Lamb to the Slaughter

by Aline Templeton

  ‘North Africa. Taking Ryanair this afternoon.’ Spencer looked at his watch. ‘In fact, I’d better not hang about. Just finish this, then away to the sun.’

  ‘Some boys have all the luck.’ The Irishman looked out of the pub window. ‘It’s come on to rain again.’

  ‘Is this not just what you call “a fine soft day”?’ Spencer suggested, then drained his glass and held out his hand. ‘Pleasure meeting you. Good luck.’

  The Irishman took it. ‘And the same to yourself, now. Happy landings.’

  15

  ‘Andy!’

  DS Macdonald was heading for the CID room when Sergeant Jock Naismith hailed him. ‘I’ve been looking for you!’

  ‘Been with the boss. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Christina Munro’s kicking up stink. She’s out on bail and she’d been told the animal protection people were looking after her livestock, but when she got back the dog wasn’t there and they didn’t know anything about it. She’s in a fine state. You were up there last night, weren’t you? Do you know anything about it – one of these retired greyhounds?’

  ‘It’s OK, Jock. Tam MacNee took it home with him. I’ll call him and get him to take it back.’

  ‘Tam went up there last night? He’s a brave man.’ Naismith was impressed. ‘Big Marge’ll do her nut if she finds out.’

  ‘She knows already. He’d sort of an excuse, but he’ll be a bit more careful now about getting involved.’

  Naismith gave him a cynical look. ‘Pull the other one, laddie – it plays “Flower of Scotland”,’ he said as he walked away.

  Macdonald took out his mobile and speed-dialled MacNee’s. ‘Tam? Andy here. It’s about the dog. They’ve bailed Christina Munro and she’s wanting it back.’

  There was, he thought, a disappointed silence. ‘I suppose she is,’ MacNee said at last. ‘Och well, I’ll take him up to her this afternoon. I’d got sort of used to the beast, though. Cut above the rubbish Bunty usually drags home.’

  ‘Maybe you should get a dog of your own,’ Macdonald suggested, tongue-in-cheek.

  ‘Me? You’re kidding. Bunty’s menagerie’s trouble enough, without going out looking for more.

  ‘Here, what’s been happening today? Any new developments?’

  ‘Look, Tam, the boss has told you, I’ve told you, you’re sitting this one out. Do you not think you’ve done enough damage?’

  ‘What harm would a wee chat over a pint do?’ MacNee coaxed. ‘We’re old mates, just happened to run into each other in the Cutty Sark, say, or the Salutation, whichever you prefer—’

  ‘No, Tam. That’s it. Get better quick, and then you can buy me all the drinks you like.’

  ‘Dream on!’ Then MacNee’s tone changed. ‘Well, Andy, it saddens me to have to do this, but I think I’m going to have to tell Big Marge about all the information you’ve been giving me. It’s my conscience, see – I don’t like to feel I’m deceiving her, and with you being her sergeant I think she should know how you’ve treated her instructions with contempt.’

  ‘For God’s sake! Blackmail, even!’ Macdonald gave an ­exasperated sigh. ‘Oh well – I suppose so. MacNee, you’re a bastard.’

  He could hear the smile in the man’s voice. ‘Oh aye, right enough. But I’m a cunning bastard.’

  Catriona Fleming let herself into the house, dragging her feet. She felt terribly tired, as if someone had attached lead weights to her hands and feet.

  There had been a dreadful atmosphere in school today, with the teachers shocked and solemn and the girls in tears half the time. She’d had the embarrassment of having everyone looking at her when Will Wilson and Tansy Kerr were doing interviews because she knew them, and she’d been a bit rude when they were questioning her. She didn’t know anything, anyway.

  Then there had been one of these awful form sessions where they were meant to give healthy expression to what they thought, which was, like, totally embarrassing. Eventually someone had gone, ‘But they were bullies, weren’t they? That’s really bad,’ and then there’d been, ‘Yeah, but she shouldn’t ...’ and, ‘Well, if they hadn’t ...’ until the bell went.

  Cat had taken no part in it. It had reflected, all too clearly, the struggle she was having in her own mind. What they had done to the old lady was cruel and horrible, but they were her friends and she was by nature loyal. The teacher had noticed her silence and stopped her afterwards to say there were counsellors in school if she wanted to talk to somebody. She’d said no, she was fine – everyone knew counsellors were rubbish – but she felt awful inside.

  She dumped her bag in the mud-room. She’d seen her father in the distance, out on the quad bike, and Cammie had a squad practice, so the house would be empty.

  But when she opened the kitchen door, the warm, clean smell of laundered linen greeted her. Karolina was there, standing at the ironing board with a neat pile of ironed clothes on the table in front of her and a rather larger unironed pile in a basket at her feet.

  Karolina was small, with neat, short fair hair, blue eyes and a pink-and-white complexion. She wasn’t pretty, but she looked as if she’d be a nice person. Her English, though it wasn’t quite fluent yet, seemed to be improving by the day. She greeted Cat with a shy smile.

  ‘I am sorry – today I am late. Janek had to see doctor for his cold. I make tea for you, Cat?’

  At the mention of her name, a toddler poked his curly blond head out from under the table. He had blue eyes like his mother and a very runny nose. ‘Cat! Cat!’ He scampered towards her on all fours.

  She knew the routine. ‘Miaow,’ she said, though without enthusiasm. ‘No thanks, Karolina. I’ll grab a Coke.’

  She fetched it from the fridge as Karolina pounced on her son and subjected him to a ruthless clean-up. Cat was heading for her own room when Karolina said diffidently, ‘I think you are sad, Cat? Something is wrong?’

  Cat began to cry. ‘Horrible!’ she wailed, and sat down at the table, sobbing. Karolina unplugged the iron, put it safely on a shelf and sat down beside her. Janek, distressed by Cat’s tears, was hugging her legs and ready to cry in sympathy. His mother gently detached him and sat him on her knee where he put his thumb in his mouth and looked on, wide-eyed and solemn as Cat poured out her misery.

  Karolina didn’t speak until she had talked herself out. Then she said, ‘This is very, very sad. So – careless, is this right? To throw away—’

  ‘Wasteful,’ Cat supplied. Yes, that was exactly what it was. ‘Unnecessary,’ she said, adding as Karolina looked enquiring, ‘It just means it didn’t have to happen.’

  ‘They did a not-nice thing, but he was nice – this boy who died?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cat stopped. ‘Well – no, he wasn’t, actually.’

  Karolina’s brow creased. ‘But – you like him?’

  Had she liked Barney Kyle? Liked him? He was cool, he was daring, he had a wild reputation. And he had fancied her, fourteen-year-old Cat Fleming. Her friends had been awed. That was what she’d liked, really, not the person whom she’d often seen being casually cruel when he felt like it.

  ‘He liked me,’ she said slowly. ‘And I suppose – I suppose I was flattered.’

  Karolina’s mouth twitched. ‘Ah! I know. I like a bad boy, once. He is very exciting. But – no good.’

  Cat was intrigued. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Is very rich! Black market in Poland, you could make very much money. But one day perhaps the police come—’ She shrugged. ‘Is better here.’

  ‘Doing our ironing?’ Cat always felt a little embarrassed, even though what Karolina did was just a job like any other.

  ‘Is a good place, here – good for children. And Rafael, he loves the farm. We have nice house and they are so nice, good people, your mum and dad.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Cat was reminded of her grievances. ‘She’s had it in for Barney and the others, right from the start. I got real grief because I was out with them when I shouldn’t have been. She said they wer
e bad news.’

  Even as the words came out of her mouth, she realised what she was saying. ‘Yeah, I know. But...’

  ‘You do not like that your mother is right? I know. I am the same, then. I ...’ she groped for the word, ‘forgive, I think – is right? Later.’

  Karolina set Janek on his feet and got up. ‘But I must do ironing, or no tea for Rafael tonight!’

  With considerable misgiving, Fleming had settled for the non-committal statement. She couldn’t say the major charge had been dropped until the fiscal had dropped it. By tomorrow he’d have had time to vary the complaint, and perhaps they might even have laid hands on Pete Spencer, or at least found hard evidence of his involvement. Or preferably both.

  The risk was, of course, that the press would assume Christina Munro’s guilt and write solemn whole-page articles about householders’ rights and the problem of the modern ned. They’d be baying for revenge when they realised they’d been on the wrong track.

  Damned if you did, damned if you didn’t, really – as with all dealings with the Fourth Estate. It was done now; no point in going over it again when there were reports by the dozen waiting to be read and it was after five already.

  It would have been good to get home in time to try to build bridges with Cat, but there wasn’t a chance. She phoned Bill, who was unsurprised at being told she’d be late.

  ‘Making progress?’ he asked.

  ‘Hard to say. One step forward, two steps back, probably. It usually is. How’s – how’s Cat?’

  From his guarded ‘All right’, Fleming guessed she was in the room.

  ‘That’s good,’ Marjory said lightly. ‘I’ll maybe see her if she’s still awake when I get home.’

  That was all she could do for the moment. So, leave that for now. There were more pressing matters to deal with, like the reports.

  It was almost seven o’clock when she had got through them, and she sat back to think about it. She just had to hope her misgivings about Spencer were wrong, because otherwise there were too many plausible suspects.

  Giles Farquharson had a whole twenty-five minutes ­unaccounted for. What was he doing during that time, and why had he lied about it? But Norman Gloag had lied too, and tried to convince his son to confirm that lie. Ossian Forbes-Graham – well, he seemed to have serious problems, and no very satisfactory account of his movements. And ­Salaman, who had a lot to gain from his grandfather’s death, had been less than frank and open about the detective he had employed. His alibi would no doubt stand up, but the Colonel’s killing, at least, had borne the hallmark of ­efficiency which characterised a professional killing. Could she imagine him hiring a hit man, to avoid sullying his own hands? Yes, she thought, she could. Without any difficulty at all.

  It just had to be Spencer – the tidy, logical solution. She liked that – because if she was left with the others, she still wasn’t sure who her prime suspect would be.

  If there was one thing Fiona Farquharson hated more than any other, it was being the hired help at a party where she knew the guests. This one would be particularly galling because Giles, along with some of the others employed on the estate, would be a guest too. The Forbes-Grahams liked to invite their employees occasionally, when they had a big party: Deirdre always said it was to thank them for all their hard work, but Fiona cynically suspected that it was to show off to their county friends about the number of staff they had.

  But she couldn’t refuse. It was all money, and she’d be doing it for the rest of her life now. She didn’t even have the comfort of dreaming about the parties she’d give at Fauldburn House one day, when she could settle old scores by blacklisting the hostesses who had been particularly patronising to her – Deirdre Forbes-Graham, for a start.

  She spooned chicken liver pâté into pastry cases, lined up on a tray ready for transportation to the Forbes-Grahams’ along with the cheese straws, tiny squares of quiche, vol-au-vents and cocktail sausages, told Gemma, who was already changed into her black-and-white waitress’s outfit, to start loading them into the car, then ran upstairs to change herself. There was no way Fiona would demean herself by wearing a uniform, but she always wore the Little Black Dress which suggested almost that she was one of the guests who was helping to hand things round, without provoking an accusation from the paying client that she was inappropriately attired.

  Giles should be here changing too, unless he had done so already. She didn’t think he had: there was no untidy pile of discarded clothes all over the floor that she would have to nag him about. She finished doing her hair, put on her make-up – though who, she thought bitterly, would even notice? – then went out and called down the stairs, ‘Giles! We’ll have to be leaving in five minutes.’

  She’d insisted that he look after the wine. Making himself useful was the least he could do, frankly, since he’d spend the evening drinking and then expect to be given a lift back. Being a cook was bad enough; she was damned if she’d be a chauffeur as well.

  There was no answer. Fiona ran downstairs to the office at the back of the house. ‘Giles, you’re going to be late!’ she scolded as she opened the door.

  Giles was sitting at his desk. As his wife came in, he made a clumsy attempt to hide the half-bottle of Famous Grouse and the glass he was holding. ‘Just – just on my way, old girl.’

  He got up, a little unsteadily, and Fiona’s lips tightened. It was the first time she’d caught him red-handed, but she’d known this was happening. He’d been reeking of the stuff ever since Uncle Andrew’s death – before it, in fact, now she came to think of it.

  ‘You’re going to have to see a doctor about your drinking,’ she said brutally. ‘If you lose your licence, you’ll lose your job, and you’ve done enough damage to this family’s prospects already.’

  ‘Nonsense! Just a sharpener, that’s all.’ Drink always made him more ready to stand up to his wife. ‘I’ll go up now.’

  As he passed his wife, she said unkindly, ‘Hurry if you can. You may have difficulty putting in your cuff-links. I’ll give you a clue – you’ll find the holes for them at the end of the arms of the shirt.’

  Andy Macdonald had chosen the lesser evil of the Cutty Sark. He’d be less likely to be spotted there than at the Salutation, where the lads tended to gather – not that they would run and clype to Big Marge, and they’d certainly sympathise with him if he explained, since Tam’s varied methods of coercion were the stuff of legend. But after the reminders he had passed on, being seen having a cosy chat wouldn’t improve his reputation for professional integrity.

  The bar tonight was fairly quiet. He could hear voices and laughter from the room on the farther side of the central fireplace and was just about to go round to see if MacNee was there when the man himself came strutting in the door, with that familiar cocky set to his shoulders under the battered black leather jacket, a smug smile on his acne-pitted face.

  ‘Time you were back at work, MacNee,’ Macdonald greeted him. ‘You’ve too much energy and you’re spending it all making life difficult for a man trying to do an honest day’s law enforcement.’

  The smile faltered slightly. ‘Never been better. Now I’ve just got to convince that stupid gomeril of a doctor when I see him tomorrow.’

  ‘He’ll let you back, I’m sure.’ Macdonald saw an opportunity here. ‘Tam, you’ll be round the nick tomorrow, ready to sort us all out.’

  ‘Certainly should be,’ MacNee growled.

  ‘So why don’t we leave it there for now? You’ll get all the information you want tomorrow—’

  ‘What a chancer! Forget it, Andy. Suppose I didn’t get back? And it hasn’t been one way, mind. I’ve given you a lot of useful information – and I bet you took the credit for it with Big Marge,’ he added shrewdly.

  In view of recent developments, Macdonald couldn’t deny it. Resigned to his fate, he looked around for a table.

  ‘I’ll set them up,’ MacNee went on. ‘And I’ve had a thought about Christina – tell you when
we sit down.’

  ‘Never mind about Christina.’ Macdonald enjoyed the surprised look MacNee gave over his shoulder.

  There was a table free in one of the darker corners of the bar where they were less likely to be conspicuous, and Macdonald had claimed it when MacNee came back with their pints.

  ‘Christina?’ he demanded, even before he took his first mouthful.

  Grinning, Macdonald took his own very deliberately, prolonging the suspense. ‘Didn’t do it,’ he said at last.

  ‘The Colonel? Well, I could have told you that.’ MacNee was scornful. ‘She’s not the type to go killing dumb animals, and you mark my words – whoever killed that sheep killed the Colonel too. And I always reckoned it was an accident with the boy, right from the start.’

  Provocatively, Macdonald took another pull at his pint. ‘No. She didn’t do that either,’ he said, and watched MacNee’s smug expression being replaced by astonishment. He was going to enjoy telling the lads about the day he saw MacNee at a loss for words.

  ‘Struck dumb, Tam?’

  ‘I – I don’t get it.’

  ‘She’d a gun that couldn’t have fired the shot. And Pete Spencer’s done a runner. Panicked last night when he saw the uniforms at his door. Romy Kyle came back to find he’d packed up all his things and gone. She’s no idea where he is and neither do we, as yet.’

  ‘Ireland, probably.’ MacNee spoke absently, his mind ­obviously elsewhere. Then he clicked his fingers. ‘Of course – the Colonel causing trouble for him, young Kyle causing problems too, more than likely—’

  ‘That’s the connection. Can’t see we’ve got anyone else in the frame at all with a link to them both.’

  Suddenly MacNee said, ‘But hang about! Police at the door, to tell her about Barney? But then—’

  ‘Yes,’ Macdonald admitted. ‘The boss picked up on that too. If he’d killed Barney, she couldn’t see why he should panic when he’d be expecting them to come. She’d one or two other problems with it as well, but you have to admit—’