by John Burke
‘Leaving the corpse outside the cottage in the hope it’d be found in the morning and suspicion would be thrown on Waterman? Didn’t their daughter-in-law, Anna, say she thought she’d seen something down there, only she hadn’t been sure right away. And later it was shifted. By whom?’
‘How should I know? Maybe you’re right, and none of it was carefully planned. Everything was rushed through on the spur of the moment.’
Nick shook his head in time with the twists in the road. ‘Just for the hell of it, let me contradict myself. Waterman had been planning it. Only the exact opportunity took him by surprise. But then why shift the corpse afterwards — drag it all the way up the hill?’
‘To divert attention from their own proximity.’
‘Could be.’
‘I still think it’s too crude. Suppose, just for the hell of it, that your friend Alec had got back from the station before he admitted, and Queenie told him where Brunner had gone — where she had sent him after she had remembered Martine — and Alec took the chance he’d been waiting for, after years of being pushed around. And then they hauled him out of the way.’
‘Why would they bother to do that?’
‘Well, er . . . not to embarrass Anna, who made her living from those cottages.’
‘Sorry, but I can’t wear that. Poor old Alec. Or Queenie. Don’t see them having the strength. Let alone the strength to bash Chet in the head in the first place.’
‘It’s often poor old this, that or the other that finally turns and bites the hand that feeds it. Or that’s been beating it.’
‘I still think the simple explanation is the right one. Pretty clear who did it. Why complicate matters just because you can’t bear to let go of your old job?’
‘We wouldn’t have been in that ghastly place if you hadn’t had a hankering to see your old playmates again and maybe get a chance of doing some work at a mixing deck.’
Nick laughed. If this was their first marital row, it was good fun. Especially as Lesley was laughing, too; yet was still frowning slightly, turning things over in her mind.
She unfolded the map on her knee. ‘You said Eskdalemuir? And then Langholm?’
‘That’s right.’
‘It looks like a long way round.’
‘From where we’ve just started,’ said Nick, ‘everywhere is a long way round.’
*
Whatever their criminal behaviour might have been in other settings, at least the Maxwells — or Watermans — had left Stables Cottage reasonably tidy. Apart from the unmade bed and the bits and pieces in the kitchen, they might never have been on the premises. And even if he had been a crook, at least Ronnie Waterman hadn’t nicked any of her paintings.
After hauling the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard and running it over the carpets, Anna turned the television on just to make sure it was working. It was part of her automatic routine. It had been left set by the Watermans to the news channel, and began reporting on a suicide bomber somewhere in the Middle East. That sort of news was becoming almost as routine as reports of pile-ups on the M8 between Glasgow and Edinburgh.
She was tipping the few scraps from the wastepaper basket and the kitchen bin into a plastic sack when the picture on the screen switched suddenly to a local announcer warning the public that police had followed up last night’s news about the disappearance of a suspected murderer from Balmuir district with a warning that he was still at large. He could be dangerous and should not be approached. Any sightings should at once be reported to a number flashed across the bottom of the screen or to a local police station.
Just as she was about to switch off, the picture changed again, and she found herself looking at the outside of the building she was in. It was a weird sensation, watching a camera advancing on Stables Cottage as if to keep going until it was in the room with her. Then it veered away and followed an interviewer towards Covenanter’s Cottage.
The door opened, and Mrs Robinson — if that was really her name — stood in the opening, dishevelled and clad in the skimpiest dressing-gown Anna had ever seen, even in the most provocative magazine advertisements.
The voice-over was trying to find an excuse for lingering on the sexy image: ‘And it has come as quite a shock to holidaymakers to learn that a murderer has been staying in the neighbouring cottage. Not the sort of excitement you expect during a relaxing break!’ Behind the girl, Robinson’s face appeared for a moment, contorted with anger, and his hand on her shoulder dragged her back indoors. The voice continued without any apparent break: ‘And up the hill, close to the big house . . .’ The camera was panning up towards the swimming-pool, pausing for a moment by the small tent and the corral of police tape, and then heading for Balmuir Lodge.
Anna had seen enough of those faces and heard enough of those clamouring voices to last her a lifetime. She reached for the remote control to reduce Jilly-Jo’s shrewdly distraught features to a brief blotch of light across the screen, and turned her attention to stripping the bed. She had just piled sheets and pillow-cases on the end of the couch, ready to go to the launderette, when there was a screech of brakes in the yard outside.
Alec and Queenie had arrived in the battered yellow Fiat. Cocky leapt out and dashed around the stableyard to check that nothing new, fascinating and smelly had happened in his absence.
‘I just knew you’d need some help, dear.’ Queenie bobbed her head jerkily at Anna and started talking at a high pitch, churning out a wild gabble. ‘Such a time! Such a mess to be cleared up, one way and another.’
Anna was not really in the mood for Queenie blundering and fussing all over the place. ‘I’d have thought there was much more pandemonium up at the house,’ she ventured.
‘Oh, you have no idea. We simply had to get away for a breather. Nothing to be done up there. Just let them pack up and go home, and then we can get some peace. Only they’re not all going, of course. Jilly-Jo’s acting as if she owns the whole place already. And shameless about that dreadful man she brought along. I can’t help feeling that if we didn’t know the killer was that old enemy of Chet’s, there’d be good reason to wonder about —’
‘The police are dealing with it,’ Alec interrupted gently. He put his arm round her shoulders, but she was still quivering like a taut string about to snap. ‘It doesn’t concern us any more.’
‘Doesn’t it? When we might be thrown out tomorrow. Just the way she’s told Georgina Campbell to get the hell out. Her own words: ‘Get the hell out of here, right now.’ Only that awful man, he’s taking the poor little trollop’s side, and that’s not helping. All that pouting and tossing their heads about.’ A wistful note crept into Queenie’s voice. ‘A real Bette Davis scene.’
Anna looked past her, out of the window. On the ridge she saw two cars heading away from Balmuir. There would be others to follow. Maybe, very soon, one with herself in it. Would it be an escape — or a banishment?
*
Nick realized that he had taken a wrong turning. That wrong turning which had taken them to Balmuir Lodge had also taken them into trouble. He did not fancy a repeat performance.
‘Let’s have a look at that map.’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t concentrating. I was thinking of —’
‘Thinking of another false trail?’ he grinned.
The road had been narrow enough already, but this one was even tighter, twisting up and over hummocks in convolutions making it difficult to get out of second and third gear. The light, too, was deceptive. Above a black shroud of forestry plantation, glimpses of hills with white caps made one think there was still snow on the peaks, but they were only outcrops of bare rock, still sparkling with moisture in the sunlight.
It looked as though nobody had been along this road since the rain, and even before that it had not been much used. Tufts of grass grew along the centre of the road. A couple of triangular signs said ‘Passing Place’; but there were other bare poles whose triangles had long since rusted and fallen off.
‘I
hereby swear to concentrate on the map and not let my mind wander,’ said Lesley.
They had gone another tortuous mile when, on a steep hundred yards with a stream feeding into a culvert under the road, and a perilous dip in the camber, Nick saw below them a smear of blue which did not belong to the natural scenery. He stopped, and wound down his window. Way down the slope there was a car on its side. It must have come off the wet road and careered down the grass before being stopped and tossed on its side by a tree trunk. Had it been there long? One might have expected to see a ‘Police Aware’ notice stuck in the window.
Lesley, leaning across him, said: ‘There’s somebody inside. In the front seat. I can see a head, propped against the window.’
Nick bumped the Laguna warily on to the verge, fearful it might be trapped in a waiting quagmire. They got out, and edged step by step down the slope, the earth sucking greedily at their feet. Beside them, all the way down, tyre tracks wove a giddy, rambling pattern.
What Lesley had seen was a woman with her shoulder in an awkward, unnatural position. Her face was white and twisted with pain, her eyes half closed. She became aware of them peering in, and mouthed something inaudible. As Nick straightened up to look around, a man came up behind him. A gun jabbed into Nick’s ribs.
‘You’re going to give us a lift.’
Nick said: ‘Your name wouldn’t chance to be Waterman, would it?’
Chapter Twelve
Ronnie Waterman grinned. He looked almost proud to have been recognized. Setting his back against the buckled wing of the tilted Escort, he licked his lips and swung the gun between Nick and Lesley.
‘Spot on,’ he said. ‘Can’t say I know you two, though. Tourists?’
‘The name’s Torrance. And we’ve been staying at Balmuir Lodge.’
The woman in the car gave a faint whimper through the half-open window. It was impossible to tell whether it was a gasp of pain or of apprehension.
Waterman said: ‘Have you, now. Then you’d know what’s happened there.’
‘Yes. And we know that the police are out looking for you. I fancy it won’t take them too long to find you.’ Nick leaned over the windscreen to look more closely inside. Waterman at once jabbed the gun towards him, gesturing him away.
‘Your wife needs help,’ said Lesley.
‘Yeah. But not as much as I do. And I reckon that’s where you come in.’ Waterman glanced up the slope to the shape of the Laguna at the roadside. ‘One of you’s going to get me out of here.’
‘It’s your wife we’re talking about.’
‘Martine’ll be all right there until I’m good and clear. Then someone can do something about phoning for an ambulance. But not till then.’
‘Selfish bastard,’ groaned his wife. ‘But then, you always were.’
Nick sensed that Lesley was poising herself for a leap upon Waterman. He tried to frown a warning, mutely imploring her to suppress her old professional instincts. This scrawny little man looked too stooped and shrunken to be a serious menace. But he had killed once already, and he was desperate. Nothing more to lose. Perfectly capable of living up to that threat.
‘Right.’ Waterman seemed to have sized them up, and was gaining confidence. ‘Do you have a mobile on you?’
‘It’s in the car,’ said Lesley quickly.
Waterman smirked. ‘I wonder if it really is? Maybe in hubby’s pocket, eh? But let me make one thing clear. If you try to use it to raise the fuzz, mister, your little lady is going to get hurt. Seriously hurt.’
‘If you’ve got any sense,’ said Nick, ‘you’ll give yourself up now. And get an ambulance here for your little lady.’
‘What we are going to do,’ Waterman rasped, ‘is this. You, Mr Torrance, are going to stay right here. Since you’re so concerned about my wife, you can keep her company and tell her a few fairy stories. While your missus here drives your car away with me in it.’
‘If you think for a moment —’
‘Shut up and listen. Your missus comes back up there with me, and she drives me until I’m ready to ditch her. Once I’m sure I’m in the clear, and can fix things the way I want ’em, her time’s her own. Then she can ring for an ambulance. Or’ — he grinned slyly — ‘she can ring you on your mobile, if you’ve got it in your pocket after all, and let you know she’s all right, and you can do the ambulance calling. But get this straight. Any attempt to get the police moving before I’m well on my way — any jumping the gun — and this little gun here will go off. Make no mistake about that.’
His eyes were yellow. The knuckles of his right hand, clutching the gun, were a deathly grey through the skin.
‘You won’t get away with this.’ As soon as he had uttered it, Nick thought what a pathetic cliché it was.
Lesley said: ‘I’ll be all right, Nick. Really I will.’
Waterman looked at her suspiciously. He was taut and on edge — and all the more dangerous for that. By contrast, her calmness worried him.
‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll be on our way.’
He indicated that Lesley should start back up the slope. Nick judged the distance between them as Waterman himself began the short climb. If he made a spring now, hurled himself forward . . .
Waterman glanced briefly over his shoulder. ‘Any funny business, and she’s the first to go. Understood?’
Nick clenched his fists until the nails bit into the palms of his hands.
Standing still and helpless wasn’t in his nature. The sight of Lesley being herded towards the Laguna with Waterman jabbing the gun at her like a cattle prod made him sick inside. He took a step away from the car.
Martine said: ‘Worried about your precious car?’
‘I’m worried about my wife. I can’t just stand here and —’
‘Don’t risk it. The state he’s in, he might just fire that thing. Just out of panic.’
Her head lolled against the window. There was already a large blue and purple bruise on her left cheek, where maybe she had hit it against the fascia board or the window itself.
Nick bent carefully towards her. ‘How bad is it? What actually happened?’ He reached for the door handle, but she let out a groan to stop him. ‘No, please. Something’s broken. I can just . . . keep it in . . . propped up like this. Don’t make me fall out. Please, leave it.’
‘You haven’t got a car-phone? Or a mobile? We do need that ambulance.’
‘He’s got a mobile. With him. And anyway, you heard what he said. Better wait.’
Nick tried to force the tension in his muscles to ease off. He told himself that Lesley would be fine. She still had all that training to rely on. She would choose the right moment; she would know exactly what to do. She’d be fine. He kept telling himself that. She’d be fine.
‘Where do you suppose he’s heading?’
Somewhere a bird began singing. The smell of damp grass and damp leaves must have been there all along, but was suddenly intensified by a breeze rustling through the branches above. Leaves in the sycamore tree against which the Escort had finished up began shedding a fine shower of raindrops on to the roof of the car.
Martine sighed. Her eyes were bleared with exhaustion. Her mouth drooped at the corners. ‘I’ve no idea. And I don’t suppose he has. There’s nobody likely to offer a helping hand.’
‘Not much loyalty when one of your old cronies has committed a murder?’
‘Oh, he hasn’t committed a murder. Not this time. He wanted to, but all the wind’s gone out of him. He didn’t have the guts to go through with it.’
‘But just a minute. Chet Brunner was murdered. And you two made a run for it.’
‘I’m telling you,’ said Martine in little more than a whisper. ‘Ronnie didn’t kill Chet.’
*
‘I can tell you one thing, anyway,’ said Ronnie Waterman. ‘I didn’t kill Chet Brunner.’
Lesley swung the car around a ragged hole in the road. ‘Then why are you making a run for it and waving that gun
at me?’
‘Because I’m not stupid enough to think they’d believe me. They’d just love fitting me up. And don’t try chucking the car about like that again. I’m not going to lose control of this shooter.’
She could not risk taking her eyes off the road, but tried to work out from his voice inflections and breathing what state of mind he was in.
‘You really don’t have any idea where we’re going, do you?’ she said as lightly as possible.
‘Just keep driving. I’ll tell you when to stop.’
They were approaching a small crossroads with a very outdated signpost, its lettering sprouting a green mould. ‘Right now,’ she said, ‘maybe you can tell me which turning to take.’
‘Turn right. That should take us back towards the Stranraer road.’
‘Thinking of emigrating to Ireland?’
‘I’ve told you’ — the words came out slurred and shaky — ‘just keep going.’
Maybe killing Brunner had used up his last resources. It was finished, and now he was drained. If she could keep her head, he would sag and give up of his own accord.
Keep him talking. ‘You can’t seriously expect me to believe that you didn’t kill the man you hated so much? You’d sworn to get him. That seems to have been common knowledge. And why else would you have moved into that cottage and bided your time? And when exactly did the opportunity present itself?’
‘It didn’t. I had no hand in it.’ As if it were some valid excuse, he added: ‘He wasn’t shot, you know.’
‘No, I know. So why don’t you put that gun away and let us ring for an ambulance for your wife, and —’
‘Just because I didn’t shoot that time, doesn’t mean I won’t do it this time.’
‘How did you do it? Some pretty hefty blunt instrument, judging by the mess on his forehead. And that broken neck.’
‘I’m telling you, I had no part in it. That’s how we found him. Outside our cottage. We’d been into Ayr to the pictures, just to pass the time. Came back in that rain, and there he was, planted right outside our cottage. We weren’t going to have that dumped on us. We lugged him as far up the hill as we could.’
