Lamb to the Slaughter

by Aline Templeton

  ‘What did she say?’ MacNee had hardly touched his pint: he was leaning across the table, fixing his dark eyes on Macdonald with such intensity that the younger man almost felt pinned to his chair.

  ‘Didn’t think he’d have scarpered just at that time. Inviting suspicion.’

  ‘Might have been sure he’d get clean away, if he left early enough,’ MacNee pointed out. ‘And the police arriving might not have been what prompted it. He could just have been packing up anyway.’

  Macdonald liked that. ‘I should have thought of that! Big Marge always sounds convincing and I don’t see what’s wrong with it. Thanks, Tam.’

  But MacNee was frowning. ‘There’s still the sheep, though. How would the sheep fit in? That’s what made me sure Christina couldn’t have done it.’

  That effing sheep again! Macdonald was getting sick of the problematic animal, and seized on the chance to turn the conversation. ‘Did you take the dog back? How was Christina?’

  ‘Aye, went up this afternoon. Bewildered mostly – well, given what you just told me, she would be, wouldn’t she? She still thinks she’s somehow on a murder charge, but I don’t think she’s anything like as scared as she was when she thought those toerags might attack her.’

  ‘We’re waiting on the fiscal varying the charge. If we pick up Spencer, it’ll put a boot up his backside. You can’t charge two separate people with the same offence.’

  ‘Sounds to me as if you’ve a way to go before you charge anyone,’ MacNee pointed out.

  ‘We’re working on it.’ Macdonald had finished his pint. ‘Drink up, Tam, and I’ll get you the other half. Same again?’

  Absent-mindedly, MacNee downed the two-thirds of a pint he had left and handed the empty glass to Macdonald. ‘Thanks, lad.’

  When Macdonald came back, MacNee said, ‘I’ve been thinking about it. I’m with the boss on the problem of the sheep. Cheers!’

  Macdonald was getting exasperated. ‘What’s with the sheep?’ he demanded. ‘It’s all Campbell’s fault – he started her on that. But for God’s sake! One of the neds we know and love took a fancy to pot a sheep – so?’

  ‘And he had a shotgun? And a vehicle, capable of picking it up and carting it from the field where they shot it, to drop it in the Craft Centre – and why?’

  Having silenced Macdonald, MacNee went on, ‘It has to be linked. Far too similar – too close in time and too close in connection with people involved – for it to be coincidence.

  ‘There’s two possibilities. The sheep’s a message, saying something to someone, and as a starting-point we need to know who it was for and what it said.’

  ‘OK, OK. With you so far. The other one?’

  ‘The other is that it’s all unconnected. There’s no reason for it at all – someone playing weird games out there, taking pot shots at anything he fancies because he’s sick in the head. Can’t think why the boss can’t see that.’

  Macdonald was silent for a moment. ‘Oh, she sees it all right. It’s just that she’s refusing to recognise it.’

  The party was quite as ghastly as Fiona had expected it to be. In fact, she found herself feeling thankful to have the excuse of circulating with the plates so that she couldn’t stop and talk to pitying friends. They said things like, ‘Oh, Fiona, you are so clever – such delicious things, for so many of us greedy people! You must give me your card for our next party.’ Which, for commercial reasons, she’d have to do, ­smiling and looking grateful for their patronage.

  She wasn’t sure whether it was better or worse than being treated by Dan Simpson, who ran the clay-pigeon shoot, and Johnny Black, who organised the motocross events and ran a shop selling motorbikes, for heaven’s sake, as if they were all erks together. With a frozen smile on her face, she had moved on as quickly as she could.

  Giles had done a few dutiful rounds with the wine, but now, she noticed, Gemma seemed to have taken over. Fiona looked round for her husband and found him propped in a corner with a couple of men she didn’t recognise. He wasn’t taking much part in the conversation and his eyes were glassy.

  Her lips tightened. There was no point in making a scene; if she insisted that he return to his duties, he’d probably fall over, which wouldn’t help anything. She’d have to tell Gemma not to give him any more. She’d yell at him later – probably tomorrow. Tonight he’d be feeling no pain but by tomorrow when the hangover had kicked in he’d be feeling terrible even before she started.

  Wilfrid Vernor-Miles hailed her. ‘Fiona! How’s my favourite professional lady?’

  She beamed at him as he came across to kiss her on both cheeks. Wilf was always so charming! ‘For that, you may have a vol-au-vent,’ she said gaily. ‘Two, even, if you like.’

  ‘And what will that do for my spreading waistline? You’re a wicked woman!’ He shook his head at her.

  Just as he was helping himself, the drawing-room door opened and Murdoch Forbes-Graham appeared, ushering in a young man. He was slight and creamy-skinned, with dark oriental eyes, and he was wearing a suit which to Fiona shrieked Savile Row.

  Heads had turned, as they do at a new arrival, and then, though they were politely turned away again at once, a little ripple passed through the company.

  ‘Who on earth is that?’ Fiona asked.

  Vernor-Miles barely glanced at her. ‘That’s our newest neighbour, Zack Salaman – I must go and introduce myself, make him welcome to the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Neighbour? Where?’ She was intrigued. You didn’t often see such an exotic creature, here in the sticks.

  ‘Fauldburn, of course.’ Then he stopped, suddenly realising who he was talking to. ‘Oh – I’m frightfully sorry. Think I may have put my foot in it. You don’t know him?’

  ‘Fauldburn!’ Fiona really thought she might faint. ‘Who is he?’

  Vernor-Miles looked round desperately for support, but everyone round about was engrossed in conversation.

  ‘It’s all round the neighbourhood – you don’t mean you haven’t heard? Oh ... look, this is most terribly awkward, but I suppose you’ll have to know sometime. I’d have thought the lawyer would have told you. He’s Andrew Carmichael’s grandson. Wrong side of the blanket, of course.’

  ‘Grandson ...? Sorry – could you take this? I’m – I’m not feeling well.’

  She thrust the platter into Vernor-Miles’s hands and half-ran out of the room. He took it and made his way, with some relief, into the nearest group. ‘Vol-au-vent, anyone? Shocking business just now, poor Fiona Farquharson, didn’t know a thing about it...’

  How very ugly they all were, these women – bulky, badly dressed, coarse-featured! Even the young among them, in what should be the bloom of youth, were totally unappealing: in their faces and figures you could already see the seeds of destruction which would turn them into their mothers in a few years’ time. And no wonder, the way they were grazing on these greasy pastries, so clumsily presented. Zack Salaman waved away a waitress who was presenting a tray.

  He was well aware of the sensation he was causing, and the surprise and gratification of his host and hostess. They had sent an invitation via the lawyers, and with nothing better to do he had come tonight on a whim, prompted by a mild curiosity about the society which had produced his ancestors. He was regretting it now as he began to ache with boredom.

  Though perhaps it was laying one or two ghosts for him, at that. He’d wondered, a little painfully sometimes, about the other side of his heritage, but the blood of his Scottish forebears was not stirring now. There was nothing here that spoke to him, nothing at all. His own background was one of simple elegance in food, in clothes, in architecture and decor, and this overblown Victorian style, with the heads of dead animals in the hall and elaborate carving and blowsy chintzes here in the upstairs drawing-room, was an affront to his aesthetic sense.

  The only interesting thing in the room was a very striking, very clever large abstract, and he kept looking at it even as he nodded, smiled and made polite
responses to people who so oozed curiosity that it was surprising they didn’t leave a slimy trail behind them on the floor. The painting was good, very good.

  When Deirdre Forbes-Graham came up to him with yet another local grande dame demanding to be introduced, he took the first opportunity the other woman allowed to ask about them.

  ‘I very much admire your taste in art. May I ask who is the artist?’

  ‘It’s her son,’ the large lady supplied before Deirdre could speak. She was wearing a tartan silk blouse with a frilled piecrust collar, bought, he reckoned, at the time the late Princess of Wales had made it fashionable. She had obviously put on weight since then and the pearl buttons down the front were fighting a brave but losing battle against her imposing bosom.

  ‘Not here tonight, is he, Deirdre? Playing hooky!’ She gave a bellowing laugh, and Salaman noticed one of the buttons quietly give up the unequal struggle.

  Colour rose in Deirdre’s face. ‘He’s been a little under the weather lately,’ she said defensively. ‘Great artists put so much of themselves into their work that they become totally exhausted by it. It’s hard for mere mortals such as us to understand.’

  Salaman was not in the habit of considering himself a ‘mere’ mortal, but he was interested enough to pursue his enquiries. ‘I’m sorry not to meet him. Does he exhibit in London – or would he perhaps consider a commission?’

  Deirdre looked hunted. ‘He’s doing very well in London, of course. His last exhibition was a sell-out, but I’m not sure he’s accepting commissions at the moment. Still, you’ll have plenty of time to discuss it. With you as a near neighbour now, we’ll be seeing lots of each other, I’m sure.’

  Salaman made a deprecating gesture. ‘There could be ­nothing more charming. But alas, I have my legal practice in London—’

  The large lady snorted disapproval. ‘Never a good thing, an absentee landlord. Your grandfather wouldn’t have liked it, you know.’

  Salaman did not like impertinence and his mouth tightened. ‘I barely knew him,’ he said coldly. ‘I’m afraid I feel no obligation to try to imagine what he might have liked.’ Indeed, au contraire, but that was another matter.

  The woman recoiled. ‘Well, really!’ she said as Salaman, with a slight bow, moved away. He heard her go on, ‘Not a very nice young man,’ and Deirdre’s flustered reply, ‘We felt it was only polite to send an invitation but I never thought for a minute that he would come. I hope there isn’t trouble.’

  The sooner he left the better. He was making his way towards the door and was disconcerted to find Johnny Black appearing at his side.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Salaman! Being made welcome by your new neighbours, I see.’

  ‘In their own way, I daresay. I wouldn’t have expected to find you among them.’

  The implication was offensive, but Black said cheerfully, ‘Oh, a cut above my level. I do some work for Mr Forbes-Graham. He has a motocross circuit here and I run the meetings for him.’

  ‘As part of your new career?’ Salaman had been irritated by what felt like trespass on his territory, when Black had announced he was giving up the detective agency and staying here; he’d fallen in love with the place, he’d said, though ­Salaman suspected a woman was involved. Still, it had all worked out quite well, with Black on the spot and ready to take on any job that needed doing.

  ‘Career?’ Black laughed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t aspire to that sort of thing. But I’m happy here, got what I want.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Salaman said, with a smile meant as dismissal.

  But Black went on, ‘I hope you were satisfied, sir, with what I did—’

  Salaman cut him short. ‘I told you to send me your account. All right?’ He turned away, his mouth a thin line of displeasure.

  A woman was standing behind him, so close that he almost bumped into her, a stout woman with badly dyed blonde hair. Her cheeks were mottled puce and her eyes, red-rimmed, looked wild.

  ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’ she said so loudly that despite the baying din of well-bred voices, heads began to turn.

  Salaman loathed being made to feel conspicuous. ‘No,’ he said acidly. ‘I don’t. Should I?’

  ‘Should you? Oh yes, you should. I am the wife of Andrew Carmichael’s legitimate heir, and you’d better come and be introduced before we meet in court. You can explain how you weaselled your way into an old man’s favour, made him cut out the nephew who has been his support all these years, being groomed to take over Fauldburn and run it the way it should be run.’

  Fiona grabbed his elbow. Rigid with embarrassment, his face a mask of cold fury, Salaman removed her hand. ‘If you insist, I will follow you. But oblige me by keeping your hands to yourself.’

  She glared at him, then turned and marched across to the corner where Giles was still standing, alone now and glassy-eyed, his jaw dropping slightly.

  The room had gone very quiet. Murdoch Forbes-Graham was elbowing his way urgently through his guests. ‘Excuse me – excuse me—’

  Fiona turned to her husband. ‘This, Giles, is Uncle Andrew’s bastard grandson. I thought you two should meet.’

  ‘Bloody hell – a wog!’ Giles said blankly, took a step away from the wall, swayed, then passed out on the carpet at ­Salaman’s feet.

  It was after half-past seven when Sandy Langlands knocked on Fleming’s door. She had a desk piled with papers and was staring at the computer screen when he went in. She looked weary and rubbed at her eyes as she leaned back.

  ‘Sandy. What can I do for you?’ She looked at her watch. ‘Just knocking off?’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am. But I’ve been chatting to DS Wilson and he said I ought to come and tell you something right away.’

  He saw Fleming’s eyes narrow and she sat up in her chair. ‘Useful?’

  Feeling unhappy, Langlands said, ‘Don’t think he thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Oh. Hit me with it, anyway.’

  ‘You know there’s an APB out for Pete Spencer, in connection with the murders? Well, I know Dan Simpson who’s a pal of his – used to live here, then went to London for a while and came back not long ago.

  ‘I was walking home last night and Dan came along with Spencer. He introduced me and we were standing talking when two motorbikes went past, so fast we turned to look at them, and Dan made a joke about me running after them to book them. I’ve checked the times, and that was when Barney Kyle and his mate were on their way up to the farm, and it was only twenty minutes later they found his body.

  ‘Pete Spencer couldn’t have killed Kyle, at least. Dan ­Simpson could corroborate that.’

  Dismayed, he saw that Fleming was looking as if he’d punched her in the face. But she only said, ‘Thanks, Sandy. Will’s right – it’s not what I was hoping to hear, but it’s good sound evidence.

  ‘Get a statement from Simpson tomorrow, and have ­someone take yours, and we’ll feed that in and see where we are.’

  The door shut behind Langlands. Fleming put her head down on the desk and groaned, feeling sick. That was the obvious, logical suspect eliminated. She’d been proved right in the doubts she’d had, but this time she’d have settled for being wrong.

  It was only four days, of course, since the Colonel’s death, twenty-four hours since Barney Kyle’s, so not having it all wrapped up was hardly surprising. What had she expected? A revelation direct from on high? Police work was reading, and sifting, and collating, and she had plenty of ideas for follow-up investigations. Christina and Spencer were both eliminated, so that had to narrow the field.

  Yes, but ... She knew the feeling she got when things were starting to fall into place, and she didn’t have it. Suppose they were, as had been suggested several times already, in the realms of unreason. Where did you start? And when might the next victim appear?

  16

  The headline in the Scottish Sun, ‘Sniper Strikes Galloway Town?’, had provoked a media frenzy, just as if the ­question mark in
the title hadn’t been there. To DI Fleming, at her desk with a constantly ringing phone, it felt almost difficult to breathe, as if the air had been sucked out by the firestorm it had created. She was trying not to look again at the double-page spread, open in front of her, which featured snipers who had conducted reigns of terror in other, mainly American, towns.

  She was waiting for a summons from Superintendent Bailey, who had been thrown by the Chief Constable to the lions of the press, armed only with a statement which condemned irresponsible speculation, pointed out that the investigations were still in their very early stages, with fresh evidence coming in all the time, and rounded off with the usual appeal to the public for information, in particular any activity near Wester Seton farm.

  It was intended to assure the population that there was no need for alarm and to dampen down the wildest of the rumours, but Fleming suspected that even Bailey – a man not given to underestimating his capabilities – had few illusions about the outcome.

  He sounded fraught on the phone when he returned and she set off for his office with the sinking feeling she remembered from schoolgirl encounters with higher authority. She had to keep telling herself she hadn’t done anything wrong. It just felt that way.

  Bailey was slumped back in his chair, mopping at perspiration on his bald head with a red spotted handkerchief. His complaints began as she opened the door.

  ‘It was a bear garden out there, Marjory – a bear garden! Jostling, shoving, shouting – I could hardly make myself heard. All they were interested in was yelling questions without listening to the answers.’

  Fleming sat down. ‘Did you manage to give your statement?’

  ‘Oh, eventually. But they weren’t interested. I wasn’t telling them what they wanted to hear. They’ve all made up their minds that we’re going to be gunned down in the streets. Asked if we were bringing in troops to protect the public, for God’s sake!

  ‘That was the point at which I said I had made my statement and had no further comment to make. Then I left in a dignified manner, which I hope will go down well on TV – if they even show it.’