Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  “You saw the tracks at the bridge when you found Malcolm,” Christine said.

  Janet shivered and thought back to the tracks she’d stepped over to get down the slope to the burn.

  “Any chance they’re the same?” Christine took out her phone and crouched over the tracks.

  “What are you doing?” Janet asked.

  “Making a record. For comparison to the pictures we took the other night.”

  “That’s useless and you know it. Don’t.”

  Christine continued taking pictures, moving to get other angles, shots of other tracks.

  “Stop. Stop it. I need you to stop and behave normally,” Janet said, “because any minute I might fall apart and I don’t need any help to get there. Please.”

  Christine looked up.

  “Please.”

  Christine put the phone away, popped the trunk of the car, and took out a blanket. She wrapped it around Janet’s shoulders and then stood beside her with an arm around her waist.

  “I’m sorry,” Janet said.

  “Whatever for?”

  “You and I process things in different ways sometimes.”

  “I do and you notice. We’re a good team.”

  “But I interrupted your doing, so I’m sorry.”

  “Anyone who’s found two bodies in less than a week deserves a friend with a blanket and an arm to hold her.”

  “Thank you. Don’t forget poor Lachy.”

  Christine held Janet tighter.

  They’d expected Constable Hobbs to be the first to arrive, and hoped to see him driving up the track to meet them. He didn’t, though, and they didn’t know any of the police who did. Police Scotland Major Investigation Teams that responded to suspicious and violent deaths were made up of specialists assigned to go whenever and wherever needed. Janet would rather have seen Reddick on this team, but decided it was good that she hadn’t had reason to call so often that she knew more of the officers by name or sight. She was about to share that glass half full with Christine when a sharp-nosed officer opened the door of the police car where they sat.

  “Mrs. Robertson and Mrs. Marsh?”

  “Yes,” Christine said.

  “Detective Inspector Russell. A few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” It hadn’t really been a question, but Janet felt obliged to answer anyway.

  Another officer opened the door on the side where Janet sat. She rubbed her suddenly cold hands. The officer closed the door, went around to the front passenger side, and climbed in there. After closing that door, he turned sideways to get a better view of them.

  “Detective Constable Shaw,” he said, and took out a black pen and brown notebook. Both serviceable, but not as inspired as Hobbs’s.

  “You can’t stand?” Inspector Russell asked.

  “Created a cross-breeze, sir,” Shaw replied. “No need to make them more miserable than they are.”

  “Are they? Right. I’ll ask the questions.”

  “Sir.”

  “What brought you here this evening?”

  “One of the other officers got that information earlier,” Christine said.

  “Indulge me.”

  Christine told him the bare facts—a visit, a pudding, a question about books.

  “You knew him?” Russell asked.

  “When I was a child. I knew the family.”

  “What about you?” he asked Janet. “Did you know him?”

  “No. I know his sister.”

  “And?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Who else in the family?” Russell asked.

  “No one.”

  “That’s not exactly true, though, is it? You found the brother dead, too.”

  “I did.”

  “It’s an interesting coincidence.”

  “I wish I hadn’t found Malcolm. I wish we hadn’t found Gerald,” Janet said. “It might be a coincidence, but it wasn’t interesting. It was awful.”

  She didn’t like Russell’s voice. It was nasal and unpleasant. But with that dislike to focus on, she thought she might be able to feel neutral about the rest of him.

  “Whose car did you come in?”

  “Mine,” Christine said.

  “Yours is not the name on the registration.”

  “No. That would be my father, David Maclean.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “My parents and I share the car. I meant that it is mine as opposed to being Janet’s.”

  “Do you own a car, Mrs. Marsh?”

  “Yes,” Janet said.

  “When did you last drive it?”

  “Why?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Janet glanced at Shaw in the front seat. She thought she might have caught the tail end of an eye roll. “What’s today? Friday?”

  “Friday. Yes,” Russell said.

  “I wasn’t asking you. I was asking myself. I drove it Tuesday night.”

  Janet hoped Russell developed a crick in his back from bending to look in at them for so long.

  “How did you get in the house?” he asked.

  “I rang ahead,” Christine said. “Gerald told me he’d leave the door unlocked and we were to come right in.”

  “What time would that have been? That you say you spoke to him?”

  “Shortly before ten this morning. I have three witnesses.”

  “Who only heard your end of the conversation?”

  Christine shifted in the seat and Janet imagined the rustle of a royal awakening.

  “Are you making an accusation?” Christine asked.

  “Tell me about these books,” Russell said. “Who do they belong to?”

  “They were left on the doorstep of our shop,” Janet said. “Anonymously. We thought Gerald might have left them.”

  “Why? You admitted you don’t know him. How would you know his books?”

  “Books are our business,” Christine said, the royal rustle growing louder. “We’ve been trying, since Tuesday, to determine who brought these particular books. Our inquiries led us to Gerald. We don’t know if they’re his or not. Now we might never know.”

  “How much are they worth?”

  “We won’t know until we research them,” Janet said.

  “Interesting.” Russell looked at them, seemingly without blinking, and Janet guessed he wanted them to look away first. They didn’t. He asked another question. “Did either of you touch the dagger or the gun?”

  “What gun?” Janet asked at the same time Christine said, “Dagger? There was no dagger.”

  Inspector Russell’s only physical reaction was a bored-looking, slow blink. “Interesting. We’ll be in touch,” he said, and started away.

  Queen Elizabeth issued a command. “Wait.”

  Russell looked over his shoulder at them. Whether he reacted to the command or simply rethought his exit, he came back to the car.

  “A dagger and a gun?” Queen Elizabeth asked.

  “How did you not see the dagger in the middle of his chest?” Janet asked her.

  The Queen stared at her incredulously. “He was shot in the head. You saw the blood.”

  “I did,” Janet said, “but I saw the dagger and nothing much computed after that. Where was the gun?”

  “And I suppose I must have seen the dagger, but when I saw the blood I immediately looked away. And there was the gun. A handgun. Perhaps you couldn’t see it from where you stood. You didn’t actually come into the room.”

  “I couldn’t look at anything else once I saw the dagger,” Janet said. “It was horrifying.”

  “Are you finished comparing notes and getting your stories straight?” Russell asked.

  “Inspector Russell,” Queen Elizabeth said, rounding on him as he bent to look at them in the backseat. “You are speaking to two citizens who are doing their public duty by answering your questions to the best of their abilities. We are shaken by what we saw. We are stricken by the loss of
a member of our community. We do not need to apologize for hesitant or muddled answers, as we are not detective inspectors, and we are not crime scene experts. I daresay you are not expert in all walks of life either, and I doubt very much that you are burdened with people who insist on hinting that your lack of acumen in other arenas is evidence that you harbor criminal intent. Please extend the same courtesy to us.”

  Inspector Russell slow-blinked again, unfazed.

  “What about our box of books?” Janet asked him. She’d had to sit on her hands so she wouldn’t forget herself and applaud at the end of the Queen’s speech.

  “What about it?”

  “We left it in the house. In the entryway,” Janet said. “Can we get it? I suppose you don’t want us going back in, though do you?”

  “How do we know any of it is yours? The box or what’s in it?” Russell asked. “That it’s the box you claim you found on your doorstep? That you weren’t here filling it up with an old man’s valuable property?”

  “Constable Hobbs can tell you that we’ve had those books, in that box, since Tuesday morning,” Janet said.

  “Constable Hobbs is otherwise engaged.”

  “Inspector Reddick, then. He saw them in the shop this afternoon.”

  “He is also otherwise engaged.”

  Queen Elizabeth was not yet cowed. “Be that as it may, we did find the books, in that box, on the doorstep of our business, Tuesday morning. Two policemen and one customer can attest to that, as can Gerald’s sister, Florence.”

  “She saw the books, too, did she?”

  “I told her about them Tuesday night,” Janet said.

  “But she didn’t see them?”

  “It doesn’t matter if she saw them or not,” Janet said. “Constable Hobbs and Inspector Reddick both did. Our fingerprints and theirs are all over them.”

  “All over them. Interesting. I’ll be holding onto them for the time being,” Russell said, and walked away.

  D.C. Shaw put away his pen and notebook.

  “Are we free to go?” Janet asked him.

  “Aye, I reckon. Hang on. I’ll come round.” Shaw got out and first offered his hand to help Christine out of the backseat, and then came around to open Janet’s door and help her.

  “Thank you,” Christine said. “How do you manage to smile like that while working with a man like that? Don’t worry, I don’t expect an answer.”

  “The smile is not for present working conditions,” D.C. Shaw said. “It’s because I know he’s taking retirement in a fortnight.”

  “Congratulations,” Janet said. “Do you know what will happen to the dog and the sheep?”

  “I’ll see they’re taken care of. I’ve an uncle, lives not too far. He’ll come.”

  “Shaw!” Russell barked.

  The two women seethed most of the way home.

  “He’ll be in touch,” Christine muttered. “He’ll be holding onto them. I’ll touch him and hold onto him.”

  “He’s a nasty little man,” Janet agreed.

  “Not so little as all that.”

  “I was describing his shriveled soul. And you were right. He gave the distinct impression that he’s suspicious of us. Us! What does he think, we’re as good with burglar tools as we are with books? Oh dear, though. I hope I haven’t caused trouble for Norman and Reddick over their fingerprints.”

  “We fumbled it with the fingerprints,” Christine said. “And don’t forget the bodies, Janet. We’ve found a few of those. More than a few. Several. We’re brilliant at bumbling into bodies.”

  “Where was Reddick when we needed him?” Janet asked.

  “On the Maclennan case. Poor Lachlann Mòr. Poor Lynsey. Where’s Norman when we needed him?”

  “Forget Norman, where’s normal?”

  Janet closed her eyes when they reached the Beaton Bridge. She thought she might not want to open them ever again.

  “Do you fancy a drink at Nev’s?” Christine asked.

  “I fancy going home.” She wanted the cats. Wanted normal.

  “Will Tallie be there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If she isn’t, I’m coming in with you. If she is, I’ll drop you and get home to Mum and Dad.”

  They traveled the rest of the way in silence, and Janet opened her eyes again when they made the turn into Argyll Terrace. A quiet, normal street. Lights on at Ian’s. Lights on at home.

  “Tallie’s in,” Janet said when they pulled into her driveway. “What are you doing?”

  Christine had her phone out. “Texting her to make sure she didn’t just leave the lights on and go out.” Her phone pinged with an answer almost immediately. “She’s home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I need you in my life in one piece,” Christine said.

  “I will be. For ever and aye.”

  “I know you can’t guarantee that, but if anyone can do it, you can. That’s another reason I need you—because you’re braver and stronger than I am.”

  “Havers.”

  “And because now we have another question to answer.”

  “We have questions galore,” Janet said. “Which one’s worrying you?”

  “Lachlann and Gerald, both shot. Was it the same gun?”

  “The same gun,” Janet echoed. “Shut off the engine and come inside.”

  20

  Tallie met Janet and Christine at the door and looked at their faces. “What is it? You both look as though you’ve forgotten how to blink.”

  Christine brushed past her and went down the hall to the living room. Janet and Tallie followed.

  “I want some answers,” Tallie said. “First, are you all right, second, did you see Gerald, third, do you want a drink?”

  “We’re fine,” Janet said. “We don’t want drinks. Unless you do, Christine?”

  “I wish I did.” Christine dropped onto the couch.

  Tallie took her mother’s purse and jacket. “Can I take your coat, Christine?”

  “I won’t stay.”

  “All right, that answers questions one and three,” Tallie said. “It leaves Gerald. What happened?”

  They told her about the trip to Gerald’s croft, taking turns with the story, Christine upright on the couch in her coat and Janet standing in the middle of the room, shoulders hunched and arms crossed. The telling stumbled a bit when they told her about finding Gerald, and Tallie put her hands on her mother’s shoulders, steered her to her favorite chair, and made her sit. Smirr appeared, followed by the kitten, and the two jumped up to spread themselves over her lap.

  “I’m still surprised we didn’t remember the same details,” Christine said. “Or that we didn’t see them.”

  “It would have been an interesting experiment, except that it wasn’t an experiment,” Janet said.

  “It was a nightmare,” said Tallie. “Sometimes all we remember of them are a few horrible, distorted details. What was Norman tied up with?”

  “No idea. It could be anything,” Janet said.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Christine said. “I’ve just realized that someone will be breaking the news to Florence. I pray to God it isn’t the odious Russell who calls on that unhappy house. Here’s the awful question that brought me inside with your mother, though, Tallie. Was this the same gun that killed Lachy?”

  “It goes beyond that,” Janet said. “It goes to what you said last night about Norman slipping. Did he give us a hint about a theory he or the Major Investigation Team has—are Malcolm’s and Lachy’s deaths connected? Because if they are and if this is the same gun, then Gerald’s death is connected, too.”

  “That’s awful and really not so far-fetched,” Tallie said. “And now we, but especially you two, are connected to all three deaths. You, Mom, in particular.”

  Janet took a deep breath. Held it. Let it out, then took another. “No more so than the rest of you. Anyone who knows that we’ve gotten entangled with crimes—”

  “Solved murders,” Tallie said.
>
  “Found killers,” Janet said, thinking to herself, deep breath, deep breath, exhale. “Anyone who knows that will also know that the four of us work together and that we don’t keep information from the police.”

  “It’s only the person, or persons unknown, who don’t know those details that we’ll have to be on the lookout for,” Tallie said. “I’m not being sarcastic, just realistic.”

  “And realistically there’s not much we can do about it tonight,” Christine said. “I’ll go home, kiss my old dears, and make my notes in the cloud. You do the same, Janet, but substitute your young dears. I’m that angry at the nasty man with the shriveled soul, though. I’d spit if it wouldn’t upset Tallie and the moggies. And I will spit if he lets anything happen to those books.”

  “What about the books?” Tallie asked.

  “They could easily belong to Gerald,” Janet said. “But we don’t know, and now that he’s gone and they’re with Russell, we may never know.”

  “They’re in police custody as evidence,” Christine explained, “as possible evidence of possible theft. According to Inspector Russell.”

  “Well we did wonder if they were stolen,” Tallie said. “Does he have more information?”

  “Even better, from his point of view,” Christine said. “He has suspects. Your mother for one.”

  Janet pointed at Christine. “And my accomplice.”

  Constable Hobbs knocked on Yon Bonnie Bookshop’s front door before they opened the next morning. He had the whisky box in his arms.

  “I called him after you were in bed,” Tallie said, and went to let him in.

  “It was Reddick,” Hobbs said, when Janet thanked him and asked how he’d managed to get the books away from Inspector Russell. “Reddick is younger, but he’s senior. Through the grapevine, I’ve heard that Russell’s career plateaued some years back, and he’s developed the habit of taking out his disappointment on those he thinks are weaker.”

  Christine snorted.

  “Reddick sorted the fingerprint issue, as well,” Hobbs said.

  “Thank goodness. I am so sorry, Norman,” Janet said.

  “You did nothing to be sorry for. Unless you went to Mr. Murray’s with ulterior motives.”