Requiem (46 page)

Daisy spent the remainder of the afternoon with the local police, going over the flying notifications for the previous summer. The officer in charge was most co-operative. Acorn Flying Systems had sent out no less than twenty notifications for the Argyll area, but none of them was for any patch of forest adjacent to Ashard, and though they had posted their intention of spraying forest near to Adrian’s, the work had been undertaken in July, well after he had been doused.

Dispirited, she took the last stuffy symptoms of her cold back to the hotel for an early bed with an aspirin and a cup of hot lemon. She slept until four, and then listened to the wind and thought of Nick Mackenzie at Glen Ashard.

The next morning it was raining again. The papers had been reasonably restrained. Only a couple of the tabloids had reported Alusha Mackenzie’s ‘heavy morphine usage’, but had refrained from further comment, waiting, presumably, for the findings of the inquiry before running their main stories.

When the court resumed, just one witness was called, a psychiatrist named Carter, as smooth in appearance as he was in speech. He had examined Mrs Mackenzie during the previous October in London, he said, and had run extensive tests.

‘And what was your diagnosis?’

‘Acute clinical depression.’

Daisy closed her eyes momentarily.

‘And what was the treatment you recommended?’

‘Antidepressants, graduated exercise, psychiatric therapy. But Mrs Mackenzie was removed from my care before the treatment could begin.’

‘Removed?’

‘Her husband came and discharged her very suddenly.’

‘And this was against your advice?’

‘Very much so. I was extremely concerned for Mrs Mackenzie’s health.’

‘In what way?’

Daisy bowed her head.

‘I thought she might attempt to take her own life. I was extremely concerned about it.’

Nick’s lawyer did his best to shift the elegant Dr Carter from his position, but he was not be ruffled and not to be drawn. If exposure to chemicals could produce such symptoms, then he had never heard of a single case.

All that remained was for the procurator fiscal to summarize the evidence. He was thorough and meticulous. He recalled the pathologist’s statement which allowed for the possibility that the deceased’s illness had contributed to her death. But as to the cause of that illness, he believed the evidence to be inconclusive. While Mrs Mackenzie may well have inhaled Reldane, and it might have caused some temporary symptoms, there was no evidence that it could have caused the chronic debilitating illness of the following ten months. The chemical Reldane had been in existence for years; it was considered relatively safe. It seemed an unlikely culprit. And then there was the evidence as to the deceased’s state of mind. Dr Carter had diagnosed clinical depression, and had warned of the dangers of his patient’s state of mind. And it must not be forgotten that she had experienced a traumatic year, with both an accident and a miscarriage. It was possible, therefore, that her illness and indeed her death were of nervous origin, and did not result from inhalation of the chemical Reldane.

Mr Mackenzie, on the other hand, was convinced that his wife had not been depressed, but if the court accepted that, then it left her considerable physical deterioration unexplained, and could well implicate some as yet unidentified factor.

As to the actual day of the death, he would only summarize the few facts, that no note had been found, that she had been seen to be looking unwell on the day of her death, that she had taken a high dose of morphine. The role which the drug may or may not have taken in the death was impossible to determine.

The sheriff announced that he would like the weekend to reflect, and would give his finding on Monday morning. The tension fell back uncertainly, people stirred discontentedly, as if they had been cheated.

Even before the sheriff had left the room, Nick was on his feet and striding down the aisle so rapidly that it was only by jumping quickly and awkwardly from her seat that Daisy made it to the door first and, passing quickly through, held it open for him. But before she had the chance to speak he had gone, speeding past with the barest flicker of a glance. An instant later his companions burst through the door in hot pursuit, one bumping into her with a muffled apology.

The party had almost reached the main entrance when it suddenly ground to an abrupt halt, the cohorts almost colliding with one another. It was Nick who had created the jam, she realized. He had stopped at the doors. He was turning to David Weinberg.

She hurried forward, aware that if she was going to speak she must say the right thing and in the right words, aware that she would have only a few moments in which to say it.

He saw her, he frowned. Close up, he looked raw, defeated, heart-stopping. Suddenly anything she might have said seemed crass and inappropriate.

Finally she blurted: ‘Can I talk to you?’

People were crowding round him. She could sense his panic, his need to escape. With an obvious effort he forced himself to look down at her.

She didn’t know why at that moment of all moments she should look at anything but his face, why as she drew breath to ask him if she could come to see him that evening she should look past his shoulder and notice the head of the man passing behind him. But she did, and there was something about the retreating head, the greased-back hair and fat neck, that caught her by surprise. The words died on her lips, and in the second that she was distracted, in the very instant she was about to force her eyes away from the bull-like neck and back to Nick’s face, something made Nick take fright because suddenly he was turning and before she realized what was happening he was pushing his way clear and his friends were rapidly closing ranks behind him.

Her heart bumped, she pushed after him, through the crowd, out of the doors and into the rain. Emerging, she realized there would be no second chance. The press were converging for their close-ups. As Nick made for his car they shouted questions, pushed shamelessly in front of him, held cameras in his face. Watching the mêlée, Daisy could only feel glad when he reached the shelter of the car and it tore away in a welter of spray.

She stood in the rain, filled with disbelief. She had let him go. She allowed herself a moment of sharp self-rebuke and something approaching misery, before peering through the sheeting rain, searching for the fat neck and slicked-back hair that had jerked at her memory. She began to half walk, half run along the street, examining the memory as she went. The image of the bull-necked head had been incongruous yet familiar.

It was only when she reached the main street and paused to look up and down its length that it came to her. Colin Maynard. The man from the Waldorf.

The implications confused her. Why should he be in Scotland? Interest in Alusha Mackenzie’s case? Interest in Catch? If so, he must have done some serious homework to find out when and where the inquiry was being held.

The more she thought about it the more unlikely it seemed. She was seeing demons, she was having what Alan would call one of her windy phases.

The rain, which was gentle but relentless, dribbled down her face and flattened her hair coldly against her head. A few intrepid people were braving the shops, their heads hidden beneath lowered umbrellas. Two men appeared from a doorway and strode towards her. Both were short with fat bull-like necks, and by the time they had darted into the public bar of the nearby pub, their hair, too, had acquired a wet slicked-back look.

She turned back.

It was Campbell who called with the news on Monday.

Finding undetermined. The matter of Alusha Mackenzie’s death was to be left open.

Daisy felt relief, as if Nick had been on trial and found innocent.

But of course it hadn’t been Nick who had been on trial, it had been Alusha Mackenzie, the charge, mental instability.

D
ORKING, BACKBONE OF
England, boasted several boutiques, small high-class establishments with two to three racks of tailored suits, floral dresses and glittery evening clothes.

Daisy drew a blank at the first two, but in the third the owner showed some interest at the mention of a pilot brother. She did not have one herself, but she had heard that Jane Ackroyd did, and directed Daisy to a boutique called The Dresser.

The shop was a few yards up an alley off the main street, the sort of place where the rents are only half the price. A door-operated bell sounded as Daisy entered and a well-groomed fortyish woman popped her head round a curtain at the far end of the shop.

‘Are you Jane Ackroyd?’ Daisy asked.

‘Yes.’ She was what some people might call faded, with pale washed-out eyes, soft blurred features, and a pair of deep vertical frown lines over the bridge of her nose.

‘I believe you have a brother Peter Duggan,’ Daisy said, diving in. ‘I wanted to get in touch with him.’

A strange expression, half defensive, half curious, came over Jane Ackroyd’s face. ‘Oh yes? In connection with what?’ she demanded.

So Duggan was her brother. Concealing a flutter of triumph, Daisy began the marginally adjusted story she’d prepared on the way down. ‘I’m a solicitor making enquiries into the affairs of a company called Acorn Flying Systems,’ she explained, ‘and in particular one of its directors, a man named Keen. I believe your brother worked for the company last year.’

Jane Ackroyd stared. ‘You’re a solicitor?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Yes.’ When the disbelief in Jane Ackroyd’s face failed to recede she added: ‘Though I’m what you might call off-duty today.’ She gestured apologetically towards her scuffy clothes. ‘I was on my way to the country. Going fishing.’

‘Fishing?’ She was incredulous.

That was the trouble with lies; they had to be repeated.

‘Fishing,’ she restated.

Jane Ackroyd gave the sort of nod she probably used to humour difficult customers. ‘Who are you acting for, Miss – er?’

‘Field. Daisy Field. I’m sorry, I’m not at liberty to reveal the name of my client. I can only say that my client has a direct interest in the matter.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘It’s money then, is it?’

Daisy shrugged regretfully as if ethics prevented her commenting further, but allowed a small collusive smile to slip onto her face which Jane Ackroyd could take any way she wanted.

She got the message all right. ‘Money,’ she affirmed knowingly. ‘It had to be. They still owe Peter several weeks’ salary. It’s outrageous when you consider he was doing all the work and taking all the risks. Quite outrageous.’ She eyed Daisy one more time, as if making up her mind about her. ‘Wait here while I phone, will you?’

‘Is he a long way away?’ Daisy asked her retreating back.

‘Oh no,’ Jane Ackroyd called over her shoulder, and Daisy tried not to get too excited at this second unaccountable stroke of luck.

‘Peter?’ Jane Ackroyd’s voice floated out from behind the curtain before dropping to an inaudible murmur. Daisy wandered closer to the curtain, touching the sleeves of the dresses as she passed. Just as she began to catch the occasional snatch of conversation, the street door opened, the bell sounded with a loud buzz, and a customer came into the shop. Jane Ackroyd peered round the curtain and cut short the conversation with a ‘Must go now.’ She emerged with a smile for the new arrival, then, returning her attention to Daisy, politely but skilfully shepherded her towards the door. ‘My brother’s on his way into town,’ she announced in a low voice. ‘He’ll meet you at The Saddler’s Arms in fifteen minutes.’

It was more than Daisy had dared hope for, and she must have let it show in her face because the defensiveness sprang back into Jane Ackroyd’s eyes. She said sharply: ‘This business – it’s not going to involve Peter in any unpleasantness, is it? I mean, no court cases or anything like that?’

This was a promise that Daisy knew she couldn’t make. ‘A court case?’ she murmured. ‘There’s no suggestion of that at the moment.’

‘You see …’ Jane Ackroyd dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Peter’s been through a bit of a rough patch recently. He … Well, he’s not too …’ Then with an abrupt shake of her head, she abandoned her speech and opened the door.

The lounge bar of The Saddler’s Arms was empty except for an ancient lady sipping a pint of stout which had left a broad foam moustache on her upper lip, and a couple of jovial salesmen arguing amicably over a sheaf of papers. Daisy bought a Coke and sat at a table opposite the door.

After a few minutes Duggan came in. She knew it was Duggan even before he caught her eye and raised his eyebrows questioningly; he looked like something out of a boys’ comic, a parody of a flying man with his spotted cravat, his cavalry twills and blazer, and his longish black hair neatly parted and flattened against his head. The only thing lacking was a moustache.

‘Miss Field?’

‘Mr Duggan.’

He sat down, rubbing his hands energetically, and glanced in the direction of the bar. ‘A drink?’

‘No thanks.’

‘God, not an abstainer, I hope,’ he said with forced heartiness. ‘Article in the paper today says all this health talk is claptrap. A little booze does wonders for the arteries.’