by John Burke
It had nothing to do with overwork. She rarely felt stressed when she was at full stretch, driving herself through long hours until she could see the end of the problem, whatever it was, in sight. Irritation clawed at her only when she was confronted by a gaping flaw in something she had been pursuing with single-minded conviction. The stinging pain was even worse now, when something she had considered well and truly wrapped up and off her hands was prompting an awkward doubt. It had all seemed so uncomplicated, pinning Brunner’s murder on the obvious suspect, Ronnie Waterman. An open and shut case, in the familiar phrase.
But another murder so soon after that one, and in the same neck of the woods, was a hell of a jolt. And, most irritating of all, this time it couldn’t be pinned on Ronnie Waterman. Waterman was in custody.
She vented her twitchiness on her driver. ‘Are you sure you know your way? We seem to have discovered some weird roads. We’re not out for a country ramble, you know.’
‘It’s a new patch for me, ma’am. But I had a good look at the map before we left, and I’m pretty sure I’ve taken the shortest route.’
Sergeant Elliot was new to her. Her usual sidekick, DS Brodie, had gone off sick with a torn ligament after falling down the station stairs — which made a change, said his detractors, from suspects in his custody falling down those same stairs. His replacement was a strapping young man with sandy freckles and the purple shadow of an old scar down his left cheek. She felt he was the type who could make his weight felt in a tight corner, but even on such short acquaintance she had reservations about him. He had once been in the Midlothian and Merse force, but had divorced his wife after she became involved with a senior officer, and asked for a transfer to get away from a region with too many daily encounters and painful reminders. It was not the sort of thing McAdam approved of. A serving officer should never allow a situation to build up in which one woman could play off two men, one against the other.
Not that she had ever been given the chance of taking part in such a situation.
All in all, she was in no good mood when they arrived in Balmuir village. Things were made no better by her being greeted at the door of the craft shop by the retired DI Gunn, even though she spoke politely enough. There surely lurked a complacent snootiness beneath that courteous voice?
‘An odd one this, isn’t it? So soon after Chet Brunner’s death. And it can’t be Ronnie Waterman, because you’ve got him in custody.’
Sergeant Elliot greeted Lady Torrance with an affectionate familiarity which was quite out of order. ‘Hello, guv. Great to see you again.’
‘Hello, Rab.’
McAdam made it clear she had no time for civilities. ‘I understand you discovered the body of this Morgan. Stuart Morgan, yes?’
‘Nearly an hour ago,’ said Sir Nicholas.
‘It’s inside here?’
‘In the workshop, round the back.’
‘What made you go in there? Had he invited you, or something?’
She was sure that Sir Nicholas had shot his wife a warning glance, but it was so brief that she could not guess at its significance. Lesley Torrance said: ‘I’d seen some of his work up at Balmuir Lodge, and I wanted to see how he went about it.’
‘You didn’t move anything? You left everything as it was?’
‘I’ll bet you can rely on the DI to remember all the old procedures,’ said Sergeant Elliot warmly. Under McAdam’s fierce stare he cooled down and said: ‘Sorry . . . er . . . Lady Torrance.’
‘Thanks for the testimonial, Rab . . . er, sergeant.’ Lesley Torrance allowed herself the faintest friendly smile. ‘You’re quite right. We knew it was best to get out rather than obscure any clues by fidgeting about the place. I made sure it was locked up before we left. And then came here and sat around until you arrived.’
‘The key?’ said McAdam.
‘The door was open when we got there. The key was on the inside.’ She held out a key wrapped in a sachet of polythene torn from a roll above the souvenir counter. ‘And we kept an eye on the door until we could get the local constable to stand guard.’
‘Very efficient of you.’ McAdam forced the words out. ‘Well, I’d better go and inspect the scene.’
As they left the shop and began walking round to the back, a blue Mondeo and a van arrived almost simultaneously. The SOCO team came out and began writhing into their white overalls. Dr Fairlie came out of his car and offered McAdam a curt nod.
‘Is there any legend of a Balmuir curse? Some thrawn bogle coming back to spread some malice around? If this goes on, it’ll be cheaper for me to rent a holiday home here than do all this travelling to and fro.’
A uniformed policeman provided a hefty presence, blocking the doorway. Flushed with the responsibility of his part in this commotion on his usually tranquil patch, he stared up and down, side to side, determined that not even a passing crow should decide to look for crumbs, or the howl of a low-flying fighter be allowed to take him by surprise.
McAdam led the way, followed by Dr Fairlie and two Scenes Of Crime Officers, one of them the photographer. The constable moved aside, reluctant to give way even to his superior officers. McAdam took a packet from one of the men and drew out two sterile surgical gloves. Gingerly she extracted the key from its wrapping, calling back to Lesley Torrance.
‘You say the door was open. How far?’
‘A few inches,’ said Nick Torrance. ‘I was in the lead. I pushed it open, and my wife followed me in.’
McAdam turned the key in the lock, pushed gently, and went in.
After looking down at the angle at which the corpse was lying, and the disarray of tools on the bench, she beckoned the photographer to edge round the other side of the bench and start work. Dr Fairlie came to her side and, stepping and stooping as carefully as herself, bent close to the bloodstained head, taking out his thermometer.
Although she would be the first to insist that everything should be done according to the book, for McAdam it was all going too slowly and ponderously.
‘Well? Any idea of the time of death?’
‘Within the last couple of hours.’ He put his hand out towards the drying stain on the implement closest to the dead man’s throat. ‘And whose dirk might this be?’
‘Can’t say. Certainly not a tool for putting fake wormholes into reproduction furniture, or anything of that kind.’
‘Mm.’ Fairlie winced as he straightened up and eased his back. ‘So we’ve got ourselves a double murder on our hands. But you’ve got the previous suspect in custody, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’ McAdam needed no further reminders.
‘In that previous case, it would have needed some strength to drive that weapon, whatever it was, into the man’s skull. This thing is fine enough to go in nice and easily. Incidentally, have you found the weapon for that other incident yet?’
‘No, we haven’t. But we’re questioning Waterman.’
‘Who threatened to shoot his enemy, not bash him with a heavy object.’
Something else of which McAdam needed no reminding. She said: ‘We’re dealing with the facts in this case at the moment.’
‘Aye. I think we’ll leave the boys to it and continue when they’ve dumped the pieces in the morgue and the lab.’
They backed out and made way for the SOCO team to do their painstaking work.
The Torrances had disappeared from the shop. ‘Who the hell said they could push off?’
Sergeant Elliot said: ‘Sir Nicholas thought they’d be more comfortable waiting for you in the pub. Just down the road there.’
McAdam braced herself against the return of that angry ache inside her head. She had a picture of that ex-Gunn woman pumping the locals, overstepping the mark and trespassing on official territory. But for the moment it would do no good to fly off the handle.
She kept it very calm. ‘Go and work your way down the street, sergeant. Ask if folk saw anybody going towards the workshop or coming away from it. Especially if they seemed to be
in a hurry. Anything that might help. But you needn’t go into the pub. You can leave that to me.’ She dared him to grin, but he was getting the measure of her now, and kept a grave face.
She approached the counter. ‘Now, Mrs . . . er . . .?’
‘McTavish. Brenda McTavish.’
‘These premises are your property?’
‘Nae, I only run the shop for the Chisholm lass.’
‘And the workshop?’
‘That was hers and her late husband’s. And he was in partnership with Mr Morgan, restoring furniture and . . . och, as if we hav’nae had enough trouble round here wi’ the tragedy of young Mr Chisholm, and then that other dreadful business, and now this. Such a bourach . . . aye, indeed, what a muddle. No sense in it.’
McAdam glanced at the tables and display shelves. ‘Some of this was the late Mr Morgan’s work?’
‘Those small wooden pieces, yes. Souvenirs for tourists. But that was only a sideline. You’d find some of his bigger work up at the Lodge. He did do work in the house for Mr Brunner.’
Something thudded faintly against the wall behind her.
‘Did you hear anybody in there with Mr Morgan at any time this morning? Or see anybody leaving?’
‘I did hear him moving about early on. But then we had a coachload of tourists stopping off for ten minutes on their way to Glasgow. We get quite a good passing trade. The village has got the only public toilet for thirty miles,’ she added proudly.
‘But some of them came in here?’
‘Aye. A lot o’ them. So I wouldnae ha’ heard anything else while they were here.’
‘And you didn’t see anybody running away, or acting suspiciously at all?’
Brenda shook her head. ‘That I did not. Seen one or two of the usual folk, mind you.’
‘Usual folk? Such as who?’
‘Och, there was the Chisholms. Mr Alec, anyway, though I suppose Queenie would have been with him. Stocking up in the shop across the way, I’d imagine. And the Pitcairns.’ She frowned. ‘You don’t often see them out together. They seemed to be having a bit of an argument.’
‘You’ve no idea what it was about?’
‘Nay, I didnae ken.’ Brenda drew herself up and folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘And besides, it was none of my business.’
McAdam walked down to the inn.
Nicholas Torrance stood up and moved towards the bar. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Thank you, but I don’t drink on duty.’
In fact she rarely drank at all, and knew she was always regarded warily by her subordinates at divisional parties.
They sat at a table in the window, all three of them looking out from time to time, knowing that everybody in the bar was studying them and making muttered comments.
‘When you arrived,’ McAdam began, ‘did you see anybody coming away from the workshop?’
Torrance shook his head. ‘There were a few people in the street, here and there, but nobody all that close to the craft shop or the steps at the back.’
‘Anybody at all you recognized, either before you went up or after you came down?’
‘Only that young Pitcairn chap who seemed to have a grudge against Chet Brunner. With an older man. Could have been his father.’
This was the second time they had been mentioned. McAdam scraped her chair closer to the table, propping her elbows on it.
‘And they were arguing,’ she said.
‘That’s the way it looked. You know that already?’
‘The woman in the craft shop saw them and got that impression. And she confirms that the older man was Harry Pitcairn’s father. I think I’ll leave your friendly sergeant down here, Lady Torrance, to tie up any loose ends he can find, while I go back to ask some questions in Balmuir Lodge. And a few questions for the Pitcairns.’
‘If you want us, we’ll be in Stables Cottage.’ As McAdam got up, Lesley Torrance added: ‘Do you think this is a separate murder, or could it be a double one?’
‘Meaning you’re keener than ever to believe Waterman innocent?’
‘I just thought the question might be an interesting one.’
‘Interesting, yes,’ said McAdam. ‘But for the time being Waterman has been cautioned and is still being questioned.’
As they walked back to their cars, the wrapped corpse was being carried out of the workshop.
*
Alec Chisholm was cleaning out the interior of the Fiat when McAdam drove up to the house. ‘Got filthy, with all this dried mud from the last few days.’ Then he registered who she was. ‘Oh. Didn’t expect to see you back. Thought you’d be away dealing with our killer.’
‘Mr Chisholm, have you been down to the village this morning?’
‘Yes. Picking up a few things.’
‘How long ago would that be?’
‘I got back about an hour ago and decided to do something useful. But hang on — what’s this about?’
‘You haven’t heard the news?’
‘What news?’
McAdam told him, briefly and brutally. At first he did not seem to take it in, then began shaking his head. He looked ashen grey, utterly drained. When he did speak, it was to echo Brenda McTavish in the craft shop.
‘It’s too much, on top of everything else. Too damn much.’
‘Your wife was with you in the village, shopping?’
‘Yes. Right now she’s lying down. We’ve lost our little dog. She spent most of yesterday looking for him. Looked everywhere, and she’s very upset. And now this. Oh, for God’s sake.’
‘Do you think we can go indoors? It looks as if I’m going to ask for the use of the incident room again. It’s well equipped, and it’ll save us having to bring in a caravan or anything.’
‘Well, I don’t know. The present owner might not want —’
‘That would be the late Mr Brunner’s widow?’
‘No. The estate has been left to . . . well, it’s all very complicated. But until legal matters have been settled —’
‘I think I’d better have a word with Mrs Brunner anyway.’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Where is she, then?’
‘She and that Hagan character have gone off to Glasgow to look for some legal advice. Somebody Hagan knows.’
McAdam could guess who that would be. She had checked on Tam Hagan during that earlier spell of investigation, and found his record had a lot of smears on it. His involvement in Glasgow turf wars was well known. The boys in Pitt Street had provided her then with the name of a solicitor whose work for Hagan in some legal scrapes had more than once brought him close to criminal charges himself. She wondered whether something now had driven Jilly-Jo Brunner and Tam Hagan to clear off together.
Had they murdered Stuart Morgan before making a run for it? And before that, had they murdered Brunner? If the Torrances had been right to believe Ronnie Waterman’s story, then somebody else had to have a good reason for getting rid of Brunner. And Morgan as well? But what reason?
She settled herself in the studio and put in a call to Glasgow for someone to check whether Hagan and Jilly-Jo had really been visiting that solicitor. If so, they should be asked — very firmly asked — to return at once to Balmuir Lodge. If they refused, it should be suggested to them that they could be taken into custody to help the police with their enquiries.
Then she called Alec Chisholm in. He looked sick and apprehensive, though she could think of no way of implicating him in either of the killings. Not yet, anyway. Like everybody else, after this new development he had to go back on the list, unlikely as he might seem as a killer.
‘Is there a phone in that cottage the Torrances are in?’
Chisholm gave her the number.
It was a call she had to force herself to make. It went against the grain. She needed to see the Pitcairns again, and reluctantly she felt she could do with an expert at her side. During her years in the Force, Lesley Torrance had been top of her field in identification of
artworks, fake or genuine. It might be that she could be persuaded to think herself back into being DI Gunn for a short spell. Highly irregular, but she might see something that an untrained eye would overlook.
Steeling herself to be as correct and dispassionate as possible, and fending off the resentful stab within her head, McAdam put in the call.
Chapter Seventeen
Harry Pitcairn’s expression as he opened the door of Glengorm Castle to Lesley and McAdam was far from welcoming. Lesley remembered those contemptuous brown eyes scouring everybody in the hall at Balmuir Lodge. Here they were just as aggressive and impatient.
‘What the hell is it this time? I’ve got to be on the new plantation fifteen minutes from now.’
‘We’ll endeavour not to take up too much of your time, Mr Pitcairn.’
He stood four square in the doorway for a moment, then moved aside to let them in, stooping to pick up a few letters from the mat.
Lesley was amused by the deadpan formality with which McAdam introduced her. ‘This is a one-time associate of ours, Detective Inspector Gunn, who has volunteered to help us in our inquiries.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to run me in for daring to reclaim one of my family possessions from that Philistine’s lair?’ His gaze became puzzled rather than aggressive as he led them into the cramped little hall, tossing the letters on to the oak table and glancing sideways at Lesley in the poor light from the window, trying to place her.
McAdam said: ‘Can you tell me where you were this morning, around nine or ten o’clock?’
‘I was up in the plantation, over by Harden Sike. But what’s that got to do with you?’
‘You’ve had dealings with a Stuart Morgan of Balmuir?’
‘No.’
‘You must surely have come across him. He was a skilled furniture restorer, and I’m given to understand he did a lot of reproduction work for the late Chet Brunner.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of him. But we had no call on his services in this house. We don’t go in for fakes and copies here. So what’s the purpose of this visit?’
‘He’s been murdered.’
