The Third Sin (28 page)

Fleming groaned. ‘Always the cock-eyed optimist. Thanks a lot.’

‘Never mind. You weren’t daft enough to expect a pat on the back, were you? And we’ve got Philippa bang to rights, anyway,’ MacNee consoled her.

‘She’s a thoroughly evil woman. And she thought she would get away with it, you know. Did you see the fire chief’s report? There was an ashtray full of stubs close to where she started the fire – presumably we were meant to conclude that Randall had been careless with a cigarette and it was all an accident.’

MacNee was impressed. ‘Here, she wasn’t daft, was she? If he got burnt to death it would be kinna hard for the insurers to claim it was just a scam.’

‘And his evidence linking her to Julia’s murder, and any threat Louise might present, would die with them. The best of all possible worlds, in her twisted universe.’ Fleming sighed. ‘I do wonder what made Philippa such a warped person.’

MacNee snorted. ‘Easy! Money, money, money, if you ask me – if it hadn’t been for that, there’d be three people still alive – four if you
count Julia, though she’d probably have killed herself, given time.’

‘It wasn’t only down to her, Tam,’ Fleming said slowly. ‘It was Jen Wilson’s obsession about Connell Kane that set the whole thing in motion.’

‘Won’t admit it, though, that one. Smug as you like.’

‘No,’ Fleming agreed. ‘I think she’s been able to convince herself that the sort of person she is would never cause anything like that, so she didn’t. That’s all.

‘Now it’s only the paperwork, really. You’d better let me get on with it.’

It had been a successful operation but as always at the ending of a case, Marjory Fleming was in sombre mood as she drove home, feeling low and depressed. So much damage, so much grief, so much pain.

But as she turned in at the track to Mains of Craigie, up to the farmhouse that she always thought looked like a child’s drawing – a window on either side of the front door, three windows above – her mood lifted. Cat was coming home tonight, Cat by herself. She’d phoned Marjory the day before to tell her and when her mother had asked, sounding as upbeat as possible, ‘And is Nick coming?’ there had been an awkward pause.

At last, ‘No, he isn’t,’ Cat had said. Then, in a sudden rush, she’d gone on, ‘Actually, Mum, I dumped him after last weekend. He spent the whole time needling you and taking the piss out of Dad and what really finished it was that Dad didn’t even realise and Nick thought it was funny. Don’t tell Dad, though, will you?’

‘Of course not,’ Marjory had assured her. And as she parked the car she promised herself that even if Bill said what a shame it was they’d split up, she wouldn’t so much as exchange glances with Cat. She’d just agree and smile.

Bill was coming across the yard, Meg at his heels. When they saw her Meg rushed over, barking joyfully and Bill followed her, beaming. He was always happy at the end of a case; increasingly, he hated watching her worry her way through all the problems, short of sleep and stressed.

‘Good to see you! I thought you might have been a lot later, with all that. How did it go?’

‘All right, I suppose – if you can say that. It’s been – nasty.’

He eyed her narrowly. ‘You’re looking terrible.’

‘Gee, thanks,’ she said. ‘Considering the lack of sleep, I’m looking pretty good, I think.’

Cat and Cammie were sitting at the kitchen table. Cat got up to kiss her, then gave her a hard look. ‘God, you look awful!’

‘I’m feeling worse by the minute, thank you,’ Marjory said. ‘Anything you’d like to add, Cammie?’

Cammie grinned. ‘You look like a woman who needs a dram,’ he said.

She smiled on him fondly. ‘You get more and more like your dear father every day. Someone can bring it to me – I’m going to sit down.’

With Meg trotting importantly ahead, she went through to the sitting room to sit down in the shabby armchair that they’d never got around to replacing. The dog threw herself down on the hearthrug then sat up again to look in disappointment at the unlit fire, then at her mistress.

‘You don’t need a fire, Meggie. It’s a lovely warm evening,’ Marjory told her firmly.

After a grey day, the sun had broken through, pale and tentative to be sure, but it was flooding the room with soft evening light. She leant back in the chair and shut her eyes, hearing the sounds of chat and laughter coming from the kitchen.

They had worked it out in the end. Everyone, from the chief
constable down, was pleased with her. But she was always aware of her shortcomings: if she’d been quicker, cleverer, maybe … It was a punishing job, and the scars it left grew deeper, more painful, as time went on. If she allowed herself to think like that too much she’d be tempted to chuck the whole thing.

The sound of clinking glasses and cheerful voices was coming nearer and she opened her eyes and sat up, scolding herself. She was a lucky woman, beloved and cherished. Whatever happened outside, she had Bill and the children and this place, always the still centre of her troubled world.

There was a solid measure in the crystal glass Bill held out to her. ‘I made it a double,’ he said. ‘And Cat’s bringing the crisps.’

‘Sour cream and chive?’ Marjory asked. ‘Then what more could any woman want?’

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Evil for Evil

Bad Blood

The Third Sin