The Burning Glass (28 page)

Jean filled the second cup with coffee and
headed for the door. If she had to play the helpmeet, she would do
it to the hilt. Just as long as she could stand by her man, not
three paces behind him.

She threw open the door to find the constable
she’d come to think of as Officious Hawick mounting the steps.

Jean jerked back, but O. Hawick’s hatchet
face registered no startlement. With a nod toward the female
constable following him by three paces, he said, “The flat needs
searching.”

“Feel free.” Jean waved them through the
doorway.

“W.P.C. Anne Blackhall. Sorry to disturb
you.” The woman’s bright, black gaze moved from Jean to her
colleague’s posterior, so stiff you could bounce a coin off of it,
and back again, making a clear editorial remark.

Jean grinned, acknowledging sisterhood, then
balanced the coffee cup across the courtyard to the incident room.
Crow-calls sounded like harsh laughter. On his bench, Derek went
from a huddle of miserable resentment to a bundle of resentful
misery. The constable-warden looked around at Jean. “Here, you
cannot—”

“No worries,” Kallinikos told him from the
open doorway, and stepped aside so Jean could enter. “Mind the
cables.”

“Thanks. Whoa, that was fast.” In little more
than an hour, the room had been transformed into a nerve center,
with everything from computers to charts on easels to a steaming
tea kettle. The place could have been a car-rental office or widget
factory, except for the unforgiving photos of Angus’s body tacked
to a bulletin board. Jean averted her eyes to the far corner.

Alasdair stood guard behind Delaney, who was
sitting across a small table from Valerie. She was frozen in the
act of inserting a cigarette between her red lips, staring over her
shoulder at Jean—
I’ve seen you before, where was it?
Then,
with a shrug, she groped around in a fanny pack lying on the chair
beside her, produced a lighter, and applied flame to cigarette.
Smoke billowed. Taking a deep drag, she adjusted the cardigan
wrapping her narrow shoulders and concealing the Celtic tattoo. . .
. Jean’s visual memory clicked. That tattoo, she realized, was in
the shape of a harp.

Valerie propped her elbow on the back of the
chair, and held the cigarette aloft like a miniature torch of
liberty. The gesture was intended to be casual, Jean assumed, but
what it revealed was that Valerie’s muscles were so tight they
shook with an occasional tremor.

Through the acrid haze, Alasdair’s gaze met
Jean’s. A slight tilt of his head and she remembered the
crime-scene technician bagging a cigarette butt smeared with
lipstick. Well, Valerie had been here yesterday, that was no
secret. She’d been asking questions. So had Wallace, apparently,
according to the cryptic message on the answerphone tape. If asking
questions was a punishable offense, Jean herself was in for a long,
long sentence.

She was still holding the cup of coffee. It
had worked as a ticket of admittance, but wasn’t needed—Alasdair
was holding a mug dangling the tag of a tea bag, and Delaney and
Valerie were equipped with the same. In the interests of
conviviality, Jean took a swig of the black brew herself.

But as far as Delaney was concerned, she was
invisible. Either Alasdair had given her a glowing reference, or
she was simply beneath Delaney’s notice. Fine. If he didn’t
recognize her presence, he couldn’t ask her to leave. When
Kallinikos pushed forward a plastic chair, she sank quietly into
it, while the sergeant himself sat down on the edge of a table and
turned a page in his notebook.

“Once again, from the top,” Delaney said to
Valerie. “Ciara Macquarrie rang this morning, before dawn, to
blether about Angus’s death.”

Ciara? Jean glanced at Alasdair, but he had
assumed his great stone face.

“It’s news, isn’t it?” asked Valerie. “Dirty
great news for the likes of Stanelaw. It’s always been a Rutherford
town.”

“Where did you meet Ciara?”

Alasdair would have called her Ms.
Macquarrie. Jean set her cup on the table. How could anybody drink
the bitter brew without the buffering of milk? Bitter almonds—that
was a poison.

“Ciara’s known well enough in these parts,”
Valerie answered.

“But you’ve just returned to these parts,”
said Alasdair. “When?”

Delaney looked up at him, his mouth thinning
just far enough to indicate that he was less than thrilled working
as the first among equals.

“First of August. Moved house soon as Derek’s
school term ended.”

“Why have you returned?” Alasdair asked.

“I’ve told you. Ma man gave me the elbow,
didn’t he? All these years, you think they’d count for something,
but no. Packed his things and left with never a by-your-leave.” Her
voice was a whine with an edge, like a band saw. “I’ve got a bairn
to support, and jobs are scarce as hen’s teeth in Middlesbrough. Ma
uncle, he said there’d be jobs here with Ciara’s spa and all, and
we could stop in his holiday home ’til we get our feet on the
ground.”

“Your husband left you,” said Delaney.

Valerie’s laugh sounded like Jean’s coffee
tasted. “Aye. Said marriage is no more than a piece of paper. Means
nothing.”

Jean begged to differ, but her opinion was
irrelevant. So was Alasdair’s, although she could tell by the quick
twitch of his cheek that he had one similar to hers.

“Your uncle’s name?” asked Kallinikos.

“Bill Trotter,” Valerie said from the corner
of her mouth.

“He’s a resident of Stanelaw?”

“Aye. Owns the shop on the High Street. I’m
helping him out there, for now.”

“He introduced you to Ciara, did he?” Delaney
queried.

She considered a moment. “Aye, he did
that.”

Alasdair asked, “Did you keep your maiden
name when you married? Or did you go back to it after the
divorce?”

“We’re not divorced. Not yet. He’s still ma
significant other, isn’t he? Significant prat.”

Delaney smiled at that. Alasdair did not.
Kallinikos asked, “His name?”

“Harry Spivey.”

“Where did you meet him?” asked Delaney

“Here.”

“Here in Stanelaw?”

“Here at Ferniebank. He was on the dig team,
little more than a navvy. Thought he was a scientist, though,
’cause he had himself a term at university. Then he ran out of
money, ran out of energy, found himself lumbered with a wife and
child. Reverted to his true colors, then. Layabout. Chav. I paid
for the flat in Middlesbrough, didn’t I, whilst he and his brothers
spent their giros at the betting shop and the local.”

Spent their welfare checks gambling and
drinking, Jean translated. Hearing stories like Valerie’s made her
realize that no matter how sour her job and her marriage had gone,
she’d had it easy.

“Trotter,” Alasdair said consideringly.

“It’s ma name,” said Valerie. “It’s a good
name. Good as Rutherford, any road.”

Delaney leaned back in his chair, folded his
hands across his waistcoat, and asked with ponderous nonchalance,
“You have a grudge against the Rutherfords?”

Her hand dived toward the table. With a hiss
the cigarette drowned in the dregs of her tea. Viciously she ground
it about in the mug. “No, I’ve got nothing against the
Rutherfords.”

Again Jean met Alasdair’s glance.
Right
. What had Minty said about wishing Valerie and her
child well when she left the area, adding it was a shame she’d come
back? No love lost, there.

“And did Ciara promise you a job at the new
spa, then?” asked Delaney.

“Food service. I had me a bakery, but it went
bust and closed down. Scones, buns, seed cakes, focaccia with herbs
and oil—whatever you fancy. ”

Alasdair took a half-step forward, anything
but nonchalant. “You’re after working here at the castle, even
though the place has a curse on it?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Valerie
demanded.

“A wee birdie told me.”

She rested her elbows on the table, shoulders
sagging, head hanging. Her whine revved to a shriller note. “Things
happen at Ferniebank. Isabel, her spirit’s after revenge. When I
was a kid we’d dare each other to poke about the grounds and slip
into the castle, play hide and seek with Roddy when he tried
turfing us out. Dead spooky it was, all overgrown and falling down.
Then the Rutherfords thought to make it a paying proposition, and
had the archaeologists, and me and Harry . . .” After a pause that
Jean hated to think of as pregnant, Valerie went on, “Now
Ferniebank’s sold, for a right packet, I reckon. Polly’s mum, and
good old Wallace, and Angus, they’re all gone. Ciara will have the
place gutted and tarted up and that’ll change everything.”

No one replied. In the silence Jean heard the
gravel outside shifting beneath various feet, voices shouting, a
dog barking. She looked again at the 8 x 10 glossies of Angus’s
ghastly face and wondered if it wasn’t too late for Ferniebank to
change.

Valerie reached for another cigarette, lit
it, and exhaled so gustily that Alasdair and Delaney both coughed.
“Aye, the place has a curse on it. Everyone dealing with the place
is cursed. But I’d work for the devil himself if I had to, all
right? I’m a single mum. I was a single mum even when Harry was
about. I’ve got me a bairn to support. They slag you off for taking
the dole, and they slag you off for working and leaving the bairn.
Maybe here I can work and keep an eye on the kid both, eh? I meant
to go to university myself, but no, Derek came along, and now I
mean to do right by him. Though there are those who think
otherwise. Am I right, Inspector Delaney?”

“Derek looks to be a bit of a problem here,
Val,” Delaney returned.

“He’s fifteen years old. I can’t stop him
coming and going. I can’t stop him from trying to impress Zoe or
fit in with her and the local kids—they’re after daring each other
to come in here, same as me and ma mates, save that now there’s
rules, and officers about. Derek’ll be away to school in Kelso
tomorrow, like I was at his age. That’ll keep him out of
trouble.”

“It may be too late for that,” Delaney told
her. “He’s known to the police now.”

Valerie flinched at that, but Jean couldn’t
see her face.

“Ms. Trotter,” said Alasdair, “Derek’s not
been as forthcoming with us as we’d like. Mind you, we’re not
suspecting him of anything criminal. But he knows more about recent
events here at Ferniebank than he’s owning, and it would be in his
best interests to tell us everything.”

Jean waited for her to insist that Derek had
nothing to do with Angus’s death, that their business was their own
and not the police’s, but all she said was, “Ma uncle’s shop needs
seeing to. Can I go now?”

Delaney inhaled to speak, but Alasdair’s
voice sounded first. “If Trotter’s your maiden name, then why’s
Derek Trotter as well, and not Spivey like his dad?”

Valerie went very still, like a cornered
animal. “We weren’t married ’til after Derek was born. Harry went
on and on about him not being the real father ’til I paid good
money for a DNA test just to shut him up. Now that he’s walked out,
I’m glad Derek’s got ma name and not his. Can I go?”

“You’re away into town to make a statement,”
said Delaney, “you and the lad both. After that, you’re free to go.
Don’t leave the area.”

“I’ve nowhere else to go, do I now?” With an
emphatic scrape, Valerie shoved her chair back and broke for the
door.

Thinking that there was a marriage made in
purgatory, Jean, too, rose, and watched as Kallinikos, towering
over Valerie, followed her into the courtyard. In the cheery gleam
of sunshine, Derek looked even more like something that had crawled
out from beneath a rock. Only a mother could love a youngling that
pathetic, and she wasn’t looking at him with a loving gaze, not
right now.

Kallinikos gestured the hovering constable to
one of the police cars and opened the door. Valerie cast a frantic
gaze toward the gate, which was now covered with a tarpaulin to
shut out the inquisitive cameras, and crawled into the car. Her
long, lean arm dragged Derek in behind her.

Alasdair stepped up beside Jean, standing
silent as the car inched onto the road and cut a swathe through the
clamoring reporters. P.C. Hawick and W.P.C. Blackhall emerged from
the flat. The former went to direct traffic at the gate, the latter
looked in through the doorway. “Nothing of interest,” she announced
to Delaney, and to Jean she whispered, “Nice wee moggie.”

“And he knows it, too,” replied Jean.

With a half-smile, she turned back into the
incident room and gazed levelly at Alasdair, who gazed levelly back
. . . No, he wasn’t quite focused on her face, he was just resting
his eyes on a familiar scene while his brain whirred away like the
finely tuned machine it was.

“Jean,” called Delaney from his alpha-male
table-barricade, “you didn’t mention that you’re a reporter.”

“You didn’t ask me what I did,” she
answered.

“Cameron’s telling me you’re not like that
lot outwith the gate.”

“I write historical pieces. Contemporary
crime isn’t my beat. I intended to write something about Isabel
Sinclair’s death back in 1569, but then, that wasn’t a crime, not
legally, anyway.”

“And who’s Isabel Sinclair when she’s at
home?” demanded Delaney. “The Isabel Val Trotter was rabbiting on
about?”

“Does one mention make a rabbit?”

Alasdair’s even gaze took on a subtle
sparkle. “I’ll look out one of Wallace’s brochures for you,” he
told Delaney. “Did you take note of how Valerie called him ‘good
old Wallace’?”

“To cover up her animosity toward the
Rutherfords, I expect.”

“And her defensiveness on the topic of
Derek’s father?”

“That’s easily enough explained,” Delaney
said with a hee and a haw. When Kallinikos stepped back through the
doorway, Delaney went on, “Get onto Middlesbrough. Find this Spivey
chap. And you, Cameron, Logan’s taking statements. You and the
little lady here, away to Stanelaw with you.”