‘Oh, I can still see his face!’ Linda wailed. ‘Just lying there, his eyes open—’
‘On his back, then? Stretched out, not huddled up or anything?’
‘Just … just lying there.’ Linda grabbed another handful of tissues from the box at her side.
‘And he couldn’t have been – well, sort of at the side of the road?’
Linda’s tears dried instantly. She sat up straight and glared at her questioner. ‘If you’re trying to pin it on Martin, trying to say it was him knocked the man down – well, you’re a liar, that’s all. Oh, I know what they say about the police, just wanting a conviction, no matter who it is! I didn’t believe it before, but I do now.’
‘No, no, Mrs Morrison, really we don’t,’ the policewoman said hurriedly. ‘We’re just trying to establish if perhaps the man had been taken ill, fallen into the road – a heart attack, or something …’
Only slightly mollified, Linda sniffed. ‘If he had a heart attack, it was before we came round the corner. That’s all I can tell you.’
Martin Morrison was more controlled, but even more anxious. ‘I can see you’ve only got my word for it, and Linda’s, that he was lying in the road when we arrived. But I can assure you that he was, flat on his back, not moving.’
‘Yes sir,’ the traffic sergeant said. ‘We’ve got all that written down. The post-mortem will no doubt be able to tell us exactly what happened.’
At the mention of the words ‘post-mortem’ Martin flinched, but then it seemed to trigger a memory. ‘Is it right what they say in CSI – that you don’t bleed after you’re dead? Well, there wasn’t much blood, even after both wheels going over him.’ He gulped. ‘I felt it happening, you know. Twice.’
Inspector Mike Wallace looked up as one of his sergeants came in carrying a plastic folder.
‘Ah, good,’ he said. ‘Is that the man’s ID? Messy business, I gather.’
‘Certainly was. One of our new lads was in the car that went out to it – doesn’t want his lunch.’ He took a wallet out of the folder and laid it on the desk. ‘This is all they found on the body – back pocket of his jeans. Getting them out wasn’t a nice job either.’
Wallace grimaced, picked up the wallet, took out a credit card and read the name. ‘Oh,’ he said flatly.
‘Know him, boss?’
‘You do too. It’s Will Stewart.’
‘I hadn’t really planned to drive this road again today,’ Fleming said as she and MacNee headed down to Kirkcudbright. ‘Maybe I should just take a room down there.’ She was feeling faintly sick, with a headache forming a tight band round her head.
‘We didn’t see it coming,’ MacNee said.
‘Should have, according to the super. She’s taken all the credit for Skye Falconer’s arrest and now she’s afraid it’s starting to fall apart. She can hardly claim the girl did this, after all.’
‘Maybe it was an accident,’ MacNee said hopefully. ‘Maybe he just took a heart attack, with us asking questions.’
‘I scared him to death, you mean?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, great! Thanks, Tam. But I don’t believe it, any more than you do.’
‘What are we going to do there, anyway?’
‘See Mike Wallace to get full details, then find Randall Lindsay and force the truth out of him. Or if we can’t find him, see whether the Macdonald–Hepburn sensationalist version is right and he’s taken his passport and bolted. Can you imagine what the press would make of that?’
‘No bother. They’d say—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ she snarled. ‘I can work it out myself.’ Then she sighed. ‘Sorry, Tam. I didn’t mean to snap at you.’
‘Didn’t get your lunch, did you? Here …’ He rooted in his pocket and took out two Penguin biscuits. ‘Picked them up from the canteen for our tea. You can have them both, if you like.’
‘Greater love – you’re a good man. One’ll do, though. And I’m sorry to be in such a mood, but I’m worried sick. If Randall’s realised he’s in the frame and is just lashing out frantically …’
‘What was Stewart going to do, if someone hadn’t killed him?’
‘Talk to us. That’s the obvious thing. But who would have known that was going to happen?’ Then she stopped. ‘Ah.’
‘Yes?’
‘Logie and Kendra, that’s who. And if you remember what he said, Kendra doesn’t have an alibi for Eleanor Margrave’s murder any more than he did. She was certainly here at the time Kane was killed—’
‘And that alibi was kinda vague, too. And perhaps it wasn’t that he was going to disclose something, perhaps she was afraid he’d blow her alibi and point us in her direction. But why would she want to kill Eleanor Margrave?’
‘Why would anyone? Oh God, Tam, we need more than this. I know I was complaining we had too much evidence, but in some ways we haven’t enough.’
‘Don’t know where we’re going to get it from, though. Skye’s not telling.’
‘The minute he hears about this her brief’s going to ask for her release on an undertaking to appear, and I can’t see how we could oppose. Hyacinth will go spare.’
MacNee grinned. ‘My, you are in a bad mood!’
Fleming looked rueful. ‘Oh, I do try not to use the nickname but sometimes it just slips out when she’s being more than usually shrill and demanding.
‘But could Kendra have had a reason to kill Julia? Jealousy again, I suppose, but that’s flimsy.’
‘The whole Julia theory’s flimsy, if you ask me,’ MacNee said. ‘Macdonald and Hepburn were egging each other on to work something up. Nothing in the autopsy report suggested murder.’
Fleming rubbed tiredly at the frown line between her eyebrows. ‘No, of course it didn’t. We could be back to square one.
‘There’s just one thing that keeps nagging at me, Tam. No, two things. First, why did Connell Kane come back? And why do I keep thinking that Jen Wilson is more involved in this than she’d like us to think?’
‘Hit on the back of the head with a stone, or something like that, according to the doc,’ Inspector Mike Wallace said. ‘Quite large, with rugged edges. Muddy, too.’
‘Killed on the spot?’ Fleming asked.
Wallace shook his head. ‘The pathologist said there’s blood spatter on the clothes but there’s none in the surrounding area and no pool of blood beside the body. There’s no lividity evidence to show it was moved, but that takes time to get established – if the body was moved almost immediately there wouldn’t be any sign. There’s no disturbance on the road edges where it was found and given it was a quiet road his suggestion is that the man was killed elsewhere and then dumped from a car.’
‘So we’re looking for a large stone with traces of blood and tissue, somewhere in the Galloway countryside?’ Fleming said hollowly. Today was getting worse and worse, and it wasn’t just because the sugar rush from the chocolate biscuit was wearing off.
Wallace was tactfully silent. MacNee, with an anxious glance at his boss, said, ‘Have the lads turned up Randall Lindsay yet? We’re hoping for a wee word with him.’
But they hadn’t. Fleming pulled a face. ‘We’ll go and call again at the house. It’s almost seven o’clock – he could just have been out for the day.’
When they reached Ballinbreck House, though, there was no one in. ‘Maybe they’ve all done a runner together,’ MacNee suggested facetiously, but Fleming wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
‘Could be working late at the office,’ she said. ‘Find out where it is and we’ll go there now.’
The warehouse was in a road parallel to the main street, near the centre of the village and the board outside read ‘Etcetera – Interior Design by Philippa Lindsay’ and though the main building had no windows, one small window on an upper level at the side had a light burning.
The outer door of the warehouse was open, too, and when they pressed the bell beside it, there was a pause, then round the edges of the inner door light showed in the main part
of the building and it was opened cautiously by Philippa herself. She began, ‘Sorry – we’re closed,’ then recognised them. ‘Oh, I see. What is it this time?’
‘We were just wanting a word with your son,’ Fleming said. ‘Is he here?’
‘Here?’ Philippa gave a bitter laugh. ‘You’d think, if you had a son who was a banker that he’d be able to take over at least some of the business side, but not a chance. I sell all day and then work on the books at night.’
The woman seemed weary and distinctly fed up with her son, Fleming thought. Through the open door she could see into the warehouse and it was impressive: fabrics beautifully displayed, room settings laid out to highlight elegant lamps and vases made of heavy glass or Chinese blue-and-white ceramic, and sculptures in alabaster and black polished stone on dark-wood coffee tables. Philippa certainly had good taste.
‘He’s probably at the house,’ she went on. ‘And I don’t suppose he’s making supper either.’
‘No one there,’ MacNee said.
‘Oh?’ she didn’t seem very interested. ‘Of course, Charles was golfing this afternoon – he’s probably eating at the club. And I’ve no idea about Randall – haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.’
The two officers exchanged glances. ‘I wonder,’ Fleming said, ‘if it would be possible for us to have a look in his bedroom? We haven’t applied for a search warrant as yet but we are very eager to speak to him and if he’s gone off somewhere it would be helpful to know if his bags are missing.’
Philippa frowned. ‘What’s this about?’ she asked, her voice sharp.
Fleming told her smoothly that it was just routine enquiries, and after giving her a long, cool look Philippa shrugged.
‘I was more or less finished here anyway and if it’s just looking I don’t have any objection. If you wait a minute for me to lock up, I’ll walk along and let you in.’
As they waited in the car, MacNee said, ‘Know something? Never took to her before but I feel quite sorry for her today with those two freeloaders round her neck.’
‘She obviously works hard. And I think she’s ready to give up on Randall. I wonder if there’s something she knows that we don’t.’
Philippa went ahead of them into the house. The sun was still shining outside but the hall was gloomy and she went to switch on a huge, deep-blue glass lamp with a white linen shade that stood on a heavily carved chest at the foot of the staircase.
‘Up there,’ she pointed. ‘Second door on the left – help yourself. His car isn’t here so I don’t suppose he is. I’m going to get a drink. You’ll find me in the drawing room, through there.’
‘One of our more trusting clients,’ Fleming said as they climbed the stairs. ‘How does she know we’re not going to take his room apart?’
‘Doesn’t care,’ MacNee said.
Philippa’s clever hand was evident here too. With its French-Grey walls and white bedlinen, the room would have looked like a picture from an interiors magazine if it hadn’t been for the fact that the bed wasn’t made, cushions were thrown carelessly about the floor and there were dirty footprints on the silver-grey carpet and dirty smears on the white duvet cover. It stank of cigarette smoke; there was an ashtray full of stubs on the bedside table. There was a well-worn sweater, along with a pair of mud-stained jeans slung over the back of a neat little grey velour tub chair.
‘Slob,’ Fleming said crisply. ‘Poor woman.’
They looked around. ‘Can’t see any bags,’ MacNee said, ‘but maybe he’s put everything neatly away in the drawers.’
With a sinking heart, Fleming acknowledged that this was possible, though definitely unlikely. When they opened the doors of the carved armoire, which had shelves beside the hanging space, there was nothing there apart from a couple of folded blankets, a thin dressing gown and a hairdryer, clearly put there for guests.
‘Taken off,’ MacNee said.
‘Yes. So – put out all the usual alerts, I suppose.’ She had been almost expecting it, but it still managed to be a shock.
They went back downstairs and Fleming stuck her head round the door of the drawing room, tranquil and pleasing with its turquoise silk curtains and cream sofas. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Lindsay. That’s all.’
Philippa, lounging on a turquoise linen upholstered chair with a large glass of white wine in her hand, said, ‘I suppose I should ask you what you found.’
‘I didn’t see any bags, so I think your son may be away somewhere. Would you have any idea where?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Perhaps you could let us know if you hear from him, or if he returns?’
‘Certainly.’
Fleming turned to go, then paused. ‘Just for the record, Mrs Lindsay, would you be willing to tell us what you were doing today, say from ten o’clock to about two?’
‘It’s not difficult. I drove to Kirkcudbright to the antiques centre, did a couple of things there, then visited two art galleries. I had a sandwich with the owner at one of them, then came home.’
Then she sat up straight. ‘Hang on – routine? Why did you want to know? Has something happened? Randall?’
‘No, no, Mrs Lindsay, as far as we know Randall is perfectly all right. Just routine, as I said. Thank you again.’
They left before she could ask anything more.
Back in the car, Fleming said, ‘I just want to go along to The Albatross before we set off back. I’d like to see how Kendra’s taking all this.’
When they reached the darkened pub, though, a police liaison officer told them that she had taken the news badly and was now in sedated sleep. ‘Mr Stewart’s through the back, if you want me to fetch him.’
‘It’ll wait,’ Fleming said. There was probably little useful that he could tell them and it was time she went back to face all the explanations and arrangements she would have to make.
It was late and Marjory Fleming was very tired when she got back to Mains of Craigie. Bill was on his way to bed, but came back downstairs when he heard her arrive.
‘Bad day?’ he said sympathetically as he saw her white face.
‘Grim,’ she said, patting the collie, who had pranced across to greet her. ‘Yes, Meggie, I see you.’
‘Dram?’ Bill offered but she shook her head.
‘Just something to eat and a mug of tea.’
As she made a cheese sandwich she told him briefly what had happened: that one of the suspects had been killed and another had disappeared, that there was an alert out to have him picked up.
‘Want to talk about it?’
Marjory shook her head. ‘It’s all too muddled and I’m too tired. You go on up – I won’t be long. How was your day?’
‘Just the usual. Cammie’s gone to some do or other in Glasgow. Oh, and Cat’s Nick phoned to thank us for the weekend. Very nice manners, I thought.’
‘Oh.’
Bill frowned. ‘You don’t think so?’
She was too tired to be diplomatic. ‘I think he’s a smarmy little creep and I think he’s making fun of you behind your back.’
Her husband’s face darkened. Famed for his even temper, Bill had been more irritable since his illness and he was annoyed now.
‘And I’m just too stupid to notice – is that what you think?’
‘No, of course I don’t think you’re stupid!’ Marjory cried. ‘I think you’re too nice, that’s the problem.’
‘Better than being too nasty. You’ve got to the point where you’re suspicious of everyone. Perhaps it’s the job, but you’re going to wreck your relationship with your daughter completely if you go on like this. She’s not stupid either, you know. She’s a grown woman and if she thinks this young man is right for her I’m happy to accept her judgement. If you’re wise you will as well, but I’m not sure you are.’
‘Bill—’
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think there’s any point in discussing it – you have your view and I have mine. I think I’ll just go on up to bed.
Goodnight – I shut up the hens.’
Marjory looked after him miserably as he went out. The cheese sandwich seemed supremely unappealing but she forced herself to eat it; if she hadn’t been so tired and hungry none of this would have happened.
She and Bill rowed so seldom that when they did it really hurt. And they’d always agreed that they shouldn’t go to bed on a quarrel but he seemed to have forgotten that tonight. She could go up now and say sorry, but it would be meaningless unless she was planning to change her mind about Nick Carlton, and she couldn’t do that.
And she was so tired! She really didn’t need this, to add to all she was coping with at the moment. Her eyes prickling, she put her head in her hands and groaned, then felt a nudge on her knee from Meg’s nose.
She laughed, then sniffed, looking down into the dog’s anxious eyes and stroking her head. ‘I’m all right, Meg, really,’ she said as she bent down to have her cheek licked. ‘Look, what about a bit of cheese sandwich?’
Meg, reassured, accepted it gratefully and went back to her bed by the Aga. Marjory refilled her mug and her mind slid away from her domestic problems, back to the professional ones.
She knew she wasn’t thinking straight. There was something blocking her, something stopping her seeing the way ahead. She needed to think this through, here in the quiet house where the only sound was Meg starting to snore gently.
There was a pile of accumulated bumf on the kitchen dresser and she sorted through it until she found a circular with a side left blank, then tried two or three dried-out ballpoints standing in a mug beside the phone until she found one that still worked and went back to the table.
Mind maps had always been Marjory’s way of clearing her brain and she drew one now: the victims, the suspects, the links between them. And as she stared at it, the picture began to clear before her eyes. She drew two separate circles and then drew a sharp, decisive line.
That would do. She had a new direction to go in tomorrow.
Marjory got up, put her mind map into her bag then her mug and plate into the dishwasher and switched it on. As she turned off the light she decided that if Bill was still awake, she’d say sorry anyway and hope he wouldn’t ask her to be too specific about what she was apologising for.
The Third Sin Page 27
