Deirdre gasped. ‘Oh, Murdoch, you told me he had no access to a gun—’
‘Be quiet, Deirdre!’ he snapped. She gaped at him in hurt astonishment as he said in measured tones, ‘Naturally, my son has my permission to use anything that is my property. Including these guns.’
He’d cottoned on to the implications quickly, she’d give him that. Fleming tried again. ‘Is that altogether wise? If he is having treatment for medical problems—’
Deirdre sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘Who told you that? Did Ossian say he was?’
‘No,’ Fleming admitted. She couldn’t actually recall how they knew; MacNee had mentioned it and Ossian certainly hadn’t denied it.
‘Then you shouldn’t know anything about it!’ his mother said fiercely. ‘Medical confidentiality – I shall have to consider making a complaint.’
Oh, awa’ and bile yer heid! She had to bite back the coarse phrase, only saying flatly, ‘That’s a matter for you. Mr Forbes-Graham, had Ossian access to ammunition?’
‘God, I hope not!’ the man burst out. The strain was beginning to show. ‘Certainly not at home. I’ve taken particular care to keep it under lock and key in the estate office, and secure the premises whenever I leave.’
‘Because—?’ Fleming prompted.
‘Because I was afraid he would harm himself. I still am.’
Deirdre gave a cry of fright. ‘Oh no, no, Murdoch!’
‘I can understand your concern.’ Fleming came in quickly. ‘But surely he could get it on the internet – buy it in a shop—’
Murdoch was shaking his head. ‘The only computer is in the office. Technology has never interested Ossian. And he doesn’t drive – walks the five miles to the studio and back. Says he likes the exercise. If – if he got hold of ammunition, it must have been at the time he took the gun. Simpson’s been negligent, quite clearly. He’ll be looking for a job tomorrow.’
Deirdre’s tears were real enough now. ‘You said he couldn’t have got ammunition, you told me—’
He turned on her. ‘I said I was sure that my son hadn’t killed anyone, whatever anyone else might think. And I believe that.’
‘You’ve never spoken to me like that before – never!’
‘I’m sorry.’ It was a perfunctory apology. Murdoch turned to Fleming. ‘I think we’ve both had as much as we can take. Was there anything else?’
Unsettled was just how she liked her victims. Hastily she said, ‘Just one thing more. Where were you on Monday night – both of you?’
They looked at each other. ‘Monday,’ Murdoch said, frowning.
‘What did Ossian say?’ Deirdre asked innocently, but got no reply. She bit her lip, then suddenly her face brightened. ‘Oh, I remember! There was that documentary about Rothko on BBC2 that Ossian wanted to see. He and I watched it together, and you were in and out, Murdoch.’
‘That’s right!’ he exclaimed. ‘I had a phone call – there was a problem with cattle on the road and I had to dig out Farquharson to get them rounded up. We’d all had supper together before that, a nice family evening. Then there was the programme – two hours, wasn’t it? – and after that we all went to bed.
‘Is that what you wanted, inspector?’
‘Yes,’ said Fleming, but she lied. She hadn’t wanted that at all. Another line of enquiry had just petered out.
She escorted them out of the room, leaving them in the reception area with the promise that Ossian would be with them shortly. She and Macdonald went back through the glass door.
‘So where do we go from here, then?’ She felt bone-weary, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.
‘If you’ll forgive me for being blunt, boss, I reckon the short answer for you is, home.’ He hesitated, then said diffidently, ‘Sorry about your father.’
‘Thanks, Andy. I am too. Rather more than I expected to be, to tell you the truth, given his condition this last bit.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, I’ve been meaning to pull in the Farquharsons – discrepancies in their statements...’
‘Look, it’s your call, obviously. But if he did it, or if she did it, they’re not going to knock someone else off between now and tomorrow morning. And if it wasn’t one of them – well...’
He didn’t need to finish the sentence, and she didn’t want to finish it herself. And he was right; she’d found it hard to behave professionally during that last interview and it was after seven o’clock now. She was hungry and she was very, very tired. She wanted home, and Bill, and comfort.
‘OK, sarge, you win!’ she said, and saw that Macdonald’s smile held something of relief that, having stuck his neck out, she hadn’t torn his head off. What a monster she must be!
Norman Gloag woke in his chair with a start, confused for a moment. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, he felt queasy and his head was thumping; he had gone into work, but left early and started hitting the whisky on an empty stomach – a recipe for disaster. Blinking at his watch, he saw it was half-past seven. Somehow, the whole afternoon had vanished. He staggered to his feet, moaning, and headed for the kitchen.
The house was uncharacteristically silent. It made him feel disorientated, as if all that was familiar to him had vanished during a Rip van Winkle slumber. He filled a jug with water from the tap, fetched a tumbler and sat down at the table. He looked around him as he drank thirstily.
It was Maureen’s domain, the kitchen. It had been expensive enough, heaven knew, but it was untidy, with dirty dishes dumped on the surface waiting to go into the dishwasher. He looked round him with distaste. There was a greasy pan steeping in the sink and the laminate floor needed washing.
His world was falling apart around him. He’d had a vision of success which would take him to a different level, open up whole new avenues for him – a new life, indeed – and the cup had been dashed from his eager lips. And in addition to that, he was facing serious trouble.
He’d been arrogant. Bullying and bluster had always worked before as intimidation, but he had seriously underestimated the police. He’d got himself into a hole and hadn’t been smart enough to know when to stop digging.
Gloag rubbed his brow, as if he could wipe away the fog within. There must be something he could do, on that front at least. A long evening stretched ahead with nothing but miserable thoughts to occupy his mind, an evening when, if he wanted a clear head, he couldn’t even have recourse to the whisky bottle. A long, long evening, with the prospect of a troubled night ahead.
Surely there was something he could do? He looked at his watch again, then got up and went to the phone.
‘Good evening. This is Councillor Gloag. Is DI Fleming available? Oh, I see. Then could I make an appointment with her for first thing tomorrow morning?’
The kitchen, when Marjory Fleming reached it, was empty. Even Meg, the collie, wasn’t curled up by the stove, so Bill must be out doing his rounds, or perhaps there had been one of the regular farm emergencies. She opened the door to the hall, but she couldn’t hear any sound of life. Ever since the kids got iPods they had listened to their music through headphones; she’d never thought she’d miss the infuriating sound of a thumping bass percolating downstairs, but now the silence made her feel very alone. She could hardly go up to her children’s rooms and beg for company.
Marjory went back into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialled Janet’s number, anxious to hear how she was, but the phone rang until the answering service cut in. She must have been scooped up by friends to have supper. Marjory left a loving message, then went to fetch supper for herself.
She was looking bleakly into the freezer – why did she go on buying macaroni cheese when no one really liked it? – when there was a tap on the door and Karolina came in. She was carrying a tray with a dish on it from which came a delicious, savoury smell. Marjory’s mouth was watering before she even said, ‘Oh, Karolina! How lovely!’
‘I watch for your car. You have hard job and you are very sad – you need good f
ood.’
Marjory was very touched. ‘And kindness. And a glass of wine – but I don’t want to drink alone. Can I get one for you?’
Karolina smiled. ‘Why not? Rafael is there. I look after Janek all day – he has a cold, and tonight he is – bloody awful. Is that right?’
Marjory laughed. ‘Spot on, I should say.’ She found glasses and a wine box while Karolina dished up the stew. ‘That looks wonderful. What is it?’ She sat down and began to eat.
‘Bigos. I can tell you how to make—’
‘It’s delicious, but don’t bother. I could make caviar taste like fish paste, just spooning it out of the jar. Cheers! I really am grateful – it all just felt a bit bleak when I came home and there was no one around. Do you know where Bill is?’
‘He is going out as Rafael is coming home from feeding stirks. He says there is “cowpit yowe” but I don’t what this is.’
‘A sheep on its back somewhere. He shouldn’t be long, unless it’s managed to harm itself in the process, which is the average sheep’s main aim in life.
‘Have you seen my mother today?’
‘No. Bill, he goes in to do the things you must, you know?’
Marjory nodded. ‘Yes, register the death, speak to the undertaker, probably.’ Bill, as usual, had taken on the family duties that would have fallen on her shoulders: did she really appreciate him enough?
‘She is with her friends, he says. Is best, I think.’
‘Yes, is best.’ Basic English was catching. ‘I suppose. But really I should be with her, making all the arrangements, shouldn’t I?’
Karolina gave her a surprisingly straight look. ‘Why? You have important job, like a man. Bill likes this – he is happy to do these things. He is good – good for Rafael, too, to see this in him.’
This was almost the longest conversation she’d ever had with Karolina, and Marjory was interested. ‘You feel it won’t do Rafael any harm to have to cope with your son this evening, without you hurrying back?’
She’d never really thought she’d actually see someone doing this, but Karolina definitely dimpled. ‘Is good start,’ she said demurely.
Marjory burst out laughing, just as the kitchen door opened and Bill came in with Meg, who pranced over to greet her mistress. He had been looking anxious; now his face cleared.
‘That’s a good sound to come home to! How are you, love?’ He came over to kiss her and smiled at Karolina. Then he looked at Marjory’s almost empty plate. ‘Hey! What’s that you’ve got? It looks a lot better than what we had – pizza and oven chips.’
‘If it weren’t for Karolina, I’d have been stuck with macaroni cheese again. No, don’t go—’ Marjory exclaimed, as Karolina got up, her wine unfinished.
‘I think is long enough, at first. I don’t want to—’ She hesitated, groping for the words.
‘Push your luck?’ Marjory suggested, and then they both laughed.
‘What was that about?’ Bill demanded as Karolina left.
‘Oh, just girl-talk,’ Marjory said. ‘I don’t get enough of it.’
Unlike Karolina, she had drunk her wine; she finished off what was on her plate and got up. ‘Come on, Meg. It’s my bet Karolina’s laid the fire in the sitting-room. I’ll put a match to it while you bring the Bladnoch, Bill.’
There was a disappointed silence in the car as DC Kerr drove MacNee back to Kirkluce after an abortive visit to the gun shop. They had both been hoping to return with confirmation from the owner that Ossian Forbes-Graham had gone there to buy buckshot. He hadn’t, and nor had anyone else recently. The man was quite definite. He knew the Forbes-Grahams, sold very little buckshot, and none of it to Ossian.
It wasn’t conclusive, of course, but the disappointing outcome of their enquiry meant everything would be much more difficult, checking out mail order and the internet. They drove away in gloomy silence.
‘So where does that leave us?’ Kerr said at last.
‘Unless the boss has taken Ossian round the back and got him to confess, we need to keep the other options open.’
‘What other options? As far as I can see, we’re running out of them.’
‘I was just thinking we should do a bit more on Barney Kyle – or Dylan Burnett, even, if you go along with Ewan’s idea about mistaken identity.
‘I’ve never spoken to Romy Kyle. I’ll maybe away round first thing tomorrow and just have a word with her. I’ve spoken to Ellie already, but you can’t get any sense out of her – the woman’s away with the fairies most of the time.’ He sighed. ‘Bonny, though, and sings like a wee lintie.’
Kerr, about to make a caustic remark, thought the better of it. If you were going to do a ‘me-too’, mocking the man wasn’t a smart way to begin.
‘I could give you backup – a woman’s touch and all that,’ she offered, trying to sound offhand.
MacNee wasn’t fooled. ‘Och, I’m in a generous mood. You’re needing to be in on the big breakthrough when it comes, if you’re to get yourself back in the boss’s good books, and you’re not going to get that doing paperwork, are you?’
‘Thanks, Tam,’ Kerr said, squirming only a little. Eventually, she supposed, they’d all forget what she’d done. Even if she didn’t herself.
Dylan and Johnny were in the front room with the door shut. Ellie Burnett could hear the familiar sounds of a football match in progress – the roaring of the crowd, the synthetic excitement of the commentator, a groan from the men as a decision didn’t go their way.
She shut the front door of the flat with exaggerated caution, though it was very unlikely they could hear it, then went down the stairs to the yard below. Johnny’s workshop was locked up and the big gates across the entrance were closed. She could see the padlock he had attached today to the bar across them, but she had taken the bunch of keys he kept on a hook upstairs.
Ellie unlocked the padlock and swung the bar away; it clanked, and she shot an anxious glance at the curtained windows above. They didn’t move and she heard a shout of triumph from inside as she swung open the gate, then pulled it to behind her and went out into the High Street.
Usually at this time, half-past eight, it would be if not exactly busy, then well populated with folk going to pubs and restaurants and youngsters ‘hanging out’, as they always said. Tonight, you’d have guessed it was one o’clock in the morning, apart from the lights in the houses where frightened people had stayed indoors.
Ellie had two choices. It was almost like tossing a coin, though she knew it was heavily weighted in favour of one of them. What were the chances, at this time of night, that the other would be available? Still, with everything – or almost everything – stripped away, she had reached bedrock. What was somehow still part of her, bred in the bone, meant she had to allow that option its chance to dispel the darkness that was gathering round her with some sort of miracle.
The Roman Catholic church was a small, low, whitewashed building just off the High Street. It didn’t have a large congregation and she hadn’t added to it, except at Christmas or Easter, and not always even then. Ellie couldn’t remember the last time she had been to confession, didn’t know the hours for it. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was this evening. She rehearsed the words in her head: Bless me, father, for I have sinned ... Would she be able to go on, after that opening? Was there any point in trying? Could it change what she felt, in her heart of hearts, must happen next?
If the church was closed, if there was no priest there waiting to save her soul, she hadn’t made the decision – God had.
As she approached the church, it was clear what that decision was. There were no lights on, no cars parked outside, but even so she went up to the heavy doors, rattled the unyielding handle and then, in a frenzy of despair, battered on them with her clenched fists.
When she stopped, the silence engulfed her. A breeze had sprung up, with a cutting edge to it, but she stood with her head bowed until she began to shiver. Then she shook herself like a dog and walked away. There wa
s only one answer now.
Ellie felt in her pocket and the banknote crackled reassuringly in her fingers. If God wouldn’t help her, there was someone she knew in a backstreet near here who would.
22
It was far too long since Marjory had sat with Bill, swirling her malt in the heavy crystal tumbler, here in the comfortable, shabby sitting-room. Under Karolina’s care, the brass fender which bore the scars of age and family life was glittering in a way it never had before and the wood of the old-fashioned furniture, which had belonged to Bill’s parents, and indeed grandparents, now had a patina which glowed in the soft light of the side lamps. The nights were drawing in and it had started raining: with the cheerful blaze of the fire and Meg blissfully stretched out on the rug, it seemed more than ever a haven of comfort.
They talked family business: the funeral was to be on Saturday, Janet was being cherished by friends who were helping her prepare the service, Cammie was fine, Cat was very subdued.
‘She’s had a lot to cope with,’ Marjory sighed. ‘She hasn’t had anyone she knew die before, and two within days is shattering. Especially when one was someone her own age – you believe you’re immortal, till one of your friends dies. I remember when that happened to this day, and I was eighteen at the time.’
‘Are you any nearer to knowing who did it? Probably the last thing you want to think about tonight, but—’
‘No,’ she said. ‘If you’re in listening mood, it would help to talk.’
Bill leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. ‘Nothing better to do, unless someone else finds another sheep with an ambition to practise somersaults.’
‘The thing is, it just seems to be trickling through my fingers. Every time, it’s promising, then it doesn’t work out. We’re not even close.’
Lamb to the Slaughter Page 33
