Wrong Turnings (DI Lesley Gunn Book 4)

by John Burke

  ‘I expect so. I do hope so.’

  She gasped and clutched her side. Even in the uncertain light it was clear that her face had gone very white, and her other hand was wavering, clutching for a support that wasn’t there.

  ‘Are you all right?’ It wasn’t the first time Anna had witnessed these little wrenching movements. ‘Come on, let’s get the car and —’

  ‘No, dear, I’ll walk up the hill. One last little look on the way, you know.’

  Without waiting for any more arguments, she set off. Anna watched her go, groggy but determined. After a few steps she began whistling in thin, piping little bursts; but there was still no sign of Cocky bounding towards her.

  As she turned back towards her front door, Anna was conscious that something was missing. It took a few seconds to dawn. Her offer to drive Queenie back to Balmuir Lodge would have been difficult to fulfil. The Volvo was missing. She paced round the yard, absurdly wondering if she might have parked it behind one of the cottages or in the shadow of the wall, even though she never did such a thing.

  Indoors, she looked at the phone and thought that the obvious thing to do was ring the police. Yet some stirring of unease made her reluctant to reach out and dial the number.

  She hadn’t left it up at the Lodge before she and Queenie set out, had she?

  She knew damn well she hadn’t. Agitated over Cocky’s disappearance, Queenie had driven down here in the Fiat to see if he had come visiting, as he so frequently did, and then driven the two of them back to start the search from the house.

  Anna had not yet drawn the curtains when the beam of headlights made a bright brush stroke across the sitting-room wall. As she went out into the yard, Stuart was getting out of the Volvo.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Thought I might get back before you did.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to drive. You’re banned.’

  ‘I know. But this was urgent. I came to see if you’d help me, but you weren’t here, and I thought I’d risk it.’

  ‘Risk what? Getting nicked for joyriding without a licence?’

  ‘Not going to offer me a drink?’

  He had that slight wheedling note in his voice that usually amused her, but now rang a false note after what Queenie had been saying. Damn Queenie: she would never admit that her precious Peter could really be personally responsible for any misdeeds.

  ‘You’ve got some explaining to do,’ she said as she led the way back into the house.

  ‘Yes’ He waited until she had poured him a large whisky, and raised the glass to her. ‘I won’t risk driving back. Don’t want drunk-driving added again to my list of felonies.’

  ‘All right. Just what on earth have you been up to?’

  ‘I came to ask you if we could use the wagon to remove some of my things from the Lodge.’

  ‘Your things?’

  ‘Work I’d done for him that hasn’t been paid for. All sorts of oddments, and a recent batch of stuff he never got round to agreeing a price on.’

  ‘But you can’t just barge in and remove things from a dead man’s house until everything’s been thoroughly accounted for. If you’d waited for me —’

  ‘Let’s be honest. I wasn’t entirely sure you’d agree. Rather glad not to have shoved the responsibility on you. You’d left the keys in the car, as usual. Asking for it. So I drove up, collected what was mine, and took it all back to the workshop. Sorry.’ He grinned his most engaging, pseudo-sheepish grin.

  ‘And nobody saw you?’

  ‘No. I do know my way in and out of that dump.’

  ‘I’m glad I wasn’t party to it. Not in my line, running the getaway car for a theft.’

  ‘Anna, love, it wasn’t theft. That was stuff I’d spent hours working on. Days. And not getting paid. And I reckoned my chances of getting a penny out of that Jilly-Jo creature were zilch.’

  ‘What’s Jilly-Jo got to do with it?’

  ‘Well, she’ll inherit the lot, won’t she? I’d have thought that would have worried you, too.’

  ‘Jilly-Jo isn’t going to inherit the lot. Some money, but that’s all.’

  He stared. ‘What are you on about? What do you know about it?’

  She told him.

  His eyes were blinking rapidly. If Queenie hadn’t implanted petty little doubts in her mind, Anna would not have found herself wondering whether Stuart was marking time, thinking furiously, shaping a plan. She made herself shrug them aside. Listening to Queenie had always been a dizzying business.

  ‘Well,’ said Stuart at last, ‘that puts a different complexion on things, doesn’t it?’

  ‘On lots of things, yes.’

  He drained his glass and stared down into it. Absurdly Anna wanted to giggle. There was a weird resemblance between the tilt of his head and Queenie’s when she peered down into her tea mug. Both of them brooding, sorting things out.

  ‘Especially,’ he said, ‘on the two of us.’

  She didn’t want him to go on. He was thinking too desperately on his feet, instead of waiting. There was too much to be thought through for it to be tackled right away. But would it be better if he were given more time?

  ‘I don’t get you,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly. Probably you won’t, now. And I won’t get you, which I was hoping might happen.’

  ‘Stuart, this is no time to —’

  ‘I ought to have spoken last week. I meant to. It just seemed the time wasn’t right. And now I can’t say anything, can I?’

  ‘It’s all been a bit of a shock for all of us. Let’s not make any silly presumptions.’

  ‘It’d look too obvious, wouldn’t it? Penniless ex-jailbird cons young widow who’s suddenly become well-do-do into marrying him.’

  She felt very tired, and unsure of anything.

  He was looking at her with that pleading, always loyal and reliable expression of his. He might be waiting for a move. When she said nothing, he kissed her as lightly as ever, and went off.

  She had not even offered to drive him back to the village, which she had so often done. But she made no move to run after him and make the offer.

  Taking his empty glass to the sink, she realized that she needed a drink herself, and it had to be something stronger than that earlier mug of tea. After she had poured herself a vodka and tonic, she sat staring at one of her own pictures on the wall, only to find that from this angle the glass was reflecting a blurred image which she could conjure into Stuart’s face.

  Was he sincere? Were any of them sincere? Lying in bed, drifting unsteadily in and out of the fringes of sleep, she found herself surrounded by familiar and half-familiar faces, all of them acting. All of them, from way back. Alec, Queenie, Peter, Stuart, the Balmuir Lodge guests — all in a perverse production by Chet Brunner. Harry Pitcairn, standing there with his pose of a wronged man done out of his birthright. And what sort of aggrieved, outraged stance would he adopt when he learned who was to inherit the Balmuir estate? Queenie had been right to wonder about that.

  It was contagious. All playing a part, each and every one of them. How could you ever tell the difference between the real thing and the phoney?

  She was plagued by the question far into her dreams.

  *

  Lesley turned over and tried to read the time on the bedside clock. The clock must have been moved. She could see none of the red numerals that ought to be about nine inches away, near the lamp. But there was no lamp on the table either. Then she realized that she was not in the Balmuir Lodge bedroom but in Stables Cottage. From ship to lodge to cottage: it was disorientating.

  Morning sunshine was a bright pencil of light between the two curtains. Lesley eased herself out of bed, and immediately banged her right knee. This side of the bed was too close to the wall.

  ‘Huh?’ grunted Nick. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘The clock’s on your side.’

  ‘Oh.’ He heaved himself up. ‘Good Lord, it’s nine o’clock.’

  ‘It’s all right, we do
n’t have to fit in with breakfast hours. We’re making our own, remember?’

  He floundered across the duvet to put his arm round her and drag her back into bed, but she dodged and headed for the bathroom. ‘We have some phone calls to make this morning.’

  ‘They can wait.’

  ‘I’m afraid of what might go missing if we wait.’

  Nick groaned as she closed the bathroom door.

  Anna had provided bacon, eggs and tomatoes in the fridge, and there were three different kinds of tea on the shelf. On his second round of toast, Nick said: ‘All right, what’s the programme for the day?’

  ‘I want to tell the Arts and Antiques boys at the Yard about those things we saw in Brunner’s private quarters.’ She looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘They ought to be in by now.’

  She went to her coat to fetch her mobile; then scowled. There was the faintest little flicker of a signal. They were in a dead spot.

  Nick began emptying his pockets of loose change. ‘There’s a payphone over there.’

  The voice at the other end was warm and welcoming. Inspector Percy had an epicene manner in the flesh, and was inclined to coo rather too ecstatically over works of art which he admired, and to tut-tut in too high and indignant a tone when learning of thefts or damage; but he was a devoted pursuer of villains, and generous with praise for those who helped him.

  ‘My dear Lez.’ He was one of the few who could call her that without giving her a prickle of distaste. ‘Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Married life palling already?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind. But I have something that might interest Freddie.’

  ‘Alas, you’ve missed him. He’s on his way to an antiques recognition course run by an expert in — would you believe it, my love? — Scotland. Forfar, to be exact. Near enough for you to nip over and see him?’

  ‘Well over a hundred miles.’

  ‘Ah. Looks as if you’ll have to manage with me. Only do make it snappy, there’s a love. We’re inundated at the moment with wild goose chases and rumours about loot coming in from Iraq — or, worse still, getting right past us. But go ahead: what’s troubling you?’

  She summed up the oddities they had seen in Brunner’s private quarters, and her doubts about Stuart Morgan, a furniture restorer who might be too skilful in other directions. Percy made encouraging little grunts at intervals, but did not come fully to life until she reached the subject of the tomb brasses. Then he stopped her with a short, yapping question.

  ‘Hold it. Those brasses — one of them wouldn’t have been of Sir Willoughby de Dalyngrunge, would it?’

  ‘Could be. And there are some interesting jewel boxes and some rather fine marquetry. Oh, and’ — a picture was snatched vividly from her memory — ‘on one landing there was a framed fragment of a painting on wood that might have been a Bodhiattva. Probably a copy. I didn’t stop to give it a proper look, but it may have been quite important.’

  ‘Indeed it may. Sounds like part of a wall painting collection that was smuggled out to the States to a museum there, and then went missing a couple of years ago. I’d have to check. But it’d hardly be the original, would it?’

  ‘If it’s a copy,’ said Lesley, ‘where did the copyist see the original? And what happened to the original after he’d finished copying it?’

  ‘This does get interesting, yes.’

  ‘I’ve no longer any authority to institute an investigation. But you and Freddie can surely cook up an excuse to come and have a look. DCI McAdam of the Kyle and Carrick Constabulary would have to be your starting point. In the meantime I’m going to have a saunter round his workshop.’

  When she had put the phone down, Nick said: ‘A saunter round the workshop, eh? On what grounds?’

  ‘We’re staying in the neighbourhood, aren’t we? Time on our hands. Simply going to have a look at some local crafts. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I’m certainly not going to let you walk into trouble on your own.’

  ‘Good. Let’s walk into it together, like we did with the Watermans.’

  As Nick opened the door, they were confronted by a television camera and a reporter looking remarkably old-fashioned with an ordinary notebook.

  ‘Sir Nicholas Torrance? Lady Torrance? Can you tell us some of the details of your capture of the runaway murderer yesterday?’

  ‘I’m sure the police officer in charge of the case has given you all the facts you need.’

  ‘Yes, but she wasn’t actually there, was she? You were there. What was it like, coming face to face with a man you knew to be a killer?’

  Nick locked the cottage door and took Lesley’s arm, trying to march them towards the Laguna, but found the way blocked by the cameraman, down on one knee to shoot up at them.

  ‘We won’t take up much of your time, sir. You really owe it to the public. It’s a fantastic story. Pretty brave stuff, I’d say.’ Seeing the direction of Nick’s gaze as he measured the distance to the car, he added in a voice which was skilled in not being actually threatening but implied possibilities of becoming quite a nuisance. ‘We can always follow you and pick up the threads as we go along, sir.’

  It was really quicker to run through it and be done with it. Lesley thought this, but did not need to say it. Impatiently Nick said: ‘Oh, all right. Ten minutes and no more.’

  ‘We gather that Lady Torrance here was forced at gunpoint to drive Ronnie Waterman away, leaving you and the injured Mrs Waterman behind. Weren’t you worried sick about your wife, sir?’

  ‘No. I knew she was trained to cope with whatever happened. Which is exactly the way it turned out.’

  ‘Trained, sir? By you?’

  ‘In a previous incarnation,’ said Nick heavily, ‘she was a police officer.’

  ‘The chief inspector didn’t mention that.’

  I don’t suppose she would, thought Lesley.

  As crisply as possible, the two of them ran through their experiences, matter-of-fact and without emotion. The framing of the questions showed the likelihood of a considerable amount of dramatization before their words, or a version of them, appeared in print. Lesley felt she could read their minds and see the banner headline being set up: LAIRD AND LADY OF BLACK KNOWE OVERPOWER WANTED KILLER. And she was sure she sensed their regret in not being able to repeat their success in capturing a scantily clad young woman in the doorway.

  It was closer to twenty minutes than ten when they finally got away.

  ‘Are you sure you want to start meddling?’ asked Nick. ‘After our last encounter and that interview, do we really want more publicity?’

  ‘There’s no question of publicity if we’re just visiting a local craftsman.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. You do still have that ability of some sleuths to attract trouble before anyone else has even considered stirring it up.’

  In the village there was a flurry of morning traffic. Several cars were parked outside the general shop, and there was a post-bus blocking the pavement by the craft shop. Nick edged in behind a four-wheel drive smeared with mud and rust. As they crossed the road, Lesley looked back and saw two men heading towards it. One of them she remembered as Harry Pitcairn. The other was older, limping along with a stick. Even across the street, with a car engine starting up close beside her, she could hear the older man growling and spluttering about something or other.

  A woman drifting from one table to another in the craft shop was holding on to the hand of a resentful small boy, who reached out now and then to knock something over and then pretend it was his mother who had pushed him that way.

  Nick said: ‘Is Mr Morgan on the premises?’

  ‘He’s upstairs. I think I heard him moving about not that long since.’ The shopkeeper was trying to be polite while keeping an eye on the boy as he and his mother disappeared round a tall display case.

  ‘We saw some of his work up at Balmuir Lodge. We were hoping he might have some on show down here.’

  ‘There�
��s that table of models over there. That cat, and that curved lamp standard — that’s the sort of thing he does. Only if you wanted to see how he works, I’m sure he’ll be glad for you to go round to the workshop. He gets quite a few visitors, and he never seems to mind.’ She moved round the case like a sheep-dog urging the mother and boy out into the open again. ‘It’s at the back of the building. The green door at the side.’

  Nick led the way. The door was ajar. He tapped, but there was no reply. Pushing the door open, he took a couple of steps inside.

  ‘Anybody here? Mr Morgan?’

  Lesley followed him, ducking past the steep flight of stairs leading up to the top floor. To her right, almost blocking the way round the main workbench, were two large sacks which might have been dragged up and dumped ready to be dealt with later. On the corner of the bench nearest to her were two woodcuts which at a glance looked remarkably like the work of Thomas Bewick.

  Nick was sauntering round the other side of the bench, humming tunelessly to himself. Abruptly the humming stopped. She heard his swift, shocked intake of breath.

  ‘Christ! Is this him? Morgan?’

  Stuart Morgan was crumpled on the floor, half under the workbench. Blood had flowed thickly across the floor from his neck, and there were jagged spurts of it up and over the edge of the bench. Some tools had fallen from the bench beside him, maybe dislodged in a struggle or knocked over as he fell. The blade of one of them was dark with blood. Only it wasn’t one of the tools. It was a skean dhu, and Lesley recognized it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When she was irritated, Detective Chief Inspector June McAdam dreaded the inevitable onset of a sharp stab at each side of her temples, growing from a rhythmic jabbing which became more insistent as both sides pressed inwards to meet at the centre and form a belt of pain right across her brow. Each time it started, she tried telling herself to relax every muscle, to close her eyes and wait for it to ebb away. That rarely worked. Nor did the stress counselling which she had once, reluctantly, been ordered to take. Once the sequence began, there was no stopping it.