Lying Dead (10 page)

    Tonight she seemed even paler than usual and he was immediately concerned. ‘You feeling OK?’

    ‘Not – not brilliant.’

    ‘Are you wanting home? I’ll need to stand my round first, but—’

    ‘No, no,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ll be fine just sitting here for now. You get away back to the lads.’

    Rab hesitated, but didn’t argue. He was having a good time; this evening there were a lot of the regulars in the country pub just outside Wigtown and she watched him slap one of his mates on the back with a remark that made the group laugh. He wasn’t good-looking, but she liked the way he looked: big-built and heavily muscled, thanks to his obsession with weight-training and keeping fit. Just as well, really, considering you didn’t get much exercise driving a lorry. He’d been a barman before but that wasn’t a lot healthier, and at least the money was better.

    She was reluctant to break up the party. She hadn’t seen him relaxed and happy like this since he got the dusty answer about the flat – which she always knew he’d get – from Niall Murdoch.

    He’d come back then in a towering rage. Cath wasn’t scared of him; she was serenely confident that he would never lay a finger on her, but she did worry that his fixation with Drumbreck would get him in trouble.

    Cath could understand, in a way. He’d lived in Drumbreck when it was just a hamlet at the back of beyond, like generations of McLeishes before him. His parents’ long-term tenancy of a cottage at the far end of the bay had been terminated when the gentrification of Drumbreck started ten years ago, and being offered a council house in Wigtown they’d moved out without making a fight of it. Rab’s mum, at least, had been happy enough to go; she liked having central heating instead of a coal fire with a back boiler, and being able to pop out for a wee daunder round the shops in the town when she felt like it.

    Rab, though, had been in his early teens at the time, just the worst age in Cath’s opinion. If they’d stayed there longer he’d most likely have got sick fed-up of having nothing to do in the evenings but as it was he’d been left with a kind of storybook idea of the place. He was unbalanced about it.

    That was Rab’s problem. He wasn’t good at balance. He saw things black-and-white and with his temper he didn’t always see them straight. And he’d friends that didn’t help: to him the Drumbreck thing was sort of like a religion but some of the others saw it as a bit of fun, baiting the toffs with their flashy cars and boats. Cath had heard rumours about vandalism and damage that made her very uneasy.

    When he’d heard the flat was coming up on the market, he was elated. ‘The rest of the property’s a tip. They can’t be expecting an incomer will offer for it, with the place looking like that. And I’m making good money – I can give them a fair price.’

    Cath’s heart sank. She wasn’t anything like as sure as he seemed to be that other people wouldn’t see its potential and there were plenty folk in Glasgow with silly money to spend just gagging to get in there. Murdoch wasn’t daft.

    The worst thing was, Cath had been hoping to persuade him just to get somewhere in Wigtown. It would be handy for her, with her job there in one of the bookshops, and it would be better for him too. You couldn’t take a great lorry down that road and park it outside your door when you’d an early start in the morning.

    But once Rab had an idea in his head he was stubborn. He’d this picture of them getting married and giving their kids the childhood he’d had. Cath wasn’t sure it would work like that; Drumbreck with half the houses shut up except at weekends and no shop or anything would hardly be the same. But she wasn’t caring about where it was, just when. She’d had enough of living at home, with her parents worried and angry when she came in late, looking all flushed and rumpled. She just wanted somewhere they could move in together, and sort the rest out later.

    And until this week, she had almost been winning the argument. She might look a wee mouse of a thing but she was strong-minded in her quiet way, and mostly Rab would let her have what she wanted if she dug her toes in. When he got caught up in the Drumbreck fantasy again, though, she was powerless. He was talking wildly about making the Murdochs change their minds, and she’d been really scared that he and his friends – the ones Cath didn’t like him hanging out with – would do something crazy to the property to put people off.

    But what Cath had to tell him tonight would bring him down to earth with a bump. A bump! That was a sick joke. She had made up her mind, and once she’d done that, she could match Rab any time for stubbornness. She was giving him a choice.

    He could drop his daft notions about Drumbreck and find somewhere sensible now, or she could get rid of the baby. She hated the thought, but what she wasn’t going to do was brazen it out living at home with her parents taking out their feelings of humiliation on her.

    It was up to Rab.

Chapter 5

Mirren slipped quietly out of the house. Her father was out somewhere and she could hear the sound of her mother’s electric drill as she made for the big open shed across the yard where Moss was kept chained up. He was lying dozing on some straw in one corner, with a couple of bales providing a bit of shelter from the wind, but the second she approached he sat up, eying her warily.

    ‘It’s all right, Moss,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not even going to try to touch you because I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust me – you don’t trust anyone now, because of what he’s done to you.

    ‘But look—’ She reached for the tin bowl lying on the floor and taking a squidgy plastic bag out of her pocket, emptied it in. ‘Here’s the stew they didn’t eat – you’ll like that.’

    She pushed the bowl towards him and he sniffed the savoury smell; the tip of his feathery tail tapped the ground and he moved cautiously towards it, eying her all the time. He wolfed it down, then retreated to his corner again.

    ‘That’s better, isn’t it? But oh, Moss! I don’t know what’s going to happen!’ Her eyes prickled as the dog put his head to one side, both ears cocked, listening, as if trying to work out what she was telling him.

    ‘Anyway,’ she went on fiercely, sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her hand, ‘I’ll see it’s nothing bad, whatever I have to do.’

    It was almost completely dark when she went outside. The bay looked pretty and cosy with all the houses lit up and the lights from the Yacht Club and the marina, with the night watchman standing on the dock talking to someone. Inside the house, the noise of the drill had stopped and she could hear the television. Her mum was probably watching
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
; Mirren liked that, and she was feeling quite hungry now too. She could get a packet of crisps and join Mum in the cosy sitting-room.

    But she had work to do. She let herself into the darkened house and, shivering a little, bypassed the sitting-room and went down a corridor beyond. Here there had been little restoration and the walls were rough brick, with wires looping down from the ceiling. She hated these parts of the building. They always made her feel creepy, but this was where her mother had a sort of office, with a computer.

    She never told anyone when she went on the internet like this, choosing a time when no one would be using the phone and dialling up, straining to hear any movement that would warn her someone was coming. Not that Mirren wasn’t allowed to use the computer; her mother positively encouraged her to use it for schoolwork, but she wouldn’t approve of what Mirren accessed on these quiet evenings.

    As the familiar Google window appeared, she typed in the chatroom address.

‘I’ll need to speak to the Fiscal first,’ Marjory Fleming was saying as she and Tam walked up the steps of the Kirkluce Police Headquarters. ‘He’s been notified, but I have to check if he wants to go up to the site. I’d be surprised if he does – he’s usually happy enough to leave it to us and he hasn’t exactly got the figure for hillwalking.’

    ‘You could say,’ MacNee agreed. ‘He’d be asking for a hoist.’ The Procurator Fiscal, a portly gentleman, was coming up for retirement, and his idea of being in charge of a murder inquiry – as indeed, legally, he was – consisted of delegation of the ‘Carry on, chaps’ variety, which suited them just fine.

    ‘Then I’ll need to—’ Fleming broke off as she pushed open the door and went into the entrance hall. Her heart sank. There, in the reception area, was Susie Stevenson and with her a small child – her son presumably. Fleming knew there was a seven-year-old called Josh; she’d spent the morning cleaning the cottage and hanging Cammie’s discarded Superman curtains in the second bedroom. But this was hardly the place for a child! The Stevensons had been staying with Susie’s parents – surely one of them would have been prepared to babysit?

    Fleming turned to Tam. ‘I’ll have to speak to her. You go on and set the wheels in motion.’

    She walked towards them but before she could get there they stood up and she saw Susie murmur something to the boy and urge him forward.

    Josh was a particularly angelic-looking child, with his mother’s curly fair hair and his father’s dark eyes. He was white with tiredness and strain and his eyes widened with alarm as he looked up at Fleming’s tall figure. He glanced nervously back at his mother, who nodded encouragement.

    He bit his lip. ‘Please – please will you let me have my daddy back home?’

    It was obvious that he had been coached to say this. Fleming felt cold with dismay. She looked across the boy’s head at his mother.

    ‘Susie, what is this?’

    Susie came to stand beside Josh and put her arm round his shoulders. She was a bit above medium height, fair-haired and sharp-featured with a discontented mouth; tonight her eyes were swollen and she was very pale.

    ‘I knew you wouldn’t listen to me if I asked you to use your influence. But I thought you might take pity on a little boy who only wants his daddy.’

    Josh’s chin began to wobble. Without replying to Susie, Fleming bent down to his level, signalling at the same time to the duty officer behind the desk. Mercifully it was PC Bruce tonight, the mother of young children herself.

    ‘Don’t worry, Josh,’ Fleming said as reassuringly as she could. ‘I’m just going to have a little talk with your mum and see what’s been happening, and this lady here’s going to find you some juice and a biscuit.’

    ‘No problem,’ Bruce said cheerfully. ‘Come on, pet – we’ll away over to the desk and you can help me phone the canteen. What kind of juice do you like?’ She held out her hand and Josh, with another anxious glance at his mother, allowed himself to be led away to the other side of the hall.

    Fleming turned to Susie. ‘Let’s sit down, shall we?’ Her voice was taut with anger. ‘I don’t think it was very kind to put Josh through that, do you? I know nothing about this, beyond the fact that I happened to see Findlay being taken into custody as I left the trials. What was it – a fight?’

    Susie nodded sullenly.

    ‘Then it will be nothing to do with me. Someone else will be dealing with it and will make any decisions necessary. It won’t even cross my desk.’

    ‘But you’re the boss, you could order them—’

    ‘No, I couldn’t.’ It really cost her to sound calm and reasonable. ‘That’s what is known as perverting the course of justice and it’s a criminal offence.’

    Susie looked at her with loathing. ‘Oh, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Getting your own back . . . But I would have thought even you would want to spare poor little Josh!’

    She wailed the last words and Josh came running back to put his arms round her and looked up at Fleming accusingly. PC Bruce came hurrying across.

    ‘Do you want me to take over, ma’am? I know you’ve a lot to deal with—’

    Fleming managed to smile. ‘Thanks. In a minute.’ She turned back to the Stevensons. ‘The only thing I can do is find out what Findlay’s situation is at present. Who was dealing with it, constable?’

    Armed with the information, she made a call from the desk, listened with some relief to what she was told, then came back to speak to the child.

    ‘Well, Josh, I’m happy to tell you Daddy’s fine and he’ll be back in a minute.’ Josh’s woebegone face brightened, and Susie managed to find a smile.

    ‘You see, Josh? I told you – and now say thank you to Mrs Fleming. And I suppose I have to say thank you, too, for arranging that.’ Her expression was more indicative of satisfaction than gratitude.

    ‘No, Susie, I didn’t arrange anything,’ Fleming said, calling on her dwindling reserves of superhuman patience. ‘It just so happened that when I phoned he’d been charged and was about to be released on an undertaking to appear in court.’

    ‘Charged?’ Susie’s face changed. ‘You mean – but it wasn’t his fault! That awful man pushed him beyond the limits! Surely you could have—’

    Fleming had had enough. More than enough. ‘No, I couldn’t,’ she said flatly. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a murder to investigate.’

    She walked away briskly. She’d wasted too much time on this already and if Susie wanted to make things difficult for herself, it was her privilege. By the time Fleming reached the major incident room, the problems of the Stevenson family were far from her mind.

Adrian McConnell stood at the back of the narrow hall of their cottage, a small, slight man whose most distinctive feature was his dark-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a fixed smile and his physical detachment emphasized his distaste for the spectacle of his wife, strapless sequined top only just decent, draped round their male guest’s neck and fluttering her heavily mascaraed eyelashes at him as she said goodnight at the front door. She was oblivious both to the killer looks she was getting from the man’s wife and to the fact that her mascara had run into streaks all round her eyes.