Dead in the Water

by Aline Templeton

  They didn’t know much more about Kasper, except that they guessed he’d been in prison, and that he’d been pleased to come to this area because he had friends here. He always carried a knife for protection; Jozef said, with marked disapproval, that he looked for trouble.

  ‘Where was Kasper last Wednesday night?’ Campbell asked, and Macdonald had shot him a warning look. Big Marge had been explicit about focusing on the job in hand.

  They looked blank for a moment, then Jozef turned to Henryk and said something; Henryk nodded.

  Macdonald raised his eyebrows to the interpreter. They had remembered – with all the aggro in the Ardhill pub, Stefan had let them have the van to go to Sandhead. Kasper hadn’t gone with them. They didn’t know any more.

  After they had gone, Macdonald turned to Campbell. ‘So that still leaves Franzik in the frame for the attack on Lindsay. Hoping they’d hand you something incriminating?’

  ‘Hoping they’d give him an alibi,’ Campbell said. ‘Then we could stop this bloody farce and drop the charges.’

  Campbell, with his usual efficiency, had filed the report on the interview with the Poles by four o’clock. Fleming read it, then sat back in her chair, thinking through the implications. It confirmed what Karolina told her, but it had created, too, a sort of echo in her mind: something she’d heard before somewhere, in another context . . . but that remained tantalizingly vague.

  The information from the mortuary told her that she had indeed been right in her guess. It hadn’t translated into firm evidence – yet – but it could be a step forward.

  The acting Fiscal believed – or said she believed, which might be two very different things – that Franzik was responsible for the attack on Lindsay, but unless he had crammed his feet into trainers that were way too small for him, he hadn’t been there.

  Terrific – she’d eliminated the chief suspect, but without having any obvious successor to fill the position. The trouble was that you could read the crimes as two separate incidents, just the unfortunate results of the epidemic of knife crime which was becoming a serious problem nationally. Three incidents, in fact, since there was Franzik’s wound earlier to take into consideration too, though that she was inclined to ascribe to Kevin Docherty or one of his friends; she’d seen a report from the Kirkluce patrol car about scuffles between Poles and the local neds that night.

  Knives. Three knives: the one found in the wound, the one from Pavany’s bedroom – again with a curved blade – and the triangular one that had actually killed the man. She had a feeling that if she could unlock that particular puzzle, she’d have the answer to the whole thing.

  She kept coming back to the elusive memory – what was it that she knew, that related to all this? She couldn’t get at it; it was like an itch she couldn’t scratch.

  There had been so much background noise in this case that it was hard to filter out the extraneous stuff. But her guess, as far as it went, gave her at the very least a reasonable basis for a hypothesis. Just supposing . . .

  Fleming scribbled a mind map, with arrows, crossed off names. Then she reinstated some of them, and started again. It took a long time, but gradually a clearer picture started to emerge.

  And at last she tracked down the thing she had been trying to remember, something her mother had told her – and immediately the significance of Jaki’s information became plain.

  That could be the connection. But what? Why? Why? She still couldn’t see where to go with it. Then suddenly, like a flash of lightning illuminating a dark landscape, she saw the answer as she remembered the mistake she had made in the street at Ardhill.

  One by one, the tumblers started falling into place. Excitement fizzed through her. It was all making sense, with exhilarating clarity. She felt the high, heady sense of excitement that kept her in thrall to the pressured job she did. It just might be addictive.

  Fleming knew now why Marcus Lindsay had so foolishly gone out into the darkness; she knew why Pavany’s trainers had been removed, and she knew exactly why Franzik’s knife had been found in the wound. And that was just for a start.

  There wasn’t enough for a search warrant, quite. The sheriffs were very fussy about human rights these days, and she’d need something more solid than a deductive process to offer. She should probably wait until the labs had done their job on fibre samples from the dead man’s clothes.

  But tomorrow, Cammie was coming home. She had a gut feeling that despite the gaps in the evidence, despite the imaginative leaps she had had to take, she could get better than technical evidence if she went for it, right now. Then she could trust MacNee, Macdonald, Campbell and Kerr – not Kerr, of course, she thought with a pang – to dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s, ready to hand it to Bailey with a big red bow when he got back from Ireland on Wednesday. She’d take compassionate leave and start trying to mend fences with her family.

  She picked up the phone and dialled MacNee’s mobile. ‘Tam? I need you to come with me. And you just might need handcuffs.’

  19

  Power seldom passes without great bitterness, and the atmosphere at Balnakenny was toxic. Stuart Grant had carried on with his work in the yard, steadfastly ignoring his mother’s white face and burning eyes as she watched from the kitchen window.

  When he came in for his tea, there was no table laid, no food prepared. Jean was sitting by the fire, exuding malice.

  Without comment, he went to the larder, coming back with a tray of eggs and a frying pan. He broke half-a-dozen into it, stirred them up with a fork, then set the pan on the heat while he fetched a loaf and butter. The eggs had stuck to the bottom when he came back, but he scraped the pan and decanted the half-cooked, half-burnt mess on to a plate and sat down at the table to eat.

  Neither spoke. Stuart finished and got up. As he went to leave the room, he noticed the table where the shrine to his sister had been. It was bare. He looked over his shoulder at Jean with an unpleasant smile.

  In the small back room where they watched television, Stuart sorted through the CDs. He’d mentioned Terminator 2 to the police the other day, which had reminded him how much he enjoyed it. He switched it on and sat down.

  He had been watching for about half an hour when Jean came in. With a return to her customary authority she went to the set and turned it off, then stood, arms folded, in front of it.

  Her face was hard and angry. ‘I want to talk.’

  Stuart looked up at her from his seat, then rose, looming over her. He took her by the shoulders and moved her bodily out of the way, turned the TV back on and sat down again.

  ‘I don’t,’ he said.

  Jean was left staring helplessly at the son whose malleability she had in her heart despised. She was very much afraid.

  MacNee glanced surreptitiously at his boss as she drove, rather too fast, down the narrow road towards Sandhead. He’d never seen her like this, so high on adrenalin. She’d worked it all out, she told him, but she wouldn’t tell him anything more.

  If she had, she’d every right to be pleased with herself. He still hadn’t got it sorted out, whether the three cases they were dealing with were linked to one another or not.

  If she was right. But it was exactly when you got carried away with the thrill of the chase that you got it wrong. He’d actually found himself urging caution – hardly his usual style!

  Even when he enlisted Scotland’s Bard, with dark warnings about passing Wisdom’s door for glaikit Folly’s portals, she only laughed.

  ‘Bear with me, Tam! If a little drama is needed to get Pavany’s killer locked up tonight – well, it works for Playfair!’

  The drawing room looked at its best in the evening. With the curtains drawn and the great Chinese lamps lit, with the flames from the log fire dancing in its polished steel basket, the threadbare rugs and damp patches on the walls disappeared into shadow.

  Sylvia Lascelles, sitting in the upright Jacobean chair by the fireplace, was uncomfortable with the shadows tonight. They seem
ed to be encroaching on the little island of light and warmth she and Marcus were sharing. Though it was a still, mild evening, there seemed to be an icy breath coming from the darkness of the room behind her, and she gave a little shiver.

  Marcus, sitting opposite watching the flicker of the flames, looked across to her. ‘Cold? Shall I fetch your wrap?’

  ‘No, no, it’s all right – just foolishness.’ With an attempt at gaiety, she said, ‘You know what I would love, darling? Just since it’s our last night here?’

  He played to her tone. ‘Let me guess. Champagne?’

  ‘Champagne,’ she said, with a gurgle of laughter. ‘Terribly, terribly wicked of me, with my pills, but I don’t care. “What though youth gave love and roses; age still leaves us friends and wine!”’

  He got up, smiling down at her. ‘I could arrange for roses, from time to time.’

  ‘Dearest boy, so kind! No need.’

  But when she was alone, a melancholy French poem came into her head, Nous n’irons plus au bois . . . We will go to the woods no more; the laurels are all cut down . . . She turned Laddie’s ring on her finger, looking towards his photograph on the table beside her. So handsome, such a lover – dust now, as she would be before too long.

  Her last night here. Ever. She would love to see what Marcus would do with Laddie’s beloved Tulach, but soon she would no longer be able to leave her flat, her prison, and photographs were the best she could hope for. The shadows were creeping closer.

  Marcus came back and she heard the sigh of a cork being released. She took the glass from him, held it up to touch his. ‘Music, maestro! Not something gloomy and proper – I know! Chicago. Do you have it? She sang the first line from All That Jazz in her throaty voice, gesturing a Charleston movement with her hands.

  He was meant to laugh, but he didn’t. He said very seriously, ‘You’re a great girl, Sylvia. The greatest. The best.’

  And just then the doorbell rang, and Sylvia’s heart fluttered, like wings beating beneath her breastbone.

  He ushered the officers through to the drawing room, then stood back for a second – in the wings, he would almost have said. Marcus had felt sick and light-headed with stage nerves many a time, so this was no different. Deep, slow breath, slow exhalation . . . Entrance.

  Sylvia was smiling her special smile at the short detective. She’d joked with Marcus about her latest conquest, but tonight the man didn’t respond. He was unsmiling, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

  The inspector didn’t smile either. She was a tall woman, taller than Marcus himself, with an air of effortless confidence. Not good-looking, but there was something about the face, the eyes, perhaps . . . Yes, the eyes. Clear hazel, with a penetrating gaze. But he sensed something else tonight – an aura of controlled excitement. He tried to banish the image of a lioness, moving with infinite caution towards her prey.

  Deliberately, he waved the officers to a low sofa. ‘Yes, Inspector Fleming?’ he said. ‘Rather late for a social call.’ He sounded respectful, but not entirely pleased, as any middle-class householder might.

  ‘Yes.’ She looked towards Sylvia. ‘Miss Lascelles, our business is with Mr Lindsay. Mainly.’

  Sylvia went into fluffy mode. ‘So difficult. I’m such a helpless old fool, it’s quite a performance to leave the room.’ She gestured to the cane propped up beside her, and to Marcus’s alarm he saw Fleming’s eyes go to it thoughtfully.

  Sylvia was going on, ‘So darling, if you don’t mind—’

  She looked towards him and he collected himself. ‘Of course not. As they say in all the best movies, we have no secrets from each other.’

  ‘Speak for yourself!’ The quick comeback, he noticed, got a smile from the sergeant. Less encouragingly, it was swiftly suppressed.

  ‘Very well.’ The inspector had not smiled.

  Lindsay dragged forward a heavy wooden chair. The height, he felt, would give him a psychological advantage.

  ‘I see you have recovered from your injury, Mr Lindsay. Your left side anyway, wasn’t it? And you’re right-handed?’

  Had Fleming said that pointedly? ‘Yes, I was lucky. I had to wear a sling for a few days. Any violent movement could have torn the stitches.’

  She seemed unimpressed. ‘But you weren’t incapacitated? I see.’ She went on, ‘I gather your father was Czechoslovakian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you speak Czech yourself?’

  ‘A little. I can understand more.’ He couldn’t see where this was leading.

  ‘The murder victim was a Czech.’

  Tone of polite interest. ‘Really? Well, it’s quite a big place.’

  ‘You see, we were puzzled that you should have gone outside at all on the night you were attacked, given that one of the local neds had it in for you.’

  He shook his head, holding out his hands in a pantomime of incomprehension. ‘I’ve asked myself that, again and again, but—’

  ‘You see, I think we now know exactly why.’

  Cue enthusiasm. ‘Really? That’s wonderful! Are you closer to discovering my assailant, then?’

  Sylvia leaned forward. ‘That is just so clever! Was it this poor young man who has been charged with the murder of that other poor man?’

  The inspector gave her a sideways glance; the sergeant, taking notes, didn’t raise his head.

  ‘No,’ Fleming said. ‘We can now say quite definitely that it wasn’t. And I am fairly sure that the person who attacked you was the man calling himself Stefan Pavany.’

  ‘Stefan Pavany – was that the name of the man who was killed?’ He sounded interested, though puzzled. They wouldn’t review this one, but it was possibly one of Marcus’s finer performances.

  ‘His assumed name. Mr Lindsay, we have evidence to suggest that after you opened the door and found there was no one there, someone called out something in a foreign language. It was after that you went round into the garden.’

  ‘Really? Do you know what was said – or even what language?’ It would be natural, wouldn’t it, to let just a hint of annoyance creep in, given the way the woman said it?

  ‘No.’

  She didn’t like admitting that. It was his first small victory. ‘It would be helpful if you could find out,’ he suggested. ‘Might trigger something, you never know. It has to be in here somewhere.’

  He tapped his head, smiling blandly. But just as he dared to think he might be winning, she moved the goalposts.

  ‘Mr Lindsay, what were you doing on Friday night?’

  He stalled a little, artistically. ‘That’s a very pointed question! Let me think – Friday? Ah! Of course.

  ‘May I call on my principal witness, Miss Sylvia Lascelles?’ Maybe, just maybe, it was going to come out all right after all. ‘Miss Lascelles—?’

  Sylvia had been looking shaky, but he could see her begin to enjoy herself. She took a sip of champagne from the glass at her side.

  ‘Inspector, I can confirm that the defendant and I were here together all evening engaged in a killer game of Scrabble until half past ten. Then, for some reason, the defendant didn’t think several hours more of losing at Scrabble would be amusing – though I disagreed – and he phoned the pub to rustle up some of the film crew to play poker instead. Though I’m afraid he didn’t fare any better with that.’

  Marcus saw the sergeant stifle a grin and was encouraged. ‘I’m not at all sure what you’re saying here, inspector. I don’t suppose you’re really suggesting that, having for some unknown reason murdered a Czech whom I didn’t even know, we then called in colleagues to party round his body before dumping it in the pub car park?’

  Fleming paused, then said coolly, ‘I don’t know how familiar you are with recent changes in the law, but when they’re determining sentence it makes quite a difference to the tariff if you have cooperated with the police.

  ‘We’re still at an early stage in the investigation, with a lot of evidence waiting to come in. So, unusually, I’m going to tell
you our thinking, because I think this is a very unusual case.’

  He composed his face into an expression of polite interest, but that was when he knew, quite definitely, that it was all over. Somehow, she knew.

  ‘Your father, a Czech, was married before he came to Britain during the war. Stefan Pavany was a Czech, but for some reason he was anxious to conceal this. I freely admit this is a wild guess – though of course it can be checked – but I thought it possible your father might have had a child, or children, there.’

  Marcus felt his heart beginning to race. He looked at Sylvia; she never had a lot of colour, but she looked worryingly pale and she was breathing faster.

  ‘I was at the film set when Stefan Pavany came to speak to Kasper Franzik. You had been in costume, acting an older man, and for a moment I thought he was you. Was Stefan Pavany your half-brother?’ Fleming waited for a response, but he only looked back at her.

  ‘You see, I think he tried to kill you. Revenge, inheritance – I don’t know, but again, we can find out. Just as we can find out whether there are fibres from this room on the clothes Pavany was wearing.’

  Sylvia gave a little gasp, almost a cough. Marcus saw the sergeant look at her anxiously.

  ‘It was Pavany’s shoes being missing, you know. It may have seemed clever to remove them, but it made me ask questions. You were the only person who had talked to Dr Madsen, who knew how much the footprint evidence could tell him, and you couldn’t afford to have Pavany associated with the attack on you.

  ‘And the knife that was in Pavany’s back – you found it in his pocket, assumed it was his, wiped the handle and put it there after you’d killed him. You’re familiar with forensic science; it’s my guess that you thought we wouldn’t know whose knife it was but would assume the same man was to blame for both crimes. But rigging evidence isn’t as easy in real life as on television, you know. Pavany didn’t take the knife we think he used on you to the meeting you agreed; he had one in his pocket anyway that he’d taken from Kasper Franzik.