‘If you want justice for your sister, you’ll not distract the police with a load of rubbish.’
Stuart was rubbing his cheek. He didn’t speak, as if afraid that speaking would produce another onslaught.
His mother continued, ‘You spoke to them before. You just tell them what you told them then, and wait for them to go away. After that we’ll carry on the best we can.’
Again he said nothing, and Jean’s voice sharpened. ‘Cat got your tongue? Did you hear what I said?’
He stood up, a big, clumsy man, a bit overweight. ‘I heard. I’m doing what you want, all right? Just don’t push me.’
‘Push you? My certes, if I could ever have pushed you to any effect, the farm wouldn’t be in the state it’s in now. You’re feeble, like your father before you.’
Stuart walked to the door. ‘And maybe it was you made us that way.’
He slammed it behind him as he left, leaving his mother to stare at it with just a hint of uncertainty in her expression.
8
When DI Fleming and DS MacNee reached Balnakenny, a man was dragging sacks of cattle feed out of one of the sheds – a tall, bulky man with bright red hair. Seeing the car, he stopped and came over to them.
His expression was sullen, his eyes hostile. ‘What are you wanting?’ he demanded.
They showed their warrant cards and Fleming introduced them.
‘Stuart Grant? Your mother perhaps mentioned I’d spoken to her yesterday about reviewing the investigation into your sister’s murder. We’d like a word with you too.’
‘If it doesn’t take long. I’ve a couple of new beasts to settle in.’
Fleming followed his glance to a pen in the byre beyond, where two dejected-looking Friesian crosses stood in a deep layer of straw and muck. She looked away hastily. It wasn’t a real case of cruelty so it wasn’t her business, but she hated seeing the poor creatures so badly cared for.
‘Perhaps we could go inside?’ she suggested.
‘Better out here.’ He stood his ground, looking uncomfortable.
MacNee cleared his throat, jerking his head in the direction of the house. The front door was open and Jean Grant was on the doorstep watching them, hands on hips.
It wasn’t actually raining, but it was cold and windy. Stuart obviously didn’t want his mother present at their interview, but Fleming had no intention of staying out here quietly freezing to death.
‘It would be more satisfactory inside,’ she said firmly. ‘Your mother will understand that our business is with you.’
Stuart snorted, with what might almost have been a sardonic smile. ‘You explain, then.’
He led them round to the back of the house, kicked off his Caterpillar boots without undoing the laces – just the way Bill did with his, Fleming thought, amused – then ushered them into the kitchen.
Unlike the archetypal farm kitchen, it was austere and clinically tidy. There was a meagre fireplace and no range, only a gas cooker and a run of outdated kitchen units topped by red Formica, chipped here and there, with a big wooden table, scrubbed white, in the centre of the room. A dresser stored piles of crockery, with no attempt at artistic arrangement.
There was one incongruous object: a small, highly polished table in one corner with the familiar photo of Ailsa Grant, framed and with a candle placed on either side. Almost like a shrine, Fleming thought.
‘You’d better sit down,’ Stuart said grudgingly, seating himself at the table.
The door from the hall opened and Jean Grant appeared, face flushed with temper. Glaring at the officers, she said to her son, ‘What are they in here for? The front room’s the place for visitors. Through here.’ She held open the door.
No one moved. Fleming said pleasantly, ‘Thank you, Mrs Grant, but we’re fine here. We’ll talk to your son and then you can have your kitchen back.’
Her mouth pleated in a straight, angry line, Jean marched over and pulled out a chair.
‘I’m sorry.’ Fleming’s voice was steelier this time. ‘We want to talk to your son alone.’
MacNee went over to the door and held it open, just as Jean had done.
The woman didn’t move. ‘But—’ she protested.
‘He’s a big boy now,’ MacNee said. ‘He’s not needing you to hold his hand.’
‘It’s not that,’ she snapped. ‘It’s—’
Fleming let the pause develop, then prompted, ‘It’s—?’
‘Oh, what’s the use?’ With a final, vengeful glare at Stuart, Jean stormed out, leaving MacNee to shut the door, with ironic delicacy, behind her. It was a good, thick door: she wouldn’t hear much from the other side.
Fleming sat down. ‘Now, Mr Grant – Stuart, if you don’t mind?’
He grunted. ‘Whatever you like. Makes no odds to me.’
He was unattractive, with pale skin weather-beaten and marked with freckles, and a down-turned mouth. His eyes were dark, fringed by pale lashes.
‘Before we get to the night your sister died,’ Fleming began, ‘I’m trying to form a picture of what happened before that. You know your mother claimed Marcus Lazansky was the father of Ailsa’s baby, and that he murdered her?’
Stuart’s face darkened. ‘Aye, I know.’
‘They had been romantically involved as teenagers?’
‘Aye. Though she’d been well warned about him.’
‘Why was that?’
‘My parents didn’t like it. Well, he was a different kind from us – and they were right enough, the way it turned out.’
‘Different?’ MacNee put in. ‘Posh, you mean?’
‘Aye. The way he spoke – could have been English, even, the way he spoke.’ He sounded virulent.
‘Was your sister older or younger than you?’ Fleming asked.
‘Older.’
‘How did you get on together? Were you good friends?’
‘Good enough.’
‘It sounds as if you didn’t like Marcus. Why is that?’
Stuart shrugged. ‘Didn’t dislike him.’
Was he being deliberately unhelpful, Fleming wondered. She thought he was tensing up, which interested her. As a younger brother, he could have useful light to shed on the relationship. She pressed him. ‘You didn’t dislike him? You sounded as if you did.’
He showed definite signs of unease and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply, then unexpectedly he burst out, ‘She cried a lot. After he dumped her.’
Fleming felt the stirrings of sympathy. ‘You were very fond of your sister, weren’t you?’
There was a pause. ‘Aye.’
MacNee leaned forward. ‘Were you upset when she went away to Glasgow? Must have been rough here, a young lad, no company but your parents.’
Stuart shrugged again, with what Fleming interpreted as apathetic resignation.
MacNee was going on, ‘Was she having a good time in Glasgow? Did you ever go to stay with her?’
‘No. She came back a few times, like Christmas and Easter, before – before she came back the last time.’
‘Did she talk to you about friends in Glasgow? Boyfriends?’
He shook his head. ‘Mentioned some girls that worked with her. No boyfriends. But—’
He stopped as if he was afraid of saying too much. ‘But—?’ Fleming prompted very gently.
‘I – I could tell there was someone, when she came back the time before she came home for good. She didn’t say anything, but she was happy, like she hadn’t been for a long time.’
Stuart was beginning to talk now, almost as if finding his voice after a long silence. ‘There was a phone call one day – she’d been hanging around the hall half the afternoon, and she was mad when I asked her why, but it was like she was expecting it.’
This was new. Fleming, almost afraid to interrupt him, said, ‘Did you hear any of it?’
‘No. It was only short, but she was giggling and laughing. My mother asked her who it was and she said it was one of her girlfriends. But I
didn’t think so. I thought it was him.’
‘Him – Marcus?’
Stuart nodded.
‘Did she ever tell you he was the father?’
‘No. It was like she was scared – she said once that if she said anything it would be the end. But—’
This time Fleming didn’t prompt him. She was sitting opposite, in an attitude of close attention, her hazel eyes warm. It seemed to draw him on.
‘She thought something good was going to happen, though. That’s how I knew she hadn’t killed herself. She could take whatever they threw at her, because of that. It didn’t matter. She despised them.’
‘Them?’ Jean Grant had implied the relationship was close and affectionate. ‘Not just your father?’
‘He was the worst.’ Stuart was becoming visibly upset. ‘Called her every bad word you could think of. But she was raging as well, because Ailsa wouldn’t admit it was Marcus.’
‘Ailsa denied it?’
‘Oh aye. But then she’d said it would be the end if she did, so . . .’ He shrugged.
Fleming was pretty sure he knew nothing more. She glanced at MacNee. Time to move on, and for a change of pace.
‘The night it happened,’ MacNee said, ‘you were all here, in the farmhouse, right?’
‘Aye. We said.’ The surly expression had returned.
‘Did you see Ailsa before she went out?’
‘Not after we had our tea. She went away up to her room – she was mostly in her room then. I hardly saw her except mealtimes. The roof of one of the sheds round the back was leaking and the tarpaulin we’d put over was lifting so I’d to go out to sort it before it blew away.’
‘You were out?’ MacNee said sharply.
‘Oh aye. I got all the dirty jobs. He always said he’d done them for years and now it was my turn.’
Stuart had clearly misunderstood the thrust of the question, and MacNee wasn’t about to enlighten him. ‘On a terrible night like that! How long did it take you?’
‘Hard to say, now. An hour – maybe longer.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘Went in. They were watching the telly, so I watched for a bit, then went up to my bed.’
‘And nothing was said about Ailsa having gone out?’
‘I thought she’d gone to bed earlier.’
So Robert Grant’s solid alibi was now only from his wife – was this why she had wanted to be present while her son was questioned? Presumably Donald Bailey had not insisted on separate statements. And while Fleming was sure Stuart would not have lied to protect the father he clearly hated, she could readily believe Jean Grant might have her own dark purposes.
There was one last area to cover and she was almost reluctant to do it.
‘When your sister’s body was recovered, you and your father went down to the lighthouse?’
Fleming could read in the sudden hunching of his body, as if against a blow, that this still hurt even today.
‘You identified her?’
‘Aye.’
‘And the officer who was there – he said you could bring her back here?’
‘That’s right! I’d forgotten. I mind him fine, though. Thought she’d killed herself, and it was only to be expected, that she was just a wee hoor. A hard-faced bastard.’
It was surprising how much that unexpected comment stung, but Fleming said steadily, ‘Yet he allowed you to take her body home instead of leaving it where it was?’
‘Aye. I was surprised at that.’ He sounded surprised too, even now. ‘She was lying there, for everyone to look at . . .’ Stuart chewed his lip, and it was a moment before he went on. ‘I asked, could we not just take her home? Oh, he gave us this big lecture about what was supposed to happen, but then he let us take her anyway.’
Why had Angus done that? Fleming only realized that she was puzzling over that, instead of putting the next question, when MacNee asked, after a curious glance at her, ‘And it was definitely you, not your father, who asked?’
‘Him? He wouldn’t care.’ Stuart spoke with great bitterness.
Fleming recovered. ‘And what happened when you got her back here?’
‘My father just went away out. My mother was going daft – got a comb and stuff, fussing round, washing Ailsa’s face and that.’
‘Can you remember what exactly she did?’
His defences swung into place. This was, it seemed, simply too painful to talk about. He erupted into rage. ‘No, I bloody can’t. You’re talking about my sister, lying dead. I didn’t notice much – I was probably crying. All right?’ He put his head in his hands.
‘Yes, of course.’ With a swift movement, Fleming stood up. ‘You’ve had more than enough, Stuart, and you’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you now to get back to your beasts.’
As the car drove off Jean Grant came into the kitchen like an avenging fury. ‘What did you tell them?’
Stuart was at the back door, pulling on his boots. ‘Nothing.’ He didn’t look at her.
‘What did you tell them?’ she repeated. ‘It was a long time, to have told them nothing.’
He stood up. ‘Oh, I can tell folk nothing for far longer than that,’ he said over his shoulder, and walked out.
Gavin Hodge, his hands in the pockets of his Diesel jeans and his Ralph Lauren jerkin zipped up against the cold wind, stood assessing the progress of the steam room.
‘I thought you said you’d be putting on the roof before the end of the week?’ he said aggressively to the silent man in front of him. ‘You haven’t even got the frame up.’
Stefan Pavany’s face was stony. ‘I am trying to find a roofer.’
‘Trying to find one?’ Hodge’s voice rose. ‘I understood you had the men to do the whole job. There’s no way I’d have given you the contract if I’d known we’d be waiting while you “found” a roofer. I feel I’ve been conned, and no one does that to Gavin Hodge.
‘Looks like that’s your bonus for an early finish gone. And if you’re late on completion, I’m going to dock your payment for every day it overruns.’
Hodge didn’t stop to hear Pavany’s reply. He wouldn’t have understood it anyway, delivered as it was in a furious undertone and a foreign language.
The other two builders had paused to watch. Pavany swore at them too, then snarled, ‘Zabieraj se˛ do roboty. Get on with your work. No breaks. I have something to do.’
He went to the battered white van parked on the gravel sweep and drove off.
‘One down, one to go on the alibi,’ MacNee said as they left the farm. ‘I always had her old man fingered for it.’
‘That’s what they reckoned last time, too,’ Fleming pointed out, ‘but they’d no proof. And if they hadn’t then, what chance have we got now?
‘But don’t forget Jean Grant. She told me she and Ailsa were close, which doesn’t square with what Stuart said just now.’
‘In it together, maybe?’
Fleming pulled a face. ‘Maybe. I’m fairly sure they didn’t have a good marriage.’
‘With that ill-natured besom, who could? At least she’s safe from hellfire – “The de’il could ne’er abide her!” But maybe they agreed the girl was bringing shame on the family. Or say he killed her, and she realized after. But by then Ailsa was dead anyway, and if he got the jail for it, who’d run the farm? Stuart would be too young. Or look at it the other way – here, see me? Just full of ideas this morning! Say she lost her temper, killed Ailsa herself, then made Robert lie for her. I like this – Jean Grant would knock you over the head as soon as look at you.’
MacNee was taken with his latest theory, but Fleming sighed, then shook her head.
‘I know what I said. But somehow, when you spell it out, I just can’t buy it. I wish you’d heard her yesterday. I believed she truly cared about her daughter – and yes, of course I believe Stuart too, that she was raging with her. Believe me, for a mother these emotions are not mutually exclusive.
‘But there was someth
ing else there, Tam – something I can’t put my finger on. She made an excuse to leave the room at one point and I thought it was because she wouldn’t let me see her cry, but now I wonder if it was to get a breathing space.’
‘What were you asking her at the time?’
Fleming shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Something about whether Ailsa had taken anything with her, I think – it probably wasn’t about that at all. I keep trying to pin down what struck the wrong note, but I’m not getting anywhere.’
‘Park it and forget it,’ MacNee advised. ‘Anyway, I thought we got pretty straight answers from Stuart.’
‘Yes. And I certainly think the brother–sister relationship was perfectly normal – bit of hero worship perhaps, for his older sister. And it was pretty obvious he resented Marcus, whatever he said.’
‘Why not just admit it? Marcus seems to have been a right little sod. Still is, likely.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Fleming said, signalling a left turn off the main road, ‘I just want to drop in again at Tulach. I’d one of my cosy girls’ chats with Sheila Milne last night and she said she’d had a complaint about harassment from Marcus Lindsay. I thought I’d better go and apologize.’
MacNee turned to stare at her. ‘Apologize? For asking a few simple questions? Have you gone clean daft?’
‘Apologizing shows a magnanimous spirit,’ Fleming said sententiously. ‘And it’s a good excuse for going. I want to know why he should be so sensitive about those few simple questions. And why he should have complained to the Procurator Fiscal, when I’d be willing to bet he’s one of about three people in Scotland, outside the legal professions, who would know she was in charge of investigations like this.’
It was Mrs Boyter, resplendent in her pink pinny and an air of importance, who opened the door. ‘Oh, I’m afraid Mr Marcus isn’t here. Miss Lascelles –’ she lingered lovingly on the name – ‘is in the conservatory and if you wish to speak to her, I can see if madam is at home this morning. The other two are filming down in the village. But you can give me a message and I will see he receives it on his return.’
‘Thank you, but we’ll try to catch Mr Lindsay there,’ Fleming said.
Dead in the Water Page 13
