The Third Sin

by Aline Templeton

  He was afraid she might argue, but she only said, ‘Does it have a good heater? I’m awfully cold.’

  ‘There’s a rug. Smells a bit of my mum’s dog, but it’s warm.’

  He tucked her into the passenger seat, then locked up her car before he drove off. He could hear her teeth chattering as he put the heater up to maximum.

  After a moment or two, Louise said, ‘That’s better. Andy, it was fascinating—’ She started to cough again, her eyes watering with the effort.

  He was intrigued to know what she had to say but he said firmly, ‘Save your voice. You’ll hurt your throat. In the nicest possible way, shut up.’

  A minute later, he saw that she had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  Bill was in the kitchen making a cup of tea when his wife came downstairs on Sunday morning, yawning. She had slept badly, her mind too full of problems that had scampered around her troubled dreams, turning back on themselves like rats in a maze.

  ‘Didn’t hear you getting up,’ she said, taking the mug he was holding out to her.

  ‘Wanted to have a look at the ewe I was worried about yesterday, but she’s fine today. Just her little bit of fun.’

  Marjory laughed. Farming wisdom always had it that sheep had one aim in life: to find a way of dying, preferably as expensively as possible. ‘At least you didn’t call the vet,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that ewe’s always a wee drama queen – goes into decline at the least thing. Worried well, the doctors call it when it’s people.’

  ‘I love it when you talk about their personalities. I can’t tell one from another.’

  Bill smiled. ‘Professional skill. There’s a couple I’d call the vet for right away if they were drooping.’

  ‘Stoic sheep – I like the idea.’ Marjory pulled the steeping porridge on to the hotplate and started stirring it. ‘Bill, what do you think of Cat’s Nick now?’

  ‘Seems a nice lad,’ Bill said happily. ‘When you think what he might have been like! And he’s having a good effect on Cat – she didn’t jump down my throat once at supper last night. That’s a record.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Marjory said. Farmers weren’t famous for their modern and liberal views but Bill was normally kept in check by his wife as well as his daughter. With Nick’s constant encouragement he had become expansive.

  She had flinched at the sly, sidelong glances he directed at Cat, unnoticed by Bill. Even Cat, she thought, was uneasy about it. If she hadn’t been, she’d have launched into a tirade when Bill said that if you were able-bodied you should have to choose between working and starving.

  Nick had agreed. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Marjory said sweetly. ‘And you go along with that, do you, Cat? Bit of a turnaround.’

  Cat went pink, muttered something and changed the subject, but Marjory felt so uncomfortable, it was as if she’d had ants crawling across her skin all evening.

  Her mother had been there too; she hadn’t said much but then Janet Laird had always been quiet. It didn’t mean she wasn’t paying sharp attention to all that was going on, though, and she was a shrewd judge of character – perhaps as a result. Marjory decided she’d make time as soon as possible to pop in to see her and get her verdict.

  Now she said, ‘I’m not sure I’d take him at face value, Bill. I think he’s a bit sleekit.’

  ‘Sleekit?’ Bill looked affronted. ‘Having nice manners hardly makes him untrustworthy. I certainly appreciate it.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s funny that a boyfriend of Cat’s should have the sort of views that Cat absolutely despises? It wasn’t like her to be so quiet.’

  Giving him a sideways glance Marjory saw, from his faint flush, that she had sown a doubt in his mind. But he said stubbornly, ‘Maybe he’ll make her a bit more down to earth. And anyway, maybe he’s just been brought up to believe it’s polite to not disagree with his elders and betters.’ He was looking thoughtful, though.

  Satisfied with her groundwork, Marjory said, ‘Could be,’ as she put out the porridge. ‘Bill, pass me up Meg’s bowl for the scrapings.’

  Hearing her name, the collie jumped up, circling her mistress hopefully.

  ‘Not yet, Meggie, it’s too hot. It’ll hurt your nose. You’ll just have to be patient.’

  Her eyes on Marjory’s face, the dog gave a heavy sigh and lay down again.

  ‘Understands every word you say,’ Bill said fondly.

  ‘Of course she does. She’s a highly intelligent animal,’ Marjory agreed. She’d also noticed that Nick Carlton hadn’t got the effusive greetings Meg normally gave visitors to the house.

  Louise Hepburn awoke with an achingly dry throat and a stiff, bruised neck. She swallowed, wincing, as she opened her eyes. It took her a second to realise where she was, and when she did the pain of embarrassment gripped her too.

  He’d taken her to his mum’s last night, instead of delivering her home. She’d been livid with Andy but she hadn’t been strong enough to argue last night and even if she had been, his mum was so nice and concerned it would have been downright rude. She was a retired nurse, apparently, and she checked Louise out and confirmed that no real harm had been done, then supplied a nightie and a toothbrush and tucked her up in bed with a couple of paracetamols, a soothing hot drink and a hot-water bottle.

  Louise admitted to herself that it had been good to be cosseted, but after Andy had picked up his own car and gone back to his flat it had got a little alarming. May Macdonald had laughed as she said goodnight. ‘I’m so glad to meet you, Louise. Andy’s always been an awful boy for keeping his cards close to his chest. Sleep well, dear.’

  Somehow she was going to have to make it plain that they only worked together and didn’t really get on, even as colleagues.

  What really got to her, though, was being under such an obligation to him. She’d insisted, quite rudely, that she was able to look after herself and then had conclusively proved that she wasn’t. If he hadn’t been there – Louise shuddered.

  When she thought about how close it had been, how she had felt as the band across her throat squeezed tighter and tighter, how easily this morning could have been a day she didn’t see … She mustn’t think, that was all.

  She had to put it right out of her mind, concentrate on the information she’d collected last night and the leads it suggested. After all, she couldn’t be sure that her attacker wouldn’t strike again as long as he was still at large.

  Andy had promised to come in to see how she was on his way to work and if he thought Louise was just going to accept meekly that she should stay at home and nurse her injuries, he had another think coming.

  She moved very gingerly, though, as she got out of bed. Her throat, her neck, her back were all painful but at least not incapacitating. And the last thing she wanted was time to think about her injuries.

  It was still early, but May Macdonald must have heard her moving and greeted her when she came downstairs with more paracetamol, the fluffiest scrambled eggs Louise had ever tasted and lots of anxious enquiries.

  Louise assured her she’d managed to sleep, ate her eggs and tried, as subtly as she could, to disabuse May of the assumption she had obviously made. The trouble was she really didn’t want to upset her; May was lovely and it was a treat, too, to be cosseted, as she hadn’t been since her poor mother’s mind had become clouded.

  She was almost sorry when Andy appeared, still looking anxious and insisting that she took the day off.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she protested. ‘It only lasted a few seconds, for heaven’s sake.’

  She was even more grateful to May when she told her son to stop fussing. ‘Louise knows her own mind, Andy. She doesn’t need bossing about – not out of office hours.’ She gave Louise a mischievous look. ‘Oh, he was always like that, you know, even as a wee boy. He—’

  ‘Mum!’ Andy said in exasperation. ‘Oh, all right, Louise. If the two of you have ganged up I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do. If yo
u want to go to your flat to change we’d better get a move on or we’ll be late for the team meeting.’

  As he left the kitchen, Louise made her thanks to May and was warmly embraced. ‘It’s been lovely to meet you – come back any time, dear,’ she said. ‘Someone with a bit of a spark is just what that boy’s needing.’

  Louise gulped. ‘Er – yes. Thanks again,’ and bolted for the car.

  It was a shame, though, she thought as they drove away. She’d have loved to accept the invitation, if the bargain hadn’t included Andy.

  Horrified at what had happened, DI Fleming had been inclined to overrule her constable about not following it up. Hepburn, though, with her voice still rough and a scarf wrapped round her neck that didn’t quite cover up the bruising, had pointed out that with nothing to go on it would make more sense to focus their efforts on the original cases.

  In a sense she was right; it was a fairly safe assumption that the person who had strangled Eleanor Margrave had tried again. Something had spooked the killer; Hepburn must have gleaned some information so significant that she had to be silenced, even at the cost of focusing police attention on the suspects present. The challenge now was to recognise what that had been.

  Hepburn was still in danger, though probably less so now she had got a chance to report in. She’d said that Randall didn’t know her address, only her mobile number, and as she was insistent that the flat had an entryphone and she would be careful, Fleming allowed herself to be satisfied with that. The best protection they could give Hepburn was to get the perpetrator in a cell with the door locked.

  The information Hepburn had obtained was impressive. She’d reported the general points and then gone off to cudgel her brains and record every possible scrap of overheard conversation as well as a statement about the attack.

  The SOCOs had sent over all the papers found in Eleanor Margrave’s house and Fleming had sent Macdonald and Campbell to do a quick check through them, though not before commending Macdonald on his initiative.

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ she finished, then smiled. ‘I just hope Louise is.’

  Macdonald grinned. ‘Theoretically, absolutely,’ he said.

  When they had gone, Fleming turned to MacNee with a gesture of despair. ‘Oh Tam, I feel awful. I should never have suggested it! I was concerned afterwards, as you know, but I didn’t stop her. We might have been dealing with her death right now and I’d have been responsible.’

  ‘Every time you send an officer out of that door it’s the risk they’re taking,’ MacNee pointed out. ‘You know that. It’s the job. It happens.’

  Fleming knew that, just as she was, he was remembering the officer who had been gunned down a few years back, saving Fleming’s life.

  After a moment he went on, ‘Anyway, I’m not just sure how you thought you were going to stop her. She wasn’t answering the door or the phone and I have my doubts that you could have justified forced entry. She’s come out of it with some great stuff, anyway.’

  ‘That’s certainly true. So – where do we go from here?’

  ‘We nail the bastard,’ he said fiercely. ‘And give me ten minutes with him round the back before we reach the security cameras.’

  ‘Ten?’ Fleming said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Slowing up in your old age? Five would have been enough, once. Seriously, though – what did you see as most significant?’

  MacNee thought about it. ‘I’ll tell you the obvious line – the “bent copper” remark. That’s easy to check. There’d be gossip at the Kirkcudbright station at the time – Mike Wallace would know. I can get on to him.’

  ‘Good idea. And his alibi – we both reckoned he and Kendra could have agreed it, if necessary. It did strike me that according to Louise she was furious with him about Skye so it might be worth getting her on her own and finding out if she was sticking to her story. And I’d like to know where Philippa Lindsay fitted in to all that too.’

  She got up. ‘I’ve got to take the morning meeting first but we can get away after that.’

  ‘You’re on.’ Then MacNee paused. ‘What about Skye Falconer?’

  ‘Certainly questions there we need to ask, but that can wait. We should get information back from the Border Agency quite soon.’

  About half of Philippa Lindsay’s task force had failed to appear this morning and she was in such a sour mood, the half that had were regretting it.

  ‘We’re not the ones she’s needing to go on at,’ one woman muttered to another as they collected up discarded beer bottles from round the garden. ‘And you’ll notice her own son’s nowhere to be seen.’

  ‘The drink he had on him last night, he’ll not be much use to anyone for a good wee while yet.’

  They both sniggered. Philippa, coming unexpectedly out of the house, heard them and flushed. Randall, though she had mercilessly hounded him out of bed, was indeed in no state to do anything much beyond groaning. She’d poured him a mug of coffee and told him where the Alka Seltzer was half an hour ago and she was hoping that when she went back he’d be capable of coherent speech.

  There had been a lot she’d wanted to ask him the night before but by the time she got him on his own he was incoherent and weepy, oozing self-pity as he dabbed his injured lip. In disgust, she’d sent him up to bed.

  She went over to have a word with the men who were taking away the barbecues.

  ‘Great night last night,’ one of them said cheerily, and Philippa tried not to make her agreement sound hollow. She’d no one to blame but herself; it had been all her own idea and now she had to live with the consequences.

  The state her son was in was one of them. When she went back to the kitchen he was a pitiable sight: grey-faced, red-eyed and with a badly swollen lip. He was smoking, which she hated in the house, but he was at least on his feet, making himself breakfast.

  Philippa looked contemptuously at the fried bread and frizzled eggs. ‘It won’t help, you know. But if you can keep it down, you’re fit to talk to me. Tell me all about your little friend.’

  She sat down at the table as her son, eyeing his plate a little uncertainly, stubbed out his cigarette and took his place opposite, saying ‘Ow, ow, ow!’ as he put the fork to his mouth.

  His mother ignored him. ‘She’s a detective, is she?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And why was she there?’

  ‘Good question,’ he said bitterly. ‘I met her in Paris ages ago – we were at the uni together. When I asked her if she’d like to come to the party I didn’t know her little pals were going to start giving us the third degree and after that I left half a dozen messages telling her not to come if she knew what was good for her – took her name off the list. She must have sneaked in. We should make a complaint – get her suspended …’

  Philippa considered that. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘She’d claim she didn’t get the messages, and if they were at all threatening you’d probably find you were arrested instead. But it’s upset everyone – being spied on like that. Kendra was throwing an absolute fit. Oh, you screwed up, as usual.’

  She stood up, then without warning suddenly banged the table and yelled, ‘Do you know how often I’ve had to say that, thanks to you? I’m sick of it – sick of you! Finish your breakfast and get out there to pick up some litter. It’s all you’re good for.’

  For once, DS Macdonald didn’t mind the pile of paper waiting on their attention, though it represented hours of work. He dumped half of it on the desk next to him for DC Campbell and settled down to it.

  DC Hepburn was bashing away at a terminal in the other half of the room. As he looked across, she sat back rolling her head, as if her neck were hurting.

  ‘All right?’ he called across and she said, ‘Yeah, fine,’ and quickly went back to her task. He suspected that wasn’t true – she was looking drained and pale – but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it just at the moment.

  ‘See this,’ Campbell said, pointing to his screen.

  Macdonald glan
ced at it sideways. It was a report just in that there was no record of Skye Falconer having crossed the Channel around the time she had indicated.

  Macdonald raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting. Though to be fair, she was pretty vague about the times.’

  Campbell scrolled on down. ‘Nor any time in the last six months.’

  ‘Really? So she’s lying – wonder where she really was? Make a note of that – we’ll have to pin her down.’

  ‘Checked Randall Lindsay too. Came back last week.’

  ‘Could have come over and gone back earlier some other way, I suppose,’ Macdonald said, ‘but at least it squares with what he said.’

  He went back to sorting what was on his own desk. Most of it was the sort of stuff any householder would have: invoices, insurance policies, travel documents, even a copy of a brief will, leaving everything to a charity for rehabilitating addicts.

  ‘Wasn’t killed for an inheritance, anyway,’ he commented to Campbell. ‘Unless the charity’s more than usually proactive.’

  Campbell grunted, but it surprised a small laugh out of Hepburn. Gratified, Macdonald went on sifting through.

  ‘Hey, look at this,’ he said. ‘She was a bit of an artist, seemingly.’ He held up a watercolour, a seascape. ‘That’s the view from the house, I think.’

  Hepburn looked across. ‘It’s quite good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Lots more like that.’ Macdonald went through them, holding up the better ones. ‘That’s the lighthouse down at the Mull of Galloway – I recognise it. Wasn’t like that when I went there, though – it was blowing a gale. Oh look, this one’s a bit different. Rather sweet, really – it’s a mermaid.’

  Hepburn’s ears pricked up. ‘A mermaid?’ She got up and came across to look over his shoulder.

  It looked as if it might be an illustration from a children’s book, a conventional mermaid with the statutory elegantly curving tail, long flowing hair and huge sea-green eyes.