The Third Sin

by Aline Templeton

  ‘That’s right, the inquest,’ MacNee said. ‘Was he staying with you then?’

  ‘Staying here? That man? Of course not!’ Philippa’s voice was shrill. ‘I wouldn’t give him house room after what happened to Julia. Her poor mother – and it was all his fault.’

  ‘But I understand he stayed here on previous occasions,’ Fleming said.

  ‘Who told you that?’ Randall demanded.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Randall, they won’t tell you,’ Philippa said. ‘He only stayed here once or twice, Inspector, as a friend of my son’s. I had no idea what he was doing.’

  ‘Oh yes you bloody did! You were always hanging round the Cyrenaics, trying to be included, puffing on joints with the best of them. It was embarrassing!’

  Philippa’s colour rose. ‘That’s not true! You always were one to say things for effect.’

  There was, MacNee decided, nothing he liked more than a floor show, when the witnesses did the job for them. He said provocatively, ‘Can we get this straight? You’re saying your son’s a liar, he’s saying you are. Are we meant to assume no one’s telling the truth about Mr Kane?’

  It was a Laurel and Hardy moment: the way they were glaring at each other, you could almost read the ‘Here’s another fine mess you’ve got me into’ thought bubble above their heads.

  Then Philippa said, ‘I’m sorry, that was a misunderstanding. When I said I didn’t know what he was doing, I mean that I didn’t realise the strength of the stuff he was supplying to poor Julia.’

  ‘Well, neither did I,’ Randall said unconvincingly.

  Fleming, clearly deciding that the fun had gone on long enough, stepped in. ‘We’re not really concerned with Mr Kane’s operations at that time. What we are anxious to find out is where the drugs he was supplying came from. I understand you and Julia Margrave knew him in Edinburgh, Mr Lindsay?’

  Randall shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Just Julia, really. I wasn’t much into drugs – a bottle of bubbly has more of a kick, as far as I’m concerned. And if you think a dealer is going to give you any clue to his sources, you’re quite remarkably naïve.’

  ‘You and Miss Margrave worked together at a bank in Edinburgh, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, Rutherford’s.’

  Why, MacNee wondered, had that particular question made the man uneasy? ‘That’s the bank you’re still with?’ he prodded.

  There was no mistaking the unease now. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘So you’re just having a wee break?’

  ‘That’s right. The party, you know – couldn’t miss that.’

  Philippa Lindsay was studying her fingernails.

  ‘So when did you come back here, Mr Randall?’ Fleming asked.

  ‘On Wednesday.’

  ‘You weren’t here on Monday April 14th?’

  ‘Why on earth would I be? I work in Paris.’

  ‘Thank you. And you, Mrs Lindsay? Where were you on that date?’

  Philippa shrugged. ‘At work, certainly. We have an interior design business and I would be there most of the day and early part of the evening. Then home, grab something to eat, fall into bed, I suppose. That’s the usual pattern. I don’t think I had any sort of social engagement.’

  ‘And someone can vouch for this?’

  ‘My husband, Charles. And there are a couple of women who work for us – they do shifts.’

  MacNee and Fleming exchanged glances. It was the first time they’d heard about a husband; only Philippa had been mentioned before.

  ‘Perhaps we could speak to him now?’ Fleming suggested.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s away on a buying trip.’

  ‘But he’ll be at this party, I take it?’

  Randall laughed. ‘You think? She’s having it over my father’s dead body – oh, not literally. At least,’ with a malicious glance at his mother, ‘I hope not. He says he doesn’t know why she wants to have it and to be honest neither do I.’

  Philippa compressed her thin lips. ‘I’m doing it because I have a duty to the community that comes with the property. And there is still a huge amount of work to be done for it, particularly in the garden, Randall. Unless there’s anything more you need from us, I’d be very grateful if you allowed us to get on with it. I’ve got a dozen people to see this morning.’

  DSI Taylor, masochistically reading newspapers in his Dumfries HQ office, looked up eagerly as DI Harris came in. ‘Something to report?’ Then, as he saw the look on Harris’s face, ‘Oh.’

  ‘You could call it progress of a sort.’ Harris was on the defensive. ‘We’ve eliminated one line of enquiry. The two men who were quarrelling in the car – they’ve come forward.’

  Dismay made Taylor bold. ‘But for God’s sake, man, that wasn’t just “one line of enquiry” – it was pretty much your only line of enquiry! What the hell am I supposed to say in the next press release?’

  Harris’s jaw tightened. ‘I thought bringing in DI Fleming was going to transform the whole investigation, but what has she come up with – nothing!’

  ‘Well, nothing so far,’ Taylor was forced to admit. ‘What about the searches on down the coast? Have they reported yet?’

  ‘Wild goose chase, like I said it would be.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Taylor ran his hand through his hair despairingly. ‘So where do we go from here, then?’

  ‘Better ask her, Tom. She’s in charge of the operation – you said it yourself.’

  ‘I have asked her. But of course she’s only had a couple of days—’

  ‘Three, counting today.’

  Stung by his relentless negativity, Taylor said, ‘The day’s not over yet. Let’s look on the bright side – Marjory’s doing a series of interviews today and there’s still time for something to come up that may change the whole thrust of the investigation.’

  ‘This one should be good,’ Fleming said as they drove through Ballinbreck to the Stewarts’ restaurant at the other end of the village. ‘I’ll be interested to see the place, for a start, after the way you and Louise described it. And coppers who go over to the dark side are always interesting too.’

  MacNee snorted. ‘You think? Money, usually – that’s all.’

  ‘OK, but that’s often just part of it. The job’s hierarchical and breaking the rules is a way of putting up two fingers, and if it makes you a profit on the side too, well and good. And it could be just that Stewart wanted to be in on this Cyrenaic group and had to go along with it. It hinges on how much he knew about Kane’s suppliers.’

  ‘They’ll have toasted his toes about that during the internal enquiry,’ MacNee said. ‘Can we get access to it?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Fleming said. ‘Legal problems with that, I suspect. We’ll just have to grill him ourselves – though he’s certainly given himself enough time to have his story absolutely straight.

  ‘Oh, there it is.’ She drove into The Albatross car park.

  To Fleming’s disappointment they were taken not upstairs to the restaurant with its velvet drapes and nasty prints, but through to the private quarters at the back by a cleaner in a pink overall who was obviously bursting with curiosity.

  Will Stewart was waiting for them in a pleasant sitting room with a view on to a small private courtyard, bright with pots of geraniums. He got up to shake hands, smiling affably, and said to the cleaner who was lingering in the doorway, ‘Thanks, Sandra – that’s OK.’ Reluctantly, Sandra withdrew.

  ‘Bit embarrassing, this,’ Stewart said, getting in first. ‘The classic bad apple, me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Were you, Mr Stewart?’ Fleming said with some interest. ‘How bad?’

  Stewart laughed easily. ‘Make it Will. Mr Stewart’s my brother. Oh, not rotten to the core. Just a few little bruises round the edges.’

  ‘How would you define “bruises”?’

  ‘Turning a blind eye, I suppose. Of course I knew about the drugs and you wouldn’t believe me if I
said I didn’t indulge. Weed certainly, the odd line of coke, but the equivalent of social drinking if the laws in this country were halfway realistic.’

  His manner was relaxed, almost chummy. ‘I’m not here to debate the law,’ Fleming said coldly. ‘Where did it come from?’

  He gave her a sideways look. ‘Well now, do you think I wouldn’t have taken great care not to know? That kind of knowledge doesn’t do you any good, if you’re a cop. They start expecting awkward favours.’

  That, Fleming thought, had the ring of truth, but MacNee said, ‘Worth it when it’s good money, though?’

  ‘You didn’t know Connell Kane, obviously. He wasn’t about to cut anyone in on his deals. All I can tell you is that he was Edinburgh based, so I assume that’s where it came from.’

  Fleming felt, rather than saw, MacNee’s triumphant glance at this exoneration of his native city. That line of questioning wasn’t getting them anywhere and she changed tack.

  ‘Did you see Mr Kane at any time after his staged suicide?’

  Stewart shook his head. ‘No. I was as astonished as anyone else when I heard about it.’

  ‘Did he tell you what he was planning to do?’

  Again, he shook his head. ‘Kept his cards very close to his chest. None of us knew him, really, Inspector, except Julia – well, Randall too, I suppose. But it didn’t seem odd at the time that he should kill himself knowing he was responsible for the tragedy – he never had eyes for anyone except Julia.’

  ‘And the rest of you, Mr Stewart?’

  ‘Well – we were young and foolish, as the saying goes.’

  ‘Forty-three, you were,’ MacNee said flatly. ‘It’s on record.’

  For the first time, Stewart seemed put out. Then he gave what was, Fleming had to admit, a very charming smile. ‘They say forty is the new thirty, though, don’t they? But I suppose I was just immature.’

  Long experience had made her impervious. ‘However immature you might be, you must have realised that for a police officer to become involved in a group like the Cyrenaics was courting trouble?’

  ‘Mmm. But look at it this way. I was single, I had a job that kept me in a place that isn’t what you could call exciting. There was this group of fun people gathering in my brother’s pub – you expect me just to go to bed early every night saying, “No, no, I can’t have a social life, I’m a police officer”?’

  Fleming was quicker to recognise the red herring than MacNee, who had started to argue about what constituted a social life. She cut in before Stewart could respond. ‘You have a job in Canada now, I understand?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  It was the shortest answer he’d given so far. ‘What do you do?’

  He paused. ‘I don’t want my present employer being told that the police are asking questions so I’m afraid that without compulsion I won’t tell you.’

  He was well within his rights and it wasn’t that important. ‘So when did you return?’

  ‘I arrived here last week. Friday. You can check it, if you like.’

  They were getting nowhere, and MacNee was definitely becoming restive. ‘What on earth would you want to come back for? You’d been drummed out of the place, more or less.’

  ‘Not quite, Sergeant.’ Stewart sounded annoyed. ‘The police drummed me out, granted, but this was my home for forty-three years, my brother lives here and I have a lot of friends, some of whom will be here for this Homecoming party. Since I didn’t want to be exiled from Ballinbreck for the rest of my life, I thought it would be a good opportunity. All right?’

  He’d answered what they asked him, apparently readily. Either he was truthful or he was a very good liar. Or – Fleming considered the possibility – they hadn’t been asking the right questions. After checking whether he had tipped off Randall Lindsay about their visit, and getting a look so blank that she had to believe it was genuine, she thanked him formally and then they left.

  ‘What did you make of him?’ she asked MacNee as she drove off.

  ‘Sleekit,’ MacNee said, using that useful Scottish word that means both smooth and sly.

  ‘Not just well prepared?’ Fleming said. ‘I think he’s clever, certainly. But I wouldn’t be sure it’s more than that.’

  ‘Sleekit,’ MacNee repeated firmly.

  Biddy James glanced at her watch as she slowed down to turn into Eleanor Margrave’s gateway. Ten past four; she’d made very good time – she’d always driven rather too fast – and it had been a golden afternoon for the drive, the Solway scenery at its sparkling best. Perfect sketching weather.

  She was looking forward to the weekend. Her circle of old friends was sadly diminished now and it was only really with Eleanor that she could go back to being young and silly again. Under the depressing weight of general expectation you found yourself compelled to be boringly sensible but she and Eleanor could still reduce each other to helpless fits of the giggles.

  Young she might be at heart but the feeling didn’t extend to her rheumaticky legs. She unfolded herself painfully out of the car, holding on to it until she could reach her stick.

  Eleanor’s front garden, shielded by a thick hedge, was impressive as usual, given the salt spray and the winds. Pale late narcissi and tulips, primulas and bluebells were all making a show under pink and red rhododendrons and on the wall of the old house a clematis was ready to burst into flower. Biddy paused to admire it, then rang the doorbell.

  There was no answer. Eleanor usually had the door open by the time Biddy got out of the car but she was a little earlier than she’d said. She waited knowing that, like her own, Eleanor’s mobility wasn’t good, but after a moment or two she rang the bell again, for rather longer; maybe her hearing was becoming a problem too.

  Still no reply. Eleanor’s car was there, so she couldn’t have dashed out for something she’d forgotten, say. She must be round the back, though Biddy was puzzled. There wasn’t really a garden there, just a stretch of the riverbank where she sometimes hung out washing but Eleanor would hardly be doing that when she was expecting a guest. Leaning heavily on her stick she went round the corner of the house, negotiating the rougher terrain with some difficulty.

  The tide was on the turn, with only a narrow strip of shore below the drying green. Eleanor wasn’t there either. Biddy’s heart skipped a beat. At their advanced age, it was bad news when a friend who was expecting your visit didn’t answer the door. Perhaps Eleanor had fallen, or … or worse.

  She turned to go back to the house, intending to peer through the windows. Then a movement in the water caught her eye, a flutter of rags undulating moved on the waves. Rags, and a huddled – something.

  Shaking and feeling sick, she hobbled over to the edge of the grass. ‘Eleanor!’ she cried, though she knew there would be no answer. Her friend’s face looked back at her from a tangle of seaweed, suffused and swollen, with bulging eyes that were glassy and staring. On the pull of the tide, the body drifted a little further out, then further still on the next retreating wave.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The word had spread rapidly round Dumfries CID that the lead they had been following had petered out. As DI Len Harris came in to take the afternoon briefing he could sense the discontented, almost rebellious mood, with even his most loyal supporters looking away as he came in.

  He had spent years keeping them in check with bullying and threats; he reckoned they would still find it hard to take him on unless he gave them the opportunity by seeming weak.

  Act it, become it. Harris swept confidently through them to stand before the whiteboard, beside the pictures of the car and the corpse, the blue fibre-pen notes and the arrows for action that now meant nothing. He seized a rag and wiped them all off.

  ‘We’ve achieved the first stage of the investigation,’ he said. ‘For those who don’t know, we’ve managed to eliminate the car seen in Annan from our enquiry. You did a good, thorough job around the area, lads – well done.

  ‘That frees us to go on to
the next stage. Known previous associates – that’s the name of the game. I’ve instigated enquiries already so the Galloway force have begun carrying them out on their patch.

  ‘As you know, the super in his wisdom has decreed that DI Fleming takes charge of this one, so we’re more or less hamstrung until she gets round to making decisions instead of mouthing off.’

  They had been very silent. When Harris said that, he could feel a ripple of discontent. He went on hastily, ‘Of course, I have my own ideas. Hotels, B&Bs; I want them all checked. Show them the mugshot, get them in conversation. Remember Kane would be using a false name, remember there may be staff who are off duty. Don’t rush it this time – get them chatting. Questions?’

  There were a couple, easily dealt with. Weston’s hand, waving at the back, he pretended not to see and swept out again. There was sweat on his forehead but he couldn’t risk getting out a handkerchief to wipe it until he was back in his office.

  He hadn’t got far down the corridor when she came up behind him. ‘Sir …’

  He didn’t stop. ‘Yes, Weston?’

  ‘The tracks, sir – the place the car went into the sea …’

  Harris turned round. ‘I didn’t mention it, Weston, because it was utterly pointless. I checked it out, as I said I was going to, and they couldn’t have been made by a car. Did you study the tracks on the shore?’

  ‘I didn’t think there were any.’

  ‘You see, that’s the problem. The reason I can’t rely on you, Weston, is that you’re sloppy. When you looked at them properly it was clear it had been something like a quad bike with a trailer, going down on to the shore – to get seaweed for fertiliser, more than likely. The farmers do that all the time.

  ‘I’ve overlooked the insubordination but I’m seriously concerned about the lack of attention to detail. You’d better shape up or we’ll have to consider whether you have a future in the Force.’

  He swept on, leaving Weston gaping.

  At the Kirkluce afternoon briefing the mood was more upbeat generally, though Hepburn was having a moan about her assignment.