, there was a silence below the sounds of water and light wind that seemed almost physically oppressive. A stag roared, another answered; there was a sudden waft of voices and laughter from a house somewhere, but after the noises died it seemed stiller than ever.

  MacNee shifted uneasily. The countryside at night always spooked him. Maybe he’d a hieland granny no one had told him about, but he kept finding himself looking around and over his shoulder, even though he knew that it was only his own imagination that peopled the shadows.

  He’d planned to keep the car window open tonight to get the earliest possible warning of anyone stirring, but for one reason and another he was shivering. He’d see movement soon enough and he’d touched base with the excise lads earlier and they were on full alert. He put it up again.

  Nothing to do now but wait. Stay alert, stay calm. Stifle the impatience to see Brodie pay at last that had filled his mind to the exclusion of everything else.

  Caring for his father had rekindled the anger that had smouldered for more than twenty years. The poor, sad old man, bewildered and ill at ease in his clean clothes and cosy surroundings, begging for a drink whenever he saw the son who was the keeper of happiness in the form of a whisky bottle, wrung Tam’s heart – a good man, a good father, reduced to a shambling wreck. He was missing the streets, too, missing his pals and what he called freedom. That Tam had been forced to become in some sense his jailer was another charge to add to Brodie’s slate.

  Was that a movement on the island, cutting the skyline? MacNee snatched up his binoculars but it was a brief glimpse only, and it was too dark to see anything against the bulk of the island. He’d thought he’d seen something last night, around the same time, probably, but again it could have been just a deer.

  That small excitement over, he settled back to his watch.

  Fergie Crawford couldn’t sleep. He’d tried earlier, but his head was buzzing. He’d not got much kip the night before either – supposing he never heard the summons? He was sleeping fully dressed these days, not to keep Brodie waiting.

  Maybe the boat to take him off was on its way right now. If he knew that, he could be ready watching for Brodie to come across and not get tore into for being slow. He could slip out, up to the ridge in the middle of the island, and take a wee look over along the Solway Firth. It would pass the time anyway.

  It was pitch-dark outside, but he’d kind of got used to that now. He let himself out of the cottage and went round the back, skirting the trees, keeping low so if Brodie looked across from the farm he wouldn’t spot him and go mental. Supposing the boat didn’t come tonight? Fergie wasn’t wanting to be locked in again.

  The ruins on the top of the rise – more just a pile of stones, really – gave him cover as he lay down and cautiously peered over. Black sky, lighter sea; Fergie could see the white lines of the wave crests – hear, too, the wash as they broke on the rocks below. But no sign of a ship, no steady throb of an engine.

  He was used to disappointment by now. He sat up again, then his eye caught something pale, in among the rickety headstones just below the church. His heart thumped uncomfortably. It was near where that baby … It freaked him out, that …

  Probably just a plastic feed sack Brodie or his boss had left. Of course it was. But if he didn’t check he’d start thinking daft things. He stood up, careless now, and walked down to it.

  It wasn’t a sack. With a groaning gasp, Fergie shrank away, gagging, then fled down towards the trees, and round the back of the cottage. He stopped to be violently sick before he dashed inside and up the stairs, locking the door against … he didn’t know what.

  MacNee’s eyes were feeling heavy, and he was starting to yawn. He looked at his watch and groaned. It was after two – what if he’d been wrong in his reckoning? What if he hadn’t read Brodie’s mind as well as he thought?

  The mobile in his pocket buzzed. He grabbed it, listened and a slow smile spread across his face. ‘Hold on,’ he said.

  He got out of the car and walked over to the edge of the track. The rush of cool air revived him, and as he looked down over the village he saw someone come out along the main street, a familiar figure with a limping gait, hurrying down towards the jetty.

  ‘Yup!’ he said into the phone. ‘We’re in business.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Crawford!’ It was Kerr Brodie yelling, beating on the door of Fergie’s room. ‘Are you dead, or what?’

  Fergie came out of the deepest part of his sleep with his heart pounding. He was on his feet, staggering across to open the door while he was still half asleep, trying to work out where he was, what was happening. Brodie grabbed his arm, propelling him down the stairs.

  ‘My bag,’ he stammered, then wished he hadn’t as Brodie, giving him a vicious push that had him tripping down the last three steps on to his knees, told him exactly what he could do with his bag.

  ‘Out!’ Brodie snarled, and Fergie scrambled to his feet, following the other man at a staggering run down to the jetty. He was still not fully awake as they took off, but the sea air was bracing and before they rounded the end of the island it had come back to him in a sickening rush. The woman …

  He choked, and Brodie’s head flipped round. ‘You’re not going to puke, are you?’

  ‘No, no,’ Fergie managed, though he wasn’t entirely sure – the woman, lying there covered in blood with her eyes wide open and her throat ripped out by … something. A dog, most likely the wolf-dog he had seen around with Brodie’s boss. And still roaming on the island, maybe.

  When he’d reached the safety of the bothy, Fergie had locked himself in, then, cold with terror, had climbed into bed to try to warm himself up. He had listened with painful anxiety for a time, but at last in the silence had dropped into an exhausted sleep, not long before Brodie banged on the door.

  If this didn’t work, Fergie wasn’t going back there, not for anything. He’d sooner turn himself in. But it had to work – it had to!

  Brodie was edgy, though, he could see that. He w
as looking all around him as they headed towards a trawler which was gliding up the firth with no lights showing. Fergie caught his unease and started swivelling his head too, until Brodie in a savage undertone told him to sit still. He contented himself with willing the little boat across the water, faster and faster – and then they were there, and a man above them was catching the rope Brodie had thrown and securing it, then dropping a rope ladder over the side. Fergie stood up, ready to grasp it—

  The roar of a powerful engine seemed to come from nowhere. A high-wattage spotlight dazzled them and a megaphone boomed out a warning, then the revenue cutter, speeding out from the shelter of Ardwall Island, was alongside.

  The trawler made no attempt to flee, but the deck became frantic with activity, and a package dropped down into the sea beside them as Brodie, swearing violently, gunned his engine. But the rope to the trawler held. They were trapped.

  Fergie Crawford’s escape was at an end.

  MacNee was grinning as he trained his binoculars on Brodie, setting off in his boat to sail into the trap MacNee had laid. The diversion across to the bothy on Lovatt Island puzzled him at first, until he made out another figure moving in the darkness beside Brodie and hurrying to the boat. Who could that be? It would explain the movements he’d caught these last two nights – and, he remembered suddenly, the provisions he had spotted in the bothy room. A pal of Brodie’s in the drug business, maybe, with a reason for lying low?

  His work here was done, and he could go home now to his bed, but he’d slept half the afternoon and felt disinclined to walk away from the excitement. Maybe the bothy would repay investigation – and now he noticed that the causeway below was uncovered. He could walk across, avoiding the need for a boat – and maybe even catch some of the action from the top of the island.

  MacNee backed up the car and drove down to the shore, took his torch and his binoculars and set off. The causeway didn’t seem quite such an easy option, now he was close. He didn’t know much about the tides, but the sea, pitch-black in the darkness, was slapping at its stones now, and every so often a skittish wave would come higher than the others and break over the top. It would be wiser to turn back, maybe, but he wasn’t going to miss seeing the trap sprung. He’d just have to be quick. It wasn’t that far.

  Iron poles had been stuck in, indicating the best line to take, but even so, in the light of the powerful torch he could see jagged rocks slippery with seaweed and pitted with rock pools. Hurrying was a good prescription for a broken ankle, but impatience made him careless after a bit. An injudicious step sent him sliding into wet seaweed and he emerged soaking, with a bleeding gash on his ankle stinging with the salt water. Swearing, he rubbed at it, then looked for the torch which had gone flying. He was in a right mess if he couldn’t find it.

  Mercifully, it was sturdy and shock resistant and the light shining through the bladderwrack revealed its position. His hands were shaking as he groped among the slimy tendrils for it.

  The sea was covering the rocks behind him already. He couldn’t turn back now, and at least the causeway rose as it reached the island. He just had to keep moving faster than the tide rose. He tried to put out of his mind the local belief that the Solway tide came in faster than a horse could gallop. It was probably just an old wives’ tale, but his trainers, wet already from their immersion, were getting soaked again by the bolder waves. They were aggressive now, not playful.

  Don’t panic. Watch your footing. Think about something else. Think about Brodie, think about payback time. It could still go wrong, of course. It was all about timing: if Brodie got warning, he could speed off, deny everything …

  The excise lads who had spotted the trawler coming up the firth were experienced, he told himself – they wouldn’t get it wrong. And the causeway, thank God, was rising steeply now. MacNee slipped a couple of times, but just ahead there was rough grass growing down to the rocks. He had just reached it when he heard the sound of the revenue cutter coming into action, and sprinted up towards the seaward side of the island, where he got a grandstand view of it all.

  If revenge is a dish best eaten cold, MacNee’s was chilled to perfection. All it needed was a tot of whisky to go alongside, so he could drink to Brodie’s damnation, and he’d get that later. Admittedly, it was a pity they’d take the boat into Stranraer and he wouldn’t be there to look the bastard in the face as they brought him ashore in handcuffs, but he’d make sure Brodie would know who he had to thank.

  MacNee was grinning as he turned away. He’d check out the bothy, then call in for someone to take him off. Even he would struggle to get seasick in the journey across from this side of the island.

  It would be an hour or two before the first real signs of dawn, but the darkness was lifting a little, and he switched off the torch. He didn’t need it now to see his footing and the ruined chapel against the skyline gave him direction. He was just short of it when something lighter, something patchy, on the ground caught his eye. In the semi-dark, he couldn’t make out what it was and he snapped on the torch again and went to investigate.

  The patches of white were the parts of the woman’s coat not totally saturated with blood. And her neck …

  An animal, that was MacNee’s first thought. An animal, that had gone straight for her throat. Something like the wolf-dog he had seen at Matt Lovatt’s heels.

  His second thought: where was it now?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Once again, Innellan was roused in the night by sirens. Georgia Stanley came out of sleep with a sickening lurch.

  It was early morning, really, though the sun hadn’t risen. She grabbed her dressing gown and slippers. Oh, what now? More trouble for Matt and Christie? The girl was falling apart; Georgia didn’t think she could take much more, and Matt was looking ill with the stress.

  Christie was out on the landing. She was very pale, but seemed almost unnaturally calm. ‘It’s the police, Georgia. I saw from my window. What’s going on?’

  She looked at the girl uneasily. ‘Come on downstairs and I’ll put on the kettle, then we’ll see what’s happening outside.’

  ‘Matt—’ Christie said, hanging back and glancing towards his closed bedroom door.

  ‘If he can sleep through that din, he must be shattered. Plenty of time for him to hear about it in the morning,’ Georgia said, drawing Christie towards the stairs. ‘If he wakes up, we’ll have a cup of tea ready for him.’

  Christie went down ahead of her into the kitchen. The room was luridly lit by the orange flashing lights of a police car parked outside, and then there was heavy knocking at the front door. It felt as if Georgia’s own heart was thumping in time as she unlocked it.

  Two unsmiling uniformed officers stood there. ‘Matthew Lovatt,’ one said. ‘I understand he’s staying here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Georgia admitted. ‘Do … do you want to come in?’

  As they stepped inside, Christie appeared. ‘What do you want with him? Has something happened?’

  ‘We’re needing to speak to Mr Lovatt, that’s all. If you’d just go back to bed, miss—’

  ‘I’d rather wait, until you tell us.’ Christie’s chin was jutting defiantly.

  Georgia took her arm. ‘They’re not going to tell us, Christie. We’ll find out later. We can wait through here, at the back.’ She turned to the officers. ‘I’ll just go and wake him.’

  As she propelled a reluctant Christie into the lounge and shut the door, she heard one saying to the other, ‘Deaf, is he, then, sleeping through all this?’ As she ran upstairs and knocked on the door of Matt’s room, she already had misgivings, and when she opened it, the room was empty and the bed hadn’t been slept in.

  MacNee sat on the camp bed in the bothy loft. He’d heard the sirens and now, between the slats on the windows, he could see the lights of three police cars. What he didn’t know was how long it would take to get a trained handler and a marksman down here. There was no way a police officer could set foot on the island until these were in
place, and he certainly wasn’t going to step outside this room, even though he’d seen nothing moving except the deer coming out to browse in the early morning light. He’d never in his life been more scared than he’d been in the short time it had taken him to run from where the poor woman’s body lay to the safety of the bothy.

  He’d recognised her: Lissa Lovatt. Had the dog, roaming free on the island, turned rogue? Both he and Fleming were quite sure the animal wasn’t far from its wolf ancestry, but even so, wolves, as far as he knew, weren’t in the habit of attacking humans unless from hunger. There were deer all over the island for the taking, and this hadn’t been a prey kill – thank God for that, at least.

  Had her husband gone mad and set the dog on to her to kill her? And, in the final, hideous detail, there right on the grave of their dead child? MacNee had his reservations about Lovatt, but this …

  There was something deeply evil lurking in this innocent-looking, pretty island. He had been so absorbed in his own revenge on Brodie that he hadn’t given much thought to what had been going on: local politics, with the Donaldsons and Sorley, had been his casual assumption about the recent events. As for the murder, so many years before – there would be time enough to sift through whatever evidence remained about Andrew Smith when Manchester did the follow-up on known associates.

  MacNee didn’t believe that now. Lovatt’s local enemies releasing a stag – certainly. Burning the house down – possibly. But you couldn’t assume that about a second hideous murder on the island.

  He could be stuck here for hours. He’d phoned in to see if there was any word of the specialist team, though he should have known better: as usual, no one had a scoobie. He’d checked out the loft, hoping for drug evidence, but all he’d found was a carrier bag containing a pathetic bundle of scruffy T-shirts and underwear, and what looked like army issue shoes with a number inside. If this was one of Brodie’s drug dealer chums, you had to think he wasn’t much good at his job.