When the Devil Drives

by Christopher Brookmyre

‘No,’ he replied, sounding slightly impugned. ‘I won’t lie. How could I forget? But the names wouldn’t do you much good. Hamish didn’t only phone me after your visit, he called the others too. They know about you. They’re not going to return your calls.’

  ‘You did,’ she pointed out.

  ‘I considered it a matter of conscience.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I have a daughter not much older than you, and the thought of her doing what you are right now made me shudder.’

  ‘I’m just asking people questions, Mr Sanquhar.’

  ‘People with lives and reputations. People who will not forgive you for opening Pandora’s Box. I don’t know where Tessa Garrion went after she bailed out, but trust me on this: you won’t find her by raking through the rubble of the Glass Shoe Company. You will only succeed in disturbing a great deal of long-buried hurt and shame, but what worries me is that you might awaken something worse.’

  ‘I don’t believe in the devil, Mr Sanquhar.’

  ‘Nor did I, before the summer of eighty-one.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances. Give me the names. Who was in the company, apart from Tessa, Hamish and Adam Nolan?’

  Sanquhar sighed with bad grace.

  ‘Finlay Weir. He didn’t have much of an acting career after that. I think he’s a schoolteacher now. Maybe even a headmaster.’

  Sanquhar paused, as though hoping his silence might be misinterpreted as the end of a very short list.

  ‘Who else?’

  He frowned.

  ‘Murray Maxwell.’

  Jasmine’s eyes widened involuntarily.

  ‘Murray Maxwell? As in Darroch Glen? As in Raintown Blue?’

  ‘And as in currently head of drama at Scotia Television, yes.’

  ‘Well, I can really see why that one slipped Hamish’s mind. Any more?’

  ‘Just one.’

  Sanquhar swallowed, as if his mouth had gone dry. When he spoke, it was clear that if the words ‘wee dawdle’ had been savoured as a treat, then these were shrivelling his lips like gall.

  ‘Russell Darius.’

  Jasmine concealed her reaction behind a further, redundant inquiry.

  ‘No other women?’

  ‘There aren’t many female parts in Macbeth, and Tessa was very versatile. We didn’t need anyone else.’

  ‘So you’re not superstitious?’ she asked, as he hadn’t substituted the name of the play.

  ‘I told you, I’m not some religious nutcase. In my experience, the supposed curse around Macbeth is largely a self-fulfilling prophecy. One I fear we fell victim to. People fixate upon it when they have a self-destructive wish, seeking out darkness within themselves, perhaps hoping to confront it, to defeat it. Instead, it consumes them.’

  Requiem for a Saint

  Sir Angus McCready, head of his clan and laird of Cragruthes Castle, didn’t look to Catherine like a man big enough or right then strong enough to bear so much nomenclature. He was huddled in an armchair in his private study, looking for all the world like a lost wee boy. The chair itself seemed too big for him, his feet not touching the carpet, but that was because he was withdrawn into it as far as he would fit.

  Catherine was unsure whether this body language indicated merely his state of shock or his revulsion from her as the head of the police investigation. He had looked like his mammy was leaving him with a cold stranger when Sergeant Jim Wheaton, the local officer Laura had mentioned, had withdrawn at Catherine’s request.

  He enjoyed the brief reassurance of a familiar face as his housekeeper brought them both tea and a couple of scones. She urged the laird to take one and chided him for not having eaten anything at all today, like he was just being stubborn. Catherine guessed he wouldn’t be hungry for a good while yet.

  The study was a rectangular space tucked away behind a more modest door than any of the big public rooms: definitely Sir Angus’s personal hidey-hole, though still a good deal more grand than the average den. No dartboard, retro arcade games or pinball machines (and no need for a pool table when there was a slate-bed twelve-footer in a dedicated billiards room elsewhere in the castle). The only modern touch was a micro hi-fi system next to a stack of largely classical CDs. Other than that, his personal pleasures ran mostly to the literary. There were large walnut bookcases on two of the walls, and an antique writing desk tucked in a corner. The shelves were not lined with leather-bound reference tomes or collector’s editions, but well-thumbed and spine-broken volumes: books read and re-read. Many of them, she noticed, were about theatre.

  It looked like it ought to be cosy but Catherine felt cold, and there was a fusty smell about the place. There was only one tiny window in the room and just one little radiator which she guessed wasn’t switched on. It was probably warmer outdoors, where the sun was burning through the morning’s misty clouds. It made her think of the house where she grew up, her parents refusing to turn on the heating if the sun was in the sky, their decisions governed by the calendar rather than the thermostat. Sir Angus looked better dressed for it, swaddled in an ancient tweed jacket, its material so thick it probably bent the coat-hook if you hung it up wet.

  Where the study’s walls were not lined with books they were decorated with framed photographs, again a sign of this being the laird’s retreat: these were mementos for personal regard, unlike the paintings adorning so many of the castle’s other interior walls. A cluster to Catherine’s left showed black-and-white images from plays: individuals captured in expressive postures that identified them as stage shots, as opposed to movie stills or family snaps. It took her a few seconds to realise that they all showed her host as a wiry adolescent, handsome and vivacious in youth, all limbs and energy.

  A caption mentioned Oxford. It had been a long, long time ago.

  Another row of far more recent frames bore colour images of Sir Angus posing with an assembled theatre cast, his tartan trews distinguishing him from their Shakespearean garb. Once she had scanned a few Catherine saw through the make-up and costumes to recognise that he was standing with largely the same people, the same cast, and in most he was grinning alongside the same non-performer: the one whose final act had been to pose for just such a photo the night before.

  She wondered what was the connection that would make someone from the highest echelons of the arts come back over and over to watch some group of teuchter am-drams.

  ‘I gather he was your guest last night,’ she said, indicating one of the colour stills. She reckoned it a delicate way to broach the subject: hark back to happier times, avoid mentioning the name too soon. ‘As opposed to the bank’s.’

  He glanced across at the photos and visibly winced. Maybe not that delicate, then.

  ‘Yes,’ he managed, swallowing. ‘Partly, at least. He was my guest, but he was also the guest of the players, in acknowledgment of his efforts in keeping them funded over the years. Not so much patron as patron saint.’

  ‘So they’re a professional company?’

  He looked at her for a moment as though she had asked him the question in a foreign language, or that he was baffled as to the relevance. She recognised the condition: he was baffled as to the relevance of anything, given the way his world had just been turned inside out. She was about to reiterate when he seemed to gather himself and managed to answer.

  ‘Ehm, no,’ he began distractedly, like he couldn’t believe he was talking about it, couldn’t believe he was talking about anything. Then he began to expand, as though finding unexpected solace in doing so. After that kind of shock Catherine had often seen people put themselves together again only very slowly, and sometimes it appeared as though they were surprised to discover each function that still worked. ‘More accomplished than your average amateur-dramatics society – mostly down to Eric and Veejay, I think – but not professionals.’

  ‘But presumably you pay them for their performances here?’

  Again that look: ‘what the hell does this have to do with anything?’ and a
gain as he answered he found something in the distraction.

  ‘I do, yes. Eight hundred pounds per show this year. That’s a lot more than when it all started, but given what it brings in I don’t quibble.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you charge five hundred pounds a head. Thirty-six seats minus you and your guest. That’s what, seventeen grand? Must help pay the bills.’

  He nodded blankly, thoughts somewhere else again.

  ‘Cragruthes has been in my family for close to four hundred years,’ he said, his voice so quiet it seemed to be coming from far inside him. ‘Posterity carries with it a burden of duty. A place like this can’t be preserved in aspic, but preserved it must be, so it has to pay for itself, which is not always easy. I inherited when I was just twenty-three, when my father died.’

  He glanced at the black-and-whites with an apologetic sadness.

  ‘Managing an estate was a far cry from what I imagined myself doing, but when it comes to duty I appreciate I got off lighter than most. There have been a few ill-starred attempts to bring in revenue over the years, but you’ve got to try new things because you just never know what’s going to work. Or rather, I never know what’s going to work.’

  He managed a self-deprecatory smile, but it only lasted a moment before being enveloped in sadness again.

  Catherine looked away, giving him respite from her gaze, taking another scan of her surroundings. Up close everything looked a little tatty, care-worn and frayed at the edges. As he shifted in the armchair she caught another waft of fustiness and deduced that his jacket was the source of the smell. It probably cost a fortune twenty years ago, and may not have been dry-cleaned since. Surely he had others, though. Perhaps it was his favourite, a garment he wore for physical reassurance. He certainly looked in need of comfort.

  ‘They approached me with the idea for the moonlit plays back in 2003. Did you meet Veejay Khan and Eric Watt?’

  Catherine had seen the still-shaken troupe of performers sitting together in one of the public rooms but hadn’t spoken to any of them individually or caught any names. There was an Indian-looking woman among them, but Catherine had thought Veejay was a male name.

  ‘Not yet, but I will. We’ll be speaking to everyone in time. Are they in charge of the company?’

  ‘In so far as anyone is in charge. They’re not terribly official about anything; that’s theatre for you. Eric cooks the books but Veejay is the one who whips the cast into shape. They came to me about ten years ago with the notion of staging A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the grounds. They knew I was an enthusiast as I had come along to a few of their plays at the Ardnabruich village hall, and I’d often caught further performances of the same pieces up in Fort William.

  ‘Of course, I thought it was a lovely idea. Initially they put on just the three shows for local audiences, plus a coachload one night from Fort William. But then towards the end of the same week, I had a corporate booking for what was supposed to be a seminar followed by dinner. I thought to myself, why don’t we have dinner and a play?’

  He glanced towards the shots of him with the players, then closed his eyes and shook his head. Catherine could see what was going through his mind. He had loved the plays, and not just for the money, but evidently what he was contemplating was that had it never been set in motion, then what happened last night would never have come to pass. Or maybe he was wondering if he’d ever see such performances again.

  Either way, it seemed an appropriate juncture to steer the conversation around to the subject of who was really to blame.

  ‘Sir Angus, as you may be aware, we have told the media that we have not ruled out the possibility that this was an accident.’

  He straightened a little in his chair, something resembling optimism suddenly legible in his features.

  ‘Yes, so I gather. Have you found any …’

  ‘The truth is, we have no grounds at this stage to rule it in either. So unless and until I receive very strong evidence to the contrary, I am going to proceed upon the assumption that this was murder. I realise this is difficult, but can you think of anyone with a motive, anyone who might have had reason to wish—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted, insistent, appalled. It wasn’t just an answer, it was a denial of the reality of what she was suggesting. It was a final futile attempt to shore up the internal defences that had been all but demolished the night before.

  ‘Why would anyone?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘How could anyone? Do you know who this man was? Have you any idea of his contribution to the arts world and beyond? The projects he’s made possible, how many people he’s helped?’

  ‘Nonetheless, he moved in a world where there can be a lot of jealousy, a lot of resentment.’

  ‘It must have come with his job, that he’s had to say no to a few people who didn’t want to hear it, but …’ He sighed. ‘No. Just no.’

  Catherine wasn’t expecting to hear much of a response to that one. She was really just forcing him to confront the ugly idea by way of preparation before she sprung something worse.

  ‘Sir Angus, I realise this is very disturbing to consider, but what happened last night involved a shot from distance in the dark. If you are so certain that nobody could have had a motivation for harming your guest, I therefore have to ask whether it’s possible the gunman could actually have been aiming at you?’

  Burned

  Jasmine had plenty to mull over on the drive back up through Ayrshire, her thoughts on the journey down having been dominated by the single question of whether she’d get there before Sanquhar left, occasionally interspersed with a moment’s anxiety about whether her urgency was making a lasting impression on the average-speed cameras. She turned off the stereo so that she’d have peace to think, then turned it on again a couple of miles later because the clunking noise was back, and whenever she could hear it she couldn’t think about anything else.

  Her reflections were also derailed by the sight of a silver Passat in her rear-view mirror, spotted slotting into a gap three cars behind as it exited the fast lane. There were too many vehicles between it and the Civic for Jasmine to get a good look, but she had no doubts over the make and model. She thought about pulling out into the fast lane to see whether it followed, but between the yellow vultures monitoring her speed and the clunking sound beneath the bonnet she decided it wasn’t a viable option.

  Jasmine was approaching the big roundabout where the roads to Ayr, Prestwick and Kilmarnock converged, so she decided it would be wisest to defer any manoeuvres until she was sure the Passat was taking the same route. She was held at the lights on the roundabout and the curve of the approaching traffic allowed her to confirm that the Volkswagen was in the same lane, still three cars back.

  Flooring it was even less of an option now. The first few miles of the Kilmarnock road were restricted to fifty miles an hour, still enforced by the average-speed cameras. People didn’t take chances with those things, not even the boy racers in their souped-up ned-mobiles. So if no one was going to speed up, her only option was to slow down.

  She dropped to forty, then let the needle creep further anticlockwise until it was approaching thirty-five. Nobody was going to tolerate that pace driving anything other than a tractor, or maybe a Micra. The Passat was going to have to pass or make its intentions obvious and either way she was going to get a look at the driver, as overtaking was a slow process when you were limited to fifty miles an hour.

  She glanced back and saw the Saab immediately behind her begin to indicate, waiting for an opportunity to pull out. When a space appeared, it swung right, followed by as many preceding cars as could fit themselves in before an approaching lorry closed the gap.

  Jasmine held her pace steady and kept her eyes front, flitting between the road and the mirror. In her peripheral vision she was aware of a few turned heads in the passing vehicles, as their drivers sought a look at what idiot had been pootling along so unnecessarily slowly. She hoped she lived up to all their prejudices. Then, finally,
the Passat was pulling alongside.

  Jasmine stepped a little harder on the accelerator, upping the speed to prolong the time spent side by side, and this time it was the slower driver who turned her head to get a look at the passing motorist.

  She saw a blonde-haired woman, mid-thirties, eyes on the road, head swaying and mouth wide as she sang a song, presumably for the benefit of the two toddlers perched in child seats in the back. The blonde woman was the only driver in the overtaking convoy who didn’t turn and look at her like she was an idiot, something Jasmine considered profoundly ironic.

  At least this particular panic had been precipitated by a Passat, rather than merely a silver car. That was progress but she needed to let it go, and not react until there was something to react to.

  In the days since she was followed the truth was that she hadn’t spotted anything further to be genuinely suspicious of. She’d seen a hundred silver vehicles and been wary of all of them, but that wasn’t vigilance, that was paranoia, and it was potentially counterproductive. With her so hung up on this silver Passat, if the guy knew what he was doing he could have been invisibly following her for days via the simple expedient of driving any other vehicle.

  The thought of it made her shudder. Why would anybody be tailing her? Her principal suspicion was Hamish Queen, or rather someone working on his behalf. He had lied, he had made the assumption that Tessa Garrion was missing and he had the wherewithal to make things happen quickly. However, according to Sanquhar, Queen had called all of the surviving Glass Shoe players as soon as he’d finished talking to Jasmine. If one of them had something to hide it could have been any of them who had organised a tail, or even followed her themselves. It wasn’t as though she’d have been hard to track down: Sharp Investigations was in the Yellow Pages, as well as linked on a thousand websites following last summer’s press.

  From what Sanquhar had said, it sounded like they all might have something to hide, as well as reputations well worth protecting. He had hinted at repercussions, or at least how she wouldn’t be popular for excavating this period of their collective pasts. Finlay Weir was a teacher, Sanquhar had suggested maybe even the head of a school, and in this day and age even trace elements of scandal could be toxic. You could get fired for pretty much anything except being a rubbish teacher.