‘Of all the wastes of a day! I’d no idea we had so many nutters around. There was actually a psychic offering her help; she’d had a vision of a man wringing his hands and wailing and he was telling her that his murderer’s name began with B. And there was another one from a B&B down near Manchester who claimed he’d been staying there last week. Tricky. And those were pretty much the best of them.’
‘Indeed. So – no uranium?’ Fleming asked.
‘Not a trace.’
She looked at Macdonald and Campbell. ‘You two? How did you get on with the background checks?’
‘They seem to have led a disappointingly blameless life,’ Macdonald said. ‘We trawled the records but no joy, apart from a speeding conviction for Randall Lindsay. Logie and Kendra Stewart, Jen Wilson – all here, doing the jobs we know about since Julia Margrave’s death, but we’ve no handle as yet on where Skye Falconer or Will Stewart might have been. We did turn up one interesting little piece of news, about Lindsay, though – I spoke to his boss in Paris and he’s left the bank. Wouldn’t say why – just said that the decision had been mutual. Sounded pretty tight-lipped about it, though.’
‘Ah!’ MacNee said with some satisfaction. ‘That’s not what he told us. I jaloused there was something there from the way he was twitching when it came up. Seemed surprised when he realised that it was Kane we were asking about, too.’
‘Fingers in the till, from the sound of it,’ Fleming said.
Hepburn was grinning. ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. He’ll have to learn how the other half lives now.’
‘I’ve got an appointment with one of the senior executives at the headquarters in Edinburgh on Monday,’ Macdonald said. ‘I’ll check out Julia Margrave’s professional background as well.’
‘Excellent.’ Fleming said. ‘So you and Ewan—’
Campbell cleared his throat. ‘Er … not me.’
‘It’s your day off, isn’t it. But I think we could swing some overtime—’
‘It’s not that. I’ve an appointment. Medical.’
They all looked at him with concern. ‘I hope it’s nothing serious,’ Fleming said.
‘No. Back Tuesday, probably.’
MacNee, uninhibited by social convention, said, ‘What’s wrong, lad? Spit it out.’
Campbell went pink. ‘Just piles. OK, laugh.’
No one did. ‘Bad luck,’ Fleming said and passed on quickly. ‘Right, that will be you going with Andy on Monday, Louise. All right?’ They both looked at their feet, saying nothing.
‘There are one or two areas to follow up after our interviews this morning.’ She gave them the general details and went on, ‘We were both convinced that Skye Falconer was lying. I don’t know exactly what she’s lying about, or why, but we need to lean on her and find out.
‘We haven’t had any result from the searches along the shoreline. It was a long shot, but I had been hoping we might be lucky. DSI Taylor said he’d be putting a full team on it so they should have covered the ground – we certainly haven’t the manpower to check ourselves.
‘I’d have liked to go on with this over the weekend – ask a few questions round the village, try to tap into any gossip – but the super’s put her foot down about overtime. If the media focus shifts to us here she’ll have to, but for the moment she’s quite relaxed about leaving Dumfries to take the flak for lack of progress. That’s all I have for the moment. Questions?’
‘Why now?’ Campbell said.
‘What brought him back, you mean?’ Fleming said. It was, as usual, a good question. It had come up before but in organising the routines of investigation they hadn’t taken time to consider it.
‘Risky thing to do,’ Hepburn said. ‘He was known in the area and his photo had been in all the papers. He could have been spotted just going into a shop.’
‘So what was it that made him take that risk? Was he meeting someone?’ Macdonald said.
Hepburn picked up on that. ‘There was this Homecoming party. Maybe it was the focus – they’d all have gathered then. Does it mean we’re looking just at the people who came back for it – Randall Lindsay, Will Stewart, Skye Falconer?’
‘I don’t think so. It’s this weekend, isn’t it? He was actually killed well before. Could be that it was to prevent him meeting someone who was coming back.’
Hepburn was impressed. ‘That’s a fair point, Andy,’ she said.
Fleming watched with a quiet smile as they did the job she had picked them for – generating ideas. If they would just cut out the constant needling – and, of course, being cooped up in a car all day on Monday would probably bring out the worst in them both, but she wasn’t going to pander to their prejudices by sending Tam instead of Andy.
‘That’s food for thought,’ she said, when they had talked it out. ‘I’ll let you go. There won’t be a briefing on Monday morning. I’m going to have to go and talk to the Dumfries CID – get them a bit more directly involved doing interviews in the village since we can’t do that ourselves. Tam, I’ll want you to come with me.’
MacNee grinned. ‘Feart you’ll get a dagger in your back?’
‘You think you’re joking,’ Fleming said. ‘Anyway, have a good weekend, all of you. And good luck on Monday, Ewan.’
Campbell nodded glumly as they filed out.
Biddy James thought she was going to faint. Her head was spinning and her legs were trembling so that she thought they might collapse under her. But if she went down on uneven ground, how would she ever get up again? She mustn’t give way, she mustn’t, she mustn’t, for Eleanor’s sake as well as her own. Grasping her stick with both hands for support, she forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you except nerves,’ she told herself sternly, being of the generation that despised mental weakness.
The dizziness passed off and Biddy stumbled back to the car. Phone. She must phone the police. She had an awkward stretch into her car to reach her handbag, clutching at the roof for balance, then lowering herself to sit sideways on the driver’s seat while she scrabbled through it.
She persisted in having a smartphone, though her family kept telling her she should have one that had bigger numbers, more suited to clumsy old hands. She regretted scorning the advice now, when her hands were shaking so much, but she succeeded at last. But when she switched it on, there was no signal and now she remembered Eleanor had told her that.
What was she to do now? And every moment that was wasted, the dreadful, implacable waves were pulling Eleanor further and further out. Not that she would care, anyway, not now. Tears came to her eyes.
She banished them, blew her nose, wiped her eyes and considered the possibilities. There was a phone in the house and perhaps the door was unlocked. Awkwardly, she levered herself to her feet again and walked shakily over to the front door.
The handle didn’t yield. The back door, perhaps? But she quailed at the thought of negotiating the rough ground again, and then the steps that led up to it. At that moment a car passed along the road.
I’ll hail a car, Biddy thought, her heart lifting a little at the thought of being able to pass the responsibility to someone else. She’d never played the age card before, had found herself bristling sometimes when well-meaning help was offered. She’d be glad enough to be considered old and frail now.
She walked to the gate. Another car passed just as she reached it but she didn’t have time to flag it down. Then the road was empty.
The minutes ticked by with agonising slowness. It seemed a long time before a car came along and the woman driver, seeing her wave, stopped and lowered the passenger window, smiling.
‘Want a lift, dear?’
Biddy was humiliated to find the tears starting again. ‘It’s my friend,’ she said. ‘I think she must have fallen in the river. She’s drowned. Oh please, please could you go round and see if you can stop her being swept away?’
‘Oh my goodness!’ She jumped out. ‘That’s awful! And you’re sha
king – you need to sit down.’
Biddy indicated her own car and allowed herself to be helped back onto the driver’s seat. As the woman headed off towards the river, she leant her head sideways against the seat back and shut her eyes, thankful that at last there was someone to take charge. Bizarrely, she found herself drifting into sleep and woke with a start to find that the woman had returned and was wearing a puzzled expression.
‘Round the back, on the shore, did you say, dear? I can’t see anything there at all. Are you sure?’ She looked at Biddy doubtfully. ‘You didn’t just dream it, did you? Sometimes it’s so difficult to tell when you just wake up. Maybe your friend has just gone out …’
She had the sort of kindly, indulgent tone that people so often adopt as if being elderly were the same as being feeble-minded. Irritation stiffened Biddy’s resolve as nothing else could have.
‘Oh no, my dear,’ she said with a certain hauteur, pushing herself upright. ‘I do assure you she was there. The waves were already dragging her away. We need to contact the police so they can get the coastguard out, but there’s no signal here.’
The woman still looked doubtful, but she said, ‘My house isn’t far away. I’ll take you there and call them. Now, if I took your arm do you think you could get up, dearie?’
Pride, and her hatred of being thought old and feeble, got Biddy out of her car and onto her feet before her rescuer had finished her sentence.
Will, with a bad grace, was setting up tables in the pub for the evening meal. There had been a bit of a row with Logie when he’d tried to get out of it; his brother was on edge – well, frankly, they all were – and their relationship hadn’t been that close to start with. Now, with Kendra all over Will like a rash, Logie was ready to pick a fight about anything except his wife’s relationship with his brother, being too afraid of what the outcome might be to open the subject.
Will was entirely with him on that, even if it did mean giving up his evenings to save his brother a waitress’s wages. It wouldn’t be for long, anyway. He hoped.
When his mobile rang he glanced at the number, not recognising it. ‘Hello?’
‘Will.’
A throaty voice, loaded with some sort of meaning, one he didn’t recognise. ‘Yes, speaking.’
‘It’s Philippa, Will.’ The voice held a hint of reproach.
His heart sank. ‘Philippa, goodness! Great to hear from you. How are things?’
‘Oh, all the better for your being around. The grapevine, you know? But why didn’t you let me know you were back for the party?’
‘It’s been a bit frantic since I arrived. The pub is busy – you should see me at the moment, setting up the tables. Never saw myself as a waiter, really. In fact, I should really be—’
She didn’t wait to let him make the excuse. ‘Oh, I know things must be tricky at that end. Kendra always talks as if you’re her personal property. But what about sneaking out later, just for a drink? Renew our … acquaintance?’ She gave a little laugh.
Oh God, what had he got himself into? ‘Philippa, nothing I’d like more but I couldn’t let Logie down.’
‘Tomorrow lunchtime, then?’ she persisted. ‘Remember that little place up near Gelston?’
Yes, he remembered it. All too clearly. It was part of that terrible madness that had somehow taken possession of them all two years ago, and he was paying for it now.
‘Tomorrow’s no good, either,’ he lied. ‘I’m meeting up with an old chum – we’ll probably make a day of it.’
‘Oh.’ Philippa sounded put out. ‘That’s a shame. But you’ll be at the party, at night, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll see you there, then. Oh Will, it’s just so good to hear your voice. I couldn’t believe it when you just disappeared like that, without a word. Naughty man! I shan’t let you get away with that again.’
Philippa was too old to be kittenish. Much, much too old. She’d had a certain mature charm back then, but now she must be – what, fifty, fifty-five? He said hastily, ‘Looking forward to it. Sorry, have to go.’
He was feeling slightly sick as he picked up another napkin to fold over a knife and fork.
He wasn’t what she’d expected. Marjory Fleming had been sent on training courses that would, if they were any good, have eliminated any inclination towards stereotyping, yet when she was considering the ‘friend’ who was studying social sciences along with Cat she had been guilty of thinking in terms of long hair, a duffel coat and earnestness.
Nick Carlton’s dark curly hair was short and neat; his clothes were the sort of smart casual a girl’s parents might approve of, without looking old-fashioned to someone his own age. He was nice-looking, tall – always seen as an asset in the Fleming family – and he had a pleasant speaking voice. What wasn’t to like, for even the fondest mother?
Bill, having shared Marjory’s own reprehensible expectations, was both surprised and delighted. Nick listened politely, laughed in the right places, and said nothing to disagree with his host.
So why didn’t Marjory take to him? She didn’t like it that Cat, too, was letting Bill make comments that would normally have had her jumping down his throat. She didn’t like it that Cat was on edge, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
She couldn’t put her finger on it until Bill began enlarging on his view that if people would just get married and stay married, half the social problems would disappear. It was hardly a new topic of discussion around this dinner table; Cat’s opposing views had always been volubly presented.
She said nothing; Nick agreed, and suddenly Marjory understood.
He was laughing at Bill. He knew Cat’s opinions; he was now trying to lead Bill on to the point where he would look foolish in his daughter’s eyes. Marjory saw Cammie suddenly shoot a sharp look at Nick and then at her, his eyebrows slightly raised.
The young men had been getting on all right before they sat down. Nick was a rugby fan but, he admitted in self-deprecation, no use as a player. ‘I tended to stay out on the wing where I wouldn’t get my shirt so dirty,’ he had said and Cammie, from his position of natural superiority as a number eight, had remarked that wingers were all like that.
It was, Marjory thought, as if Nick was analysing them, working out just how to play it – definitely manipulative. He’d made no attempt at engagement with her as yet beyond common politeness and Marjory had taken very little part in the conversation. It might be interesting to see what his tactics towards her would be.
It was. When he turned to her, it was with a question of such naked hostility that she almost gasped.
‘What about you, Marjory – what do you think about traditional marriage? With a job like yours, family would always have to take second place.’
So she wasn’t to get the charm treatment. What hurt was the realisation that while Bill and Cammie must be either undermined or brought on side to make him surer of Cat, her mother’s opinion didn’t matter. She glanced at Cat and saw her eyes fall.
She was used to hostility, though – thrived on it, professionally. ‘Depends what you mean by second place, Nick. Do you mean you don’t approve of women working, that you think a father can’t provide supportive care? That’s a very old-fashioned attitude, I would have thought?’
Nick coloured, and she saw his eyes narrow. ‘No, not at all. Of course women have the same rights to work as men.’
Marjory laughed. Time to take the gloves off. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘You’ve been talking to my daughter, obviously. The children were both at nursery when I started work again after Bill positively begged me to get a job instead of directing all my energies into organising him. I do admit I can never guarantee that an emergency won’t arise. But look at this pair’ – she gestured at Cammie and Cat – ‘fine, upstanding young people, I’m sure you’d agree, Nick, so I can’t have done everything wrong.
‘Now, anyone ready for pudding? It’s Karolina’s szarlotka, Nick. That’s her wonderful apple pie, special
ly in honour of our guest.’
Marjory went to fetch it. Perhaps she’d gone too far, but the sort of conversation where words and intentions were at odds left her feeling deeply uncomfortable. Queasy, almost. And no one, but no one, was going to be allowed to patronise Bill.
Cammie got up to help her pass round. Under cover of the conversation that had started up again round the table, he muttered in her ear, ‘Go, Ma!’
As usual, given Bill’s early start, it wasn’t much after half past nine when they went up to bed, leaving the clearing up to the young. As they climbed the stairs, Bill said happily, ‘Nice young fellow, that! Seemed to have his values straight. Maybe he’ll knock some sense into Cat.’
‘Mmm,’ Marjory said. How do you tell your husband that someone is making a fool of him and he hasn’t noticed?
The Portling coastguard rescue boat from Colveig had been called out, though as they went upriver the chief rescue officer was sceptical. Even as he dutifully scanned the shores where the mudflats were gradually being exposed, he said, ‘This may be a wild goose chase. Apparently the woman who phoned in said the wifie who reported it was elderly and might be confused. She didn’t see anything to confirm it and apparently there wasn’t a bank or anything someone could have stumbled down. We’ll probably find the old girl’s pal is just out shopping or something.’
He glanced at the chart in front of him. ‘We should be coming up almost level now.’ He put the binoculars to his eyes again, then said sharply, ‘Hang on, what’s that?’ He pointed. ‘Over there, Sandy. Take her in closer.’
It was only a few hundred yards downstream from the reported site, stranded on a mudbank – a dark pile of sodden material, a mud-streaked, water-bloated face. With the tide still relatively high it was one of their easier retrievals.
‘Poor old dear,’ the chief said. ‘Just tripped, probably, and got swept away on the tide.’
Today, though, the waves were lapping the shore as gently and rhythmically as a mother rocking her baby to sleep and as the body was dragged on board one of the men said, ‘Not unless she’d tied something round her neck and tightened it first. Take a look at this, Chief.’
The Third Sin Page 13
