The fingerprint information came through only minutes after DI Fleming had been informed that Skye Falconer was at the charge bar going through the formalities.
‘It’s amazing, when you think how long it used to take to get confirmation like this,’ she said to DS MacNee. ‘How on earth did we ever get anyone back then?’
MacNee looked gloomy. ‘Used to get folk coming in to tell us stuff. They don’t now, unless they’re paid for it. It’s not all progress.’
‘Tam, I’m not going to let you depress me. Look at this – she’s got a lot of explaining to do.’
They both looked at the printout on her desk; the comparison between the two sets of prints was so clear that they didn’t need the expert report below to tell them that they both belonged to Skye Falconer.
‘Right,’ Fleming said. ‘Let’s get down there and see what she has to say for herself.’
But when they reached the interview room, there was a hold-up. A constable was waiting to tell them that Skye had exercised her right to have a solicitor present while she was questioned. Worse, when Fleming asked who it was, the one she had chosen was one of the more able and aggressive practitioners.
‘Damn!’ Fleming said. ‘I know he’s there to defend his client but no one seems to have told him that making personal attacks isn’t actually part of the job description.’
‘Does it as a hobby,’ MacNee said darkly.
Damien Thomson arrived quarter of an hour later. He took his time over talking to his client and when at last he expressed himself ready to allow her to be questioned, MacNee was frustrated enough to take exception to anything, even the tone in which he said good morning.
‘Afternoon by now,’ he said.
Thomson made a pantomime of looking at his watch. ‘Goodness, Sergeant, you’re absolutely right. How time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘Are you, Mr Thomson?’ Fleming said coolly. ‘How very strange.’
MacNee grinned as he performed the formalities for the video tape and saw the look of annoyance on Thomson’s face. He never liked it when someone else did the sardonic bit.
Fleming began. ‘Ms Falconer, you made a statement claiming that you had never met Eleanor Margrave. We now have fingerprint evidence that you were in her house. Perhaps you could explain to us how you can reconcile this?’
Sitting beside her solicitor, a tall, solid-looking young man, Skye looked smaller and frailer than ever. She had deep shadows under her eyes and she shrank back into her seat at the direct question.
‘No comment,’ she muttered.
MacNee ground his teeth. ‘Couldn’t hear that properly. Could you speak up for the tape, please.’
Thomson stepped in. ‘My client said, “No comment”, and I shall resist any attempt to bully her.’
‘Bully her?’ MacNee gasped. Police brutality – that was to be his line, was it? He was about to defend himself when he encountered a steely look from his inspector and subsided.
‘I’m sorry if you didn’t understand, Mr Thomson,’ Fleming said. ‘It is a technical requirement that the answer to questions should be audible. I am going to put that question again, but before I do I would like to emphasise the seriousness of the charge on which you have been detained, Ms Falconer.
‘It is the murder of an elderly lady – a frail elderly lady. She drew a picture of a mermaid that looks remarkably like you.’ Fleming handed it across the table.
Thomson took it first, then pushed it contemptuously back. ‘Is this what passes for evidence in Police Scotland? This is a fanciful drawing that looks nothing at all like my client and I fail to see what relevance it could have.’
But MacNee saw that Skye’s eyes had widened in alarm and Fleming went on, ‘She talked about you, you know, Skye. She described you arriving at her house, soaked to the skin that night.’
‘What night is this?’ Thomson said sharply, looking at Skye. ‘I understood the time in question was last Friday afternoon.’
Fleming ignored him. ‘Was that when the fingerprints got there? If it was, you know, that might help you as well as us. If you tell us now, perhaps we might be able to eliminate you from enquiries. I know you told us a lie, that you hadn’t met her, but in the circumstances of someone just having been murdered, of course we understand that you might be frightened, might want to keep out of it, especially if you hadn’t done anything wrong. You really would be wise to explain.’
MacNee glanced at his boss in admiration. She was leaning forward, her voice gentle, her eyes sympathetic. That was why she was so successful: folk got mesmerised.
Thomson turned to his client but before he could say anything, Skye spoke. She sat up very straight and said, loudly and clearly, ‘No comment.’
And that was all she said for the whole of the rest of the interview. They couldn’t charge her; they had placed her at the scene of the crime but there was no evidence to say when she had been there. She left with her smirking brief.
MacNee began a rant about the legislation that had robbed them of their precious six hours’ questioning without a solicitor present. ‘You’d have got it out of her if it hadn’t been for him,’ he finished.
Fleming shook her head. ‘Oh no, Tam, I wouldn’t. That was fascinating. She was tentative and scared over the question about Eleanor’s murder, but when it got on to the night when Connell Kane was killed, something stiffened her resolve. She didn’t need her brief to tell her to say nothing, she said it immediately. So what do we make of that?’
‘You tell me,’ MacNee said blankly. ‘I don’t know.’
DC Weston came off shift in Dumfries with her mind made up. Today she was going to go and squat outside the Kirkluce headquarters until someone agreed to take her in to see DI Fleming. If not, she’d wait until she saw her coming out to the car park and approach her directly, however long it took.
She had only been there for ten minutes when she saw a car slowing down to turn in, with two occupants who looked as if they might be detectives. She flagged them down and when they had confirmed that they were, said, ‘Can you get me in to see DI Fleming? I’ve got important information to give her but no one will let me speak to her.’
The officer driving looked amused. ‘If it’s as important as all that and you tell me what it’s about, I’ll see if I can fix it.’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘No. I need to speak to her.’ She’d been fobbed off too many times already.
He glanced at the other detective, who shrugged.
‘Oh, all right. Go round to reception and I’ll see what I can do.’
Weston had only waited for ten minutes when he returned. ‘Come on. She’ll see you now.’
They introduced themselves as they went upstairs. On the top floor he opened an office door and ushered her in. ‘DC Weston, ma’am.’
And here she was at last, Big Marge. She was looking at her coolly, and for a moment Weston felt overwhelmed at meeting her idol. But she knew that the evidence she had was gold dust and she felt quite confident as she told her all about the day she had found the car tracks leading down on to the Solway shore near to Ballinbreck. She’d had a long time to think about how to present her evidence and she delivered it clearly, without hesitation.
To start with, the result was all she could have hoped. Macdonald gaped and another detective, a short man in a black leather jacket, exclaimed, ‘You wee dancer!’
Fleming, though she was obviously interested, said, ‘I don’t quite understand. Why didn’t you report this to DI Harris at the time?’
‘I did!’ Weston cried. ‘I told him and he said he’d checked it out and that it wasn’t what I thought. But I don’t believe he even went to look.’
She saw a glance pass between Fleming and MacNee, then Fleming said, ‘I see. But I don’t understand why this had to be reported directly to me.’
This was her big moment. She drew a deep breath. ‘I really admire what you’re doing here, ma’am. I don’t rate DI Harris and I know he’ll stand
in the way of my promotion. I wanted to ask you direct to get me a transfer to Galloway division. I’d give anything to work on your team.’
DI Fleming didn’t look gratified by her expression of admiration. She sounded quite cold as she said, ‘As I understand it, you found this evidence, which I agree might be highly significant, on Friday morning. It is now Sunday afternoon. There are perfectly adequate procedures for dealing with the situation and even if you felt you wouldn’t get a fair hearing, you could have explained what it was about to the first person you spoke to here and we wouldn’t have lost two valuable days before following it up. I can only hope nothing has deteriorated meanwhile.
‘There’s nothing wrong with ambition, DC Weston, but I don’t like prima donnas. You have a lot to learn about judgement and professionalism. Now, perhaps you could give DS Macdonald the details on your way out.’
Red-faced and utterly crushed, Weston muttered something and went to the door that Macdonald was holding open for her. Just as she reached it, Fleming said in a much kinder voice, ‘I do admire your determination, though. If you take a lesson from this you could be a useful detective and I’d consider your request. Not just yet, though.’
A little comforted, Weston thanked her. She even heard, before the door shut, the short man saying exultantly, ‘If that’s right, I reckon we’ve got her!’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘With all that, I forgot to ask you if you’d managed to speak to Mike Wallace,’ Fleming said as she and MacNee set off once again on the road to Ballinbreck.
She had decided to go herself to check on DC Weston’s evidence, though this was an indulgence when she had so much to do and Macdonald and Campbell were perfectly competent to check and report. But the Connell Kane case had been so much on her mind that she wanted to see her theory justified for herself – supposing DC Weston was right.
‘He’s a good lad, Mike,’ MacNee said. ‘Came up with the goods immediately. There was never evidence to pass up the line but there’d been rumours about Will Stewart not maybe being just what you’d call pernickety when it came to the rules about confiscated drugs.’
‘Wouldn’t be unique in that,’ Fleming said dryly.
‘Right enough. But there was a story too that he wasn’t as keen as he might have been about following up where they came from either, so when him being a wee pal of Kane’s came out and he resigned, no one was exactly begging him to stay.’
‘Fits with what we know already.’ Fleming said. ‘He told us quite openly about turning a blind eye to Kane’s activities. And he only flew in from Canada last Friday afternoon – Ewan checked that out. So really, it leaves us with Skye. And she’s not about to give us any help.’
‘Aye, you could say.’
‘Macdonald will let us know about the fingerprint evidence from the car once Len Harris deigns to respond. That would be the smoking gun.’
‘He’ll drag his feet.’ MacNee was gloomy.
They drove on in silence. The rain had come on; the sky overhead was pewter-grey and Fleming switched the wipers to their fast setting. She wasn’t happy, and not only about Skye’s silence. This just wasn’t fitting, somehow.
‘I’ll tell you what’s bothering me,’ she said at last.
MacNee interrupted. ‘You needn’t. It’s bothering me too. Doesn’t smell right.’
‘Supposing Weston is right, we can place her near the scene of the crime at the time it was committed. We know she hasn’t an alibi. To be honest, I’d be surprised if her fingerprints aren’t in the car. But look at the size of her, Tam! She’s tiny. Kane was, what – certainly above average height and quite solid with it, as I recall the report. Yet she comes out of a struggle with him all right, while he’s dead?’
‘She used a cosh,’ MacNee pointed out. ‘But what I’m asking myself is: who’s more likely to have a cosh, someone who’s in the drugs’ underworld or a wee lassie like her?’
‘Self-defence, you reckon? Then why not arrive on Eleanor Margrave’s doorstep asking her to ring the police rather than pushing the car into the water to cover up the evidence? And she’d be able to move a car? I have my doubts.’
‘Depend on the angle, I suppose. Downhill into the river, why not? Or she could rev up, get it going then bail out at the last minute.’
‘But the other thing is Eleanor Margrave. Look, let’s assume for a moment that she’s got some obscure motive for killing her. But why would she choose to strangle someone when she had a cosh, especially being as slight as she is?’
‘Right enough. And they said the body looked to have been half-dragged, half-carried – how could a wee smout like her carry the woman anyway?’
‘And the attack on Louise too – she said she’d struggled but couldn’t fight back. As you said, doesn’t smell right. But if the car went in where Weston says it did, and her fingerprints are there, we’ll have to charge her for Kane’s murder at least, whatever misgivings we might have – you know that as well as I do. It’s the fiscal’s decision and he isn’t going to listen to theoretical qualms.’
It was just before they arrived at the site that Macdonald’s call came through on the speaker. He sounded jubilant.
‘Prints match,’ he said. ‘Skye Falconer was in that car all right.’
Fleming should have been pleased. ‘Good work,’ she said, trying to make her voice enthusiastic. ‘How did you get Harris to provide them so quickly?’
‘Told him you knew about the report of the car tracks but you wouldn’t be making an official complaint if we got this stuff quickly. Oh, and that if he victimised DC Weston you’d do it anyway.’
Fleming smiled. ‘Taking my name in vain? OK, thanks, Andy. We must be getting close to the site now.’
She was driving slowly, scanning the verge. And there it was: the broken branches, the double wheel track in the soft verge still clearly visible, just a little softened by rain, going down – yes, down, on to the muddy shore. On the night of the storm, that would have been a roaring tide.
She and MacNee got out to study it, then looked at each other, Fleming making a rueful face. ‘They’ll be able to match the tyre tracks, no problem. The report said there was a transverse cut on one of them – can’t remember which …’
MacNee pointed. ‘There.’
The small irregularity on the back left tyre was faint but definite. ‘Oh,’ Fleming said, her voice flat. ‘That’s it, then.’
She took out her mobile to call Inspector Wallace. ‘Mike? We need someone along here ASAP, with scene-of-crime stuff. And I’ll need a patrol car. If we can find her we’re going to be arresting Skye Falconer.’
The early promise of the day hadn’t been fulfilled and when the rain came on Jen Wilson had retreated inside. She lit the fire in the little sitting room and picked up a thriller, hoping that fictional suspense might blot out her thoughts of the real drama that kept crashing over her like waves in a stormy sea. It wasn’t entirely successful; the room was cosy and she was tired after last night. Before long she drifted into a light doze.
She started awake at the sound of the front door opening, and then heard Skye’s voice calling, ‘Jen? Are you there?’
She only realised just how unwelcome that was when she found she’d actually been hoping Skye was locked up – how shaming that she could think that about a friend! Trying to sound upbeat she called, ‘In here.’
Skye was looking worse than ever, hollow-eyed and pale. But all she said was, ‘I could murder a cup of tea. Want one?’ She tried to smile.
Jen didn’t. ‘What happened, Skye?’
‘Oh, they let me go. Can’t think what that was all about.’
‘Sit down.’ Jen’s voice was grim. As her friend complied, sinking into a chair as though she were afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her up much longer, she went on, ‘Don’t lie to me, please. I need to know what’s going on. You’ve involved me in it already, making me mislead the police.’
Skye’s head had been bowed. Now she looked up. �
�Jen, you were in it anyway.’
Jen’s stomach lurched. ‘I wasn’t!’ she protested. ‘You can’t say that! I have no idea what’s been going on and being used makes me very angry. You have to be straight with me if you’re to go on staying here, and if I’m not to tell the police next time they question me – and I’ve no doubt they will – that you came here long before you said you did.’
Skye began to cry quietly. ‘You … you don’t understand—’
‘I know I don’t, Skye! That’s what I’ve just said. You and Will strung me along before and I’m not prepared to put up with it any longer.’
‘I’d tell you if I could, truly I would, but I can’t. Jen, you’re my best friend. There’s no one else.’
Still feeling bitter at the accusation of involvement, Jen said coldly, ‘I may be your best friend. I don’t really think you’re mine any more. Anyway, what about Will? What’s the position there?’
‘I – I don’t know …’
Jen got up. ‘If that’s the way you want it, fine. But I’m going to have to ask you to go. Apart from anything else, I’m a teacher. It won’t do me any good to have everyone talking about me being linked to a murder.’
‘Oh Jen!’ She gave a wail of despair. ‘“What will the neighbours say?” Once you’d have laughed at the very idea of caring.’
‘Oh yes, once.’ Jen gave a mirthless smile. ‘That was before Julia died and I thought Connell had killed himself. After that everything seemed very, very different to me and I think you might ask yourself why. I’ll lend you money to get somewhere else to stay, if you need it.’
Skye dragged herself to her feet and trailed out of the room with one last, beseeching glance at her implacable friend.
Jen stood by the fireplace, her arms folded across in what was almost a hug, as if it might give her comfort. As she stared blankly out of the window her own eyes filled with tears, so that it took her a moment to register that a car had pulled up outside her house and DI Fleming and DS MacNee were getting out. Then she saw the police car pulling in behind them.
The Third Sin Page 22
