The Darkness and the Deep (39 page)

MacNee went to the window. ‘That’s Tansy anyway. Can we go and brew up a cuppa? I wouldn’t think Jon’ll be far behind.’

She’d done it. At least, she probably had. She’d told Nat, anyway, first thing in the morning when at least he wouldn’t be drunk or – or anything. Katy slid over the ‘anything’ in her mind as she’d done before now.

He’d been angry that she still refused to sell the pub, so angry that she could see his neck muscles bulging. But then she’d said about him going to Glasgow, and money, and he’d calmed down. ‘How much?’ had been his immediate question and ‘Not enough’ his prompt response to her answer. It suggested, though, that there might be a way forward, and it certainly showed she’d been daft to imagine even for a minute that he might not want to leave her. That hurt, a bit.

He’d asked for what he called a ‘down-payment’; Katy had nearly £50 in her purse but she meekly gave it all to him. He left, saying he’d be back later ‘to talk some more’ as he put it. She knew what that meant, but she’d find whatever it took. Worth it, to feel safe in her own home.

Katy felt drained already, though, and it was only ten o’clock. Her programme, neatly written out, lay on the kitchen table, though it was tempting to tell herself she was too tired, too sad still, to cope – but then, she’d gone public just so she wouldn’t take the easy way out.

The first item on it was to go to the Cash and Carry. It might be a chore but there’d be people around and she didn’t fancy solitude just at the moment. It would be better than sitting going through all those memories that would get her crying again and she was feeling low anyway; she’d been more upset than she had expected to be by Nat’s making it plain that his only use for her was as a source of cash. She’d need to do a check on the stocks first; with all these people in and out helping they would be getting low.

Picking up a notebook and her keys, she went downstairs to the little hallway where a door led into the back premises of the pub. The store was a small room with metal shelves floor to ceiling and opposite the door a narrow window looking out to the quiet street at the back.

Notebook in hand, Katy bent down to check on cleaning supplies. They’d gone through a lot of Barman’s Friend and washing-up liquid; she was just making a note when she had a sudden thought. She hadn’t been aware of looking out of the window, but she must have glanced out automatically as she came in and now it occurred to her that there had been something strange.

She straightened up and looked again. No, she’d been right: her car was missing. She could see Rob’s, there in the garage where she’d asked her neighbours to put it when they brought it back from the hospital, but of her own small Peugeot there was no sign.

Katy felt sick. She knew what had happened; Nat had taken it again. She’d assumed he’d gone off to school as usual, but he wouldn’t have turned up at school in a car. And why had he wanted that money this morning?

She tried to banish the thought, but it wormed its poisoned way into her mind, to fester there. It had been all round the town yesterday that they weren’t going to be charging Ritchie Elder with murder and they’d be looking elsewhere now. Had Nat taken the car away to have it properly cleaned, somewhere far enough away from Kirkluce not to arouse suspicion?

You don’t know that, she told herself. Of course you don’t. He’s taken the car to go joyriding before. And you’re such a bad mother you don’t even know what’s happened about reporting him the last time; if you tell the police now you could get him put in jail for a second offence. And if that’s all he’s done . . .

Her carefully planned programme forgotten, she stumbled back upstairs to the kitchen and made herself tea with a shaking hand.

‘Is Mrs Elder at home, please?’

It was Ritchie Elder who had opened the door to Jonathan Kingsley, though if he hadn’t been in his own home Kingsley doubted if he would have recognised him. He was wearing jeans and a shirt that looked as if he’d slept in it, the greying stubble on his chin was well past the designer stage and his eyes were bloodshot and bleary. He’d lost weight and the flesh around his chin was sagging into jowls.

‘How would I know?’ he snarled. ‘You don’t think she tells me what she’s doing, do you?’

He turned and walked – no, shambled away, disappearing down a corridor to the right of the hall, leaving Kingsley standing uncertainly on the doorstep.

He was feeling uncomfortable in his skin this morning anyway. Being made to feel a failure was a new experience and he didn’t like it. He was suffering from a burning sense of injustice; he’d brought Operation Songbird to a brilliant conclusion for them, after all, but that seemed to have been forgotten because he’d gone out on a limb about Elder being the Wrecker and had been proved wrong, which could happen to anyone. And MacNee’s patronising kindness last night had made it worse. As it was probably meant to, Kingsley reflected sourly.

And today, when they’d all had to have their briefing in a shabby farmhouse sitting room – and how professional was that? – he’d made a play for doing the interview with Dorothy Randall. He’d read a lot of stuff yesterday afternoon when he’d been sitting in the CID room trying to ignore the sideways looks, and his money was on her. If they were looking for someone with tunnel vision, no scruples and steely determination, she was your woman, and what he badly needed now was to be associated with a successful outcome.

But oh no, Big Marge wasn’t having that. He and Tam had both spoken to Mrs Randall before and she was looking for a fresh take on it, so Tansy was to have a crack at her after she’d spoken to the receptionist woman. Tam had been banging on about Rettie for days and he was welcome to him, as far as Kingsley was concerned. He was a lot less happy about his own assignment, interviewing Joanna Elder; it hadn’t seemed to occur to anyone that it could put him in an unpleasant, even dangerous position if Elder had discovered who was behind his arrest. He hadn’t wanted to mention it himself; he could just imagine MacNee’s curled lip at this evidence that Kingsley was, in his native
patois
, ‘feart’.

Still, it didn’t look as if Elder had even recognised him as one of the officers present at his interrogation. And he’d left the front door open, too; that must constitute permission to enter.

Kingsley felt a right idiot, though, wandering around the huge entrance hall, feeling he ought to tiptoe because his footsteps echoed so loudly. He stopped in the middle, listening. There was the faint sound of women’s voices coming from somewhere towards the back of the house, then a burst of laughter which seemed incongruous in this troubled place. He was just heading towards a door under the staircase when he heard a loud splash from somewhere to his left where, as he drove up, he had noticed there was a swimming pool. He tapped on the door on that side, then opened it.

Outside the long windows there was still frost lingering where the shadows fell on the drive and the lawn outside, but the sun was just breaking through; with its rays touching the blue of the water and the warmth inside, the Elders’ tropical paradise seemed particularly exotic and inviting.

Kingsley glanced appreciatively at his luxurious surroundings – yup, if he became a drugs baron he’d definitely want something like this – then saw the small figure in the pool, powering away from him at a fast racing crawl. He wasn’t a bad swimmer himself but even so he reckoned she could beat him over the first length or two. He went forward to stand by the edge of the pool.

She didn’t notice him, even after her kick-turn, until she drew almost level, then, turning her head to breathe caught sight of him, gasped, took in a mouthful of water and came up, spluttering and coughing.

‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?’ Joanna demanded when she could speak again, treading water.

He flipped out his warrant-card. ‘DC Kingsley. Your husband let me in.’

He saw her mouth tighten. ‘Did he?’ was all she said, then swam with long, economical strokes to the steps at the end. She was wearing a dark pink one-piece, the same colour as the varnish on her toenails, and there was a pale pink robe lying nearby which she fetched and belted round her. Her hair was plastered to her head and she was, by his reckoning, a bit too skinny, but she had grey eyes with long lashes still spiky with moisture which, after an assessing look at him, she was now employing to great effect. The mouth which had been a tight line was now smiling widely, exposing a row of cosmetically perfect and very white teeth.

She towelled her hair vigorously with a bright green towel that matched the decor, peeping up at him provocatively. ‘At least, if I’m to be subjected to still more police interrogation, the standards have improved. Come and sit down. Would you like me to send for some coffee?’ She stretched out on one of the loungers and patted the one next to her invitingly.

‘No thank you, Mrs Elder.’ Kingsley made no attempt to sit down. He didn’t want a nice, cosy, manipulative chat; from their reports, she’d done that to both Tam and Tansy. He planned to see what a bit of aggro could do and looking over her was quite a good start.

The smile disappeared but she said lightly, ‘Fine, Constable, let’s do it your way. What do you want to know?’

‘I want to know why you lied to DS MacNee.’

‘Did I?’ The perfectly groomed eyebrows rose in a quizzical arch.

‘You told him you didn’t know your husband was having an affair with Ashley Randall. What other lies have you told?’

Joanna gave a gasp of outrage. ‘Just because I chose not to admit to having heard what was, after all, only a rumour, you’re suggesting—’

‘You see, Mrs Elder, you told MacNee that just after the wreck of the lifeboat when we were looking into motives, and knowing about the affair with Ashley would have given you quite a powerful one, wouldn’t it? It was only after Willie Duncan was killed and your husband was charged with drug dealing that you admitted to DC Kerr that you did know, after all. It’s a question of timing, you see: at that point you might reasonably have thought it was safe to assume your husband would be charged with the murder as well. Not only that, you made a point of telling her that you couldn’t confirm his alibi.’

Joanna had been leaning back, in ostentatious relaxation; now she sat bolt upright, her face pale and the muscles in her jaw visibly tense.

‘I told her I
didn’t
believe he was a murderer!’ she protested.

‘Not entirely convincingly, as I understand it. Though of course it transpires you were right, so we’re now looking elsewhere.

‘What precisely were you doing on the night of October tenth, between the hours of seven and ten? And again, on the twentieth, between eleven and one?’

‘The tenth – the night of the wreck, presumably?’ Her voice was steady enough; she had swung her legs to the floor now and was sitting looking up at him, her head back in a defiant pose. He noticed, though, that her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, had fingernails which were not manicured like her toenails; they were raggedly bitten to the quick.

‘The best I can offer you is to say that I was here, by myself, as I am most evenings unless my husband and I have a social engagement. I expect I had supper, exercised, then watched television. That’s what I normally do. Then, of course, Ritchie came back, absolutely distraught, and told me all about it.’

‘You have no children?’

‘No.’

The reply was flat, but somehow Kingsley had the feeling he might have touched a nerve. He persisted. ‘No visitors? No long, chatty phone calls with girlfriends?’

Her thin smile suggested contempt rather than amusement. ‘I’m not that kind of woman, Constable. No.’

‘That’s a pity. Leaves you sort of exposed, doesn’t it?’

‘You reckon a judge would accept the physical possibility that I could have been there as proof of guilt?’ she said sarcastically. ‘The dock could get fairly crowded, on that basis.’

‘Absolutely. But you see, it’s a starting point. If you’d been able to prove you were here, there’d be no purpose in pursuing our enquiries, would there? Since you can’t . . .’ He shrugged. ‘And then of course, there’s the twentieth—’

‘I was here, with my husband,’ she said quickly, then stopped.

‘Yes, of course. It cuts both ways, doesn’t it? You didn’t see him; he didn’t see you. Such a pity.

‘Do you ever make your own wine, Mrs Elder?’

‘Make
wine
? Are you mad? My husband has a cellar—’

‘You deny it? Thank you. Have you ever been to Argos, in Dumfries?’

She was getting flustered now. ‘Argos? I – I don’t know, I might have. I think I bought a heater there once—’

‘Do you have the receipt?’

The agitation she was displaying could be the normal confusion such apparently random questioning might produce. Or not. ‘My – my husband might have it filed somewhere. Why do you want to know?’

He ignored that. ‘Have you ever used craft paints?’

Joanna got up, shaking visibly. ‘I don’t understand what this is all about, but you seem to be trying to trap me somehow. No, I have never used craft paints. But if you are going to go on asking me questions like this I shall refuse to answer until my lawyer is present.’

‘Just one more. Mrs Elder, did you arrange the wreck of the lifeboat, then kill Willie Duncan?’

She burst into tears, jumped up and ran out.

‘He doesn’t seem to be in school today,’ the headmaster said, consulting his computer screen. ‘Is there a problem?’

MacNee grimaced. ‘Hard to say. I can probably get hold of him at home this evening but there’s a few things he could maybe clear up for us and I’d hoped to get it done this morning. Unless he’s likely still to be in Knockhaven?’

Peter Morton shook his head. ‘Not if his mother’s at home. She’s a nice woman, always very concerned about his education.’

‘Any idea where he might be?’

‘He’s got a poor attendance record anyway. Better lately – this is the first absence in the last couple of weeks – but I don’t know what he does when he’s not here. Hangs out with some of his mates who’ve decided to bunk off as well, I’d guess. If the parents are out at work you get the house to yourself – TV and video games and a few cans of beer, bit of a laugh with your mates . . . Could fancy it myself sometimes, instead of coming in here.’