Dead in the Water

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Kevin someone?’ Fleming asked, and the constable said, ‘That would be Docherty, ma’am. Comes from Ardhill, out on licence after early release.’

  ‘Oh yes, Docherty. Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘There’s a lad outside – he’s local, so he’ll know.’

  ‘Find out, and get someone there. Quietly – we don’t want to tell him we’re coming. Pick him up and bring him in.’

  As the woman went out through the French windows, she turned back to Jaki. The animation the girl had shown had disappeared and Fleming thought she was even swaying slightly. ‘Look, you should be in bed. Is there—?’

  She had been about to ask if there was someone who would come to be with her, but Jaki cried, ‘No, no! I couldn’t stay here! I hate this place! Can I phone Tony? – he’ll find somewhere in the village for me—’ She began to cry, wrenching, frantic sobs.

  ‘Yes, of course!’ Fleming said hastily. ‘We’ll get that fixed, don’t worry. Oh good, constable!’ she said, as the woman came back in again. ‘Jaki will give you the number of someone who’ll come and take her away – she doesn’t want to stay here. All right, Jaki?’

  The girl was still crying, but suddenly she stopped on a gasp. It was hard to make out what she was saying, but what emerged was, ‘There’s – there’s just – just something, something I’ve remembered. The thing is – it sort of doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Yes?’ Fleming felt the prickle of nerves that told her this was significant, more significant, even, than what Jaki had said before.

  With a visible effort, Jaki swallowed her sobs. ‘The second night I was here, Sunday night, I looked out of the bedroom window. There’s a shrubbery between the front of the house and the back, and I saw what looked like someone standing there, just watching the house. But I couldn’t be sure, and it just, like, seemed so crazy I didn’t tell anyone. It didn’t move, and I thought it was probably a shrub with a funny shape. Anyway, I couldn’t see why anyone would be doing that.

  ‘And next night when I looked out it was still there, in exactly the same place, so I was thankful I hadn’t made a fool of myself. But tonight—’ She gulped, and stopped.

  Fleming knew what she was about to say. ‘It wasn’t there.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I told you it would be Kevin, after what happened last night. But before then, he wouldn’t have had any reason to be watching the house. And I’ve only just thought, if I’d told Marcus about it at the time, perhaps this would never have happened. If he dies, and it was because of that, I’ll never forgive myself, never!’

  11

  There was no reason to countermand the order to pull in Kevin Docherty. From the sound of his activities, he was breaching the terms of his licence anyway, but having thought at first that this was an open-and-shut case, Fleming now had to consider there might be more to it than that.

  Jaki Johnston had held herself together long enough to point out where she had seen the figure in the shrubbery and give more details and times – ten to ten-thirty on both occasions – but when Tony Laidlaw appeared, his face dark with concern, she stumbled into his arms and her legs gave way. He was a fit man and she was small and slight; he picked her up, said only, ‘She needs to get out of here,’ and vanished again. A man of action, obviously.

  Ordering the cars in front of the house to direct headlights on to the shrubbery, Fleming went out into the garden. The ground was hard with the night frost, but even so she made a wide circuit to approach the site from the side furthest away from the house. Footprint technology was very advanced now, and even in these conditions they might get something from the area round about, though evidence from the terrace would be hopelessly compromised already by the activities of the paramedics and others.

  She paused by the edge of the shrubbery, studying the space between a sprawling rhododendron and a holly bush. For Jaki to have believed the figure was another bush, it must have been relatively bulky, and she had indicated that though lower than the others, it hadn’t been particularly small in comparison. The rhododendron was a good eight or nine inches taller than Fleming’s own five foot ten, and she reckoned whoever had stood there must be at least her height, or more.

  And the ground might be hard tonight, but on Sunday and Monday, she remembered, there had been rain. The light from the cars’ headlights was in part blocked by trees and shrubs, but even so Fleming thought she could make out indentations in the ground.

  ‘Make sure this is completely cordoned off – right along from the house to the shrubbery,’ she instructed the constable who had been failing to relight the fire, and whose main activity at the moment seemed to be watching what other people were doing. ‘No! Don’t walk on it first, for God’s sake. Use your common sense – go right round, the way I did. Got it?’

  Losing sleep never put her in the best of tempers, but then, as someone said, with stupidity the gods themselves struggle in vain. Perhaps she should have been less critical of procedures in Bailey’s investigation.

  As Fleming went back past the terrace, illuminated by the light from the windows, she noticed with interest the marks on the stone slabs. There, in the green lichen or whatever it was, were signs that someone had slipped: there was one skid mark at the corner coming from the front garden and one longer and deeper, finishing where Marcus Lindsay had been lying.

  She tried to reconstruct it. He had answered the doorbell and then, for some reason, come round to the back of the house. Had no one been there when he opened the door and he had come round to investigate? Then slipped just as he came on to the terrace? Though perhaps his assailant had slipped, or even Jaki, afterwards. Something to check. Marcus had certainly lost his footing later, and fallen heavily against the step.

  Had someone lured him outside and waited for him, hidden in the shadow of the house? Had Marcus slipped as a result of being stabbed, or had he slipped as he half-turned at some sound, causing the deadly blow to miss its target? A fortunate chance, perhaps, though reportedly the head injury had been giving the paramedics more concern than the stab wound.

  Fleming gave instructions for the marks to be preserved until photographs could be taken in daylight. They hadn’t found a weapon as yet, but there was little point in groping around in the dark. Satisfied that there was nothing more she could learn here at present, Fleming headed back to her car.

  She looked at her watch, yawning. One o’clock – and they’d have to question Kevin within the six hours allowed before they had to release or charge him. She’d be lucky to see her bed before three.

  The night shift CID team had been standing by, ready to be called down here if needed, but she’d prefer to have MacNee in on this from the start if it turned into a murder enquiry. He was always a late bird, but if he’d gone to bed and was in that heavy sleep that made you feel you were underwater, fighting drowning when roused – well, he’d know how she’d felt.

  They wouldn’t let Sylvia stay with Marcus as they assessed his injuries. She had to sit in the waiting room under the harsh lights, looking at rows of empty chairs and watching a small family, the mother with a white, worried face and a limp-looking small child on her knee, the harassed father shouting at an over-excited toddler running up and down the hallway. A police officer was having a low-voiced conversation with the desk receptionist.

  Sylvia wheeled herself to the farthest corner and tried to sleep. She needed to rest: it wouldn’t help if she fell apart on them. But behind her eyes, the images flashed: Marcus, slipping away even as they worked on him; a doctor in a white coat coming out saying, ‘I’m sorry . . .’; Laddie’s face, looking more anxious than she had ever seen him in life; Laddie, Laddie . . .

  She must have dozed off. She came to with a start as someone touched her arm. She was stiff in every joint; stifling a gasp of pain, she said, ‘Yes? Is he – is he—?’

  The nurse standing beside her smiled. ‘He’s all right. A bit concussed, but he’s come round now and as far as they can tell there’s no real
damage. They’re stitching him up and we’ll keep him under observation tonight, but he’s had a lucky escape. He’ll be a bit sore for a few days but it was only a deep flesh wound.’

  Tears welled up in Sylvia’s eyes and spilled over. Joy was always harder to master than sorrow, and she fumbled for a tissue.

  ‘It’s been a bad night, hasn’t it?’ the nurse said sympathetically. ‘I can get someone to take you home, now you know he’s all right—’

  ‘No! I need to see him for myself.’ Sylvia was fierce in her stubbornness. ‘He’ll want to see me too.’

  ‘It could be a long time – you could come back tomorrow,’ the nurse argued, then hesitated. ‘You’re Sylvia Lascelles, aren’t you? I loved that film – what was it called?’

  ‘For Ever,’ Sylvia supplied wearily. It would be nice to be remembered, just occasionally, for something else.

  ‘That’s right! I cried buckets. And – and you’re his mother?’

  ‘Stepmother.’

  ‘Well, we’re quiet tonight. Maybe I could arrange a family room, so you could lie down at least.’

  ‘That would be so, so kind!’ From somewhere she produced the famous smile, and saw it bring, as always, a light to the nurse’s face.

  ‘I’ll do my very best,’ she promised.

  They found Sylvia a room and some painkillers, promising she would be summoned whenever Marcus could see her. She lay down on the bed and drifted into sleep. Laddie was there again, smiling, this time.

  MacNee reached headquarters before Fleming arrived and was talking to the desk sergeant when she appeared. He went to meet her looking offensively bright and chipper.

  She gave him a jaundiced look. ‘You weren’t asleep, were you? I didn’t think you were, from the way you spoke. I was, when they phoned me.’ She yawned, hugely.

  ‘Watching a late-night movie. It was terrible – glad to have an excuse to switch it off, really.

  ‘Here – he’s telling me they’re bringing in Docherty! If it’s murder, it’ll keep him out of our hair for years, if we’re lucky. Though mind you, with the pleas they accept he could probably claim he was peeling an apple and his knife slipped, then come straight out in recognition of time spent on remand.’

  ‘You’ll need a word with the Fiscal about that. I’d have liked to dig her out too, since she’s so keen to take charge, but it’ll be a junior depute on duty and there’s no point disturbing them till we know what we’re dealing with. The stabbing’s not fatal anyway, according to the paramedics, and the head injury may be no more than concussion.’

  ‘Then his brief really will talk it down to assault and Docherty’ll just get a slap on the wrist,’ MacNee said in disgust. ‘Not that I’d actually want the guy to die, of course—’

  ‘Sure?’ Fleming murmured provocatively.

  He ignored her. ‘But with prison overcrowding, we’ll have Kev back on the streets carving patterns on other people with a chib before you can say “punishment, retribution and rehabilitation”.’

  ‘What height is Docherty?’ Fleming asked, with apparent irrelevance.

  ‘Height? Five eight, five nine, maybe. About my height.’ MacNee always considered himself justified in rounding up his five foot seven – well, five foot six and three-quarters, to be strictly accurate.

  ‘Bulky with it?’

  ‘If it was raining, he’d have to see and not get washed down the drain.’ MacNee frowned. ‘Here – what are you on about?’

  Fleming outlined Jaki’s reason for accusing Docherty, then explained the girl’s second thoughts, and the shape in the shrubbery.

  MacNee listened, dismayed. ‘You mean we can’t nail the slippery little sod? I had fingered him for the knife attack on the Polish lad – and we could have had him on race hate crime for that – but everyone denied it even happened.

  ‘But here, listen – maybe whoever was in the shrubbery didn’t do it. Maybe he was watching the house for some reason, and then scarpered when he saw what Docherty had done—’

  ‘Someone else waiting to take a pop at Marcus Lindsay, perhaps?’ Fleming said sarcastically. ‘Maybe they agreed to form an orderly queue. You wouldn’t think he’d be that unpopular – seems pretty inoffensive to me.’

  ‘If it’s not Docherty with a grudge, somebody doesn’t like him,’ MacNee was pointing out when they heard voices outside and the doors were flung open.

  Fleming and MacNee spun round. Kevin Docherty appeared first, handcuffed between two uniforms and looking surly and befuddled. Behind him were two other youths similarly situated. All three were visibly drunk, and the police officers were grinning.

  ‘Take them down and book them,’ the sergeant said, then turned to Fleming. ‘Ma’am. You’re not going to believe what we found at Docherty’s place.’

  As Fleming said, ‘Go on,’ MacNee looked at him with a sour expression. The man wasn’t about to say it was a knife with Marcus Lindsay’s blood on the blade and Docherty’s prints on the handle.

  ‘Before we got the call to Ardhill, we’d been attending a break-in at an off-licence in Stranraer. When we hit on Docherty, he and his mates were well into their celebrations, with the cases of booze all round them. Just sat there gaping, and we’d the cuffs on before they knew what happened.’

  ‘I see. Good result, but not quite what we’d hoped for initially.’ Fleming thought for a moment. ‘So, to be perfectly clear about this, do I take it that the timing of the break-in puts him in the clear for the assault?’

  ‘The alarm went off at a quarter past ten,’ the sergeant said. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘There were problems about it anyway,’ she conceded. ‘Just carry on then.’

  As the sergeant departed, Fleming turned to MacNee. ‘Whoever’s on the night shift can deal with all this. You can suit yourself, but I’m going home to bed.’

  ‘Darling!’ Sylvia propelled herself into the side ward where Marcus, pale but smiling, was propped up in bed, wearing a strange-looking hospital robe. She wasn’t as soignée as usual herself, without her normal maquillage, but she had done her hair and put on a brave slash of Dior Rouge lipstick.

  ‘They said they’d wake me whenever you could see me, but they obviously didn’t.’ She was reproachful.

  ‘I wouldn’t let them. You’ve had more than enough to cope with already. Sorry to give you such a fright.’ As she reached his bed, Marcus took her hand and kissed it.

  Sylvia patted his cheek. ‘How are you? They promised you were all right, but are you in much pain, my poor angel?’

  ‘Doped to the eyeballs – can’t feel a thing.’ Marcus sounded determinedly upbeat. ‘I’ve to be careful I don’t open the wound up again, but fortunately I’m right-handed. Shouldn’t even bugger up the schedule, if they leave my scenes till tomorrow. My wig would cover the lump.’

  Sylvia looked incredulous. ‘Marcus, someone almost killed you! I know the show must go on, but they won’t let you do it.’

  His air of cheerful confidence evaporated. ‘I don’t suppose they will, really,’ he said tiredly. ‘But I’m looking for distraction. It’s a bit of a facer to know someone hates me enough to try to kill me.’

  ‘Jaki said it was that young man in the pub. She was wonderful last night, Marcus – probably saved your life.’

  ‘Did she? She’s quite a girl! Didn’t know anything about it. Sylvia, what happened?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Not really. I remember the doorbell ringing – thought it was Barrie, or some of the guys looking for a free drink. After that—’ He hunched his shoulders, incautiously. ‘Aah! Mustn’t do that.’

  ‘I saw some of what happened from my window,’ Sylvia said slowly. ‘But I’m still very hazy. I’d like to go through it, darling, but not if you’re too tired.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m seeing the police later at home, and I hope Jaki’s there so I can thank her. But let’s try stream of consciousness stuff and see if you can jog my memory and I can sort yours out.’


  DI Fleming had been in since before eight o’clock, after waving Cammie off on the coach full of over-excited lads. She’d set up an appointment to speak to Superintendent Bailey whenever he appeared and she’d posted a briefing meeting for nine-thirty. The morning report from the hospital was very reassuring, but a near fatal attack on a star of stage and screen would bring the press pack down on them, and she spent an hour preparing notes, yawning and drinking black coffee.

  It was just before nine when Bailey summoned her. His manner was stiff at first, but it eased as they became absorbed in discussion of the problems.

  ‘It’s a grave pity it wasn’t that young hooligan,’ Bailey said. ‘If we could have had it all done and dusted by the time the press got on to it, we’d have been saved a lot of hassle. The infuriating thing is that the break-in would have been a lead story in the local press and we’d have got terrific publicity for getting it wrapped up so promptly. Now we’ll be lucky if it’s a filler at the bottom of page eight.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Fleming wasn’t certain they deserved credit for a stroke of blind luck, but then again, they got stick when the luck ran against them.

  She glanced at her notes. ‘Teams will talk to every known contact locally, and the Playfair’s Patch people too, of course, and we’ll put out an appeal for witnesses – though with the house being so isolated we can’t expect much from that.

  ‘I’ll send Tansy Kerr to talk to Jaki Johnston, if the girl’s well enough to talk – she was in a bad way last night. And Macdonald can oversee general questioning in Ardhill, and I’ll go myself with Tam to Tulach to see what Marcus Lindsay and Sylvia Lascelles can tell us. He’s being discharged sometime this morning.