Cradle to Grave (33 page)

At least, though, it gave them a starting point. They had contacted the office and spoken to Mr Rencombe’s secretary, but purely on the basis of a traffic offence. The more important questions could wait.

Mr Rencombe, she said, was on a business trip to Scotland. With professional discretion, she was vague about where he might be but promised to try to contact him.

So was the Lexus a stolen car? It hadn’t been reported, but if someone told her that ‘Damien’ was into that sort of racket, she wouldn’t fall over backwards in surprise. They’d have his fingerprints before long anyway, and then it would be a matter of minutes to do a check for any previous.

Even if they did find out his real identity, it wouldn’t necessarily solve anything. This one, she thought uncomfortably, was going to run and run.

There was a ‘Road Closed’ sign on a metal barricade across the access to the cottages. A huge digger was parked just short of the landfall, with a Portakabin beside it as well as three skips. There was no one about.

DS MacNee parked the car, then stepped past the barrier and, skirting the huge pile of earth and rubble, walked round to the site.

It was eerie out here. The air was clammy with a grey mist and there was no view, except of a dark, sullen sea, no sound except the relentless lapping of the waves in front of the ruined houses. Even the workmen seemed to have fled: there were some spades stuck into a pile of earth and an empty wheelbarrow abandoned beside them.

MacNee felt a cold chill run down his spine. It was as if the greyness were closing in on him, trapping him in this unchancy place where a life as well as the cottages had been destroyed. He tried to shake himself out of it: the absence of activity was no more than another example of the Great British Workman not at work, and there would be no sense of urgency about any project that wouldn’t have votes in it for the councillors. It still felt creepy, though.

Number 2 Rosscarron Cottages – that was the one he was looking for, with the blue-and-white tape still round it, though a couple of strands had broken off and were hanging limp from the poles.

The house wasn’t as badly damaged as the first one, which was still almost completely buried, but from the look of it if Mr X hadn’t been dead before the cliff fall, it would have killed him.

Picking his way carefully, MacNee went in through the broken door, propped open with a rough plank, glancing nervously up at the hole in the roof and the huge boulder blocking the staircase. He wasn’t about to try going up, but he wanted to stand in the room where the body had been found and see if it had a story to tell him. There were metal supports propping up the doorway and the ceiling; it looked safe enough.

There were signs of the SOCOs everywhere. The room was bare now; everything in it would have been removed for testing, and underfoot there was only the rubble of fallen plaster and lathes of wood. But even when it was furnished, it could never have been anything other than dark and a bit bleak, with that small window and the old-fashioned cast-iron fireplace and grate.

The chalk marks on a cleared area of floor showed him exactly where the body had lain, underneath a roof beam, which was now propped up. MacNee had seen the photos on the board in the incident room, of course, but this told him a bit more. Mr X, felled by a blow from behind, had fallen quite near the door.

He hadn’t been on his guard, expecting it. He had turned his back – when he was leaving, perhaps? You didn’t, in normal conversation, turn your back on the person you were speaking to.

Had there been a row? Mr X turns to walk out; on the spur of the moment his assailant seizes something – something, with any luck, that the SOCOs would identify – and strikes the back of his head.

And then what? Clears out the man’s pockets, takes his car, then leaves in a panic? Hears later of the landfall with incredulous delight, hoping perhaps that no one will ever know how Mr X met his end? Then disappears completely, once the hunt is on?

Or stays around and brazens it out. Kershaw would be sure to point the finger at Lisa, especially in the light of later developments. Yet MacNee had believed the girl when she swore she hadn’t known Mr X.

Why had he been there at all? He was hardly likely to have wandered into a random cottage, thoughtfully bringing his murderer with him. So the boyfriend, the so-called Lee, he was fairly sure, must have . . . must have . . . what?

He had intended to leave, witness the suitcase Jan Forbes had seen; had Mr X, perhaps, arrived unexpectedly and been taken back to the house for a talk, which had developed into a quarrel, murder and subsequent panic?

In that case, could the death at the guest house be a revenge killing? And if so, who knew all about this but was lying low?

MacNee emerged from the cottage. He’d got plenty to think about and an idea or two to follow up, but he wasn’t ready to go back to headquarters yet. When he was in the area anyway, he’d go and pay another call on his old friends at Rosscarron House. There was no reason why they should have heard about the latest killing and he’d like to have the chance of judging whether it came as news to them. Or not.

Lisa Stewart got down from the bus, waving a thank-you to the driver, who had made an unscheduled stop for her.

The road ran close to the shore here, and on the opposite side a brilliantly whitewashed house stood on its own, looking out across Wigtown Bay and encircled by a grey stone wall. A sign in the well-kept garden read, ‘Rowantrees Hotel,’ and by the entrance there were indeed rowans, one on either side in the traditional position for protection against witches.

Lisa stood, her eyes half closed, and breathed deeply. The drizzling rain and mist had just cleared and the fresh breeze carried the tang of salt and seaweed. It felt so . . . so
clean
!

She walked across to a gap in the golden banks of whin lining the road and then over the springy turf, which gave way to coarse sand and stones, going to stand at the water’s edge. A flock of oyster-catchers further along the beach rose as one and swirled round with their piping cries, before settling back to run among the pebbles on their red, stilt-like legs.

The sea was quiet today, with only that slight breeze ruffling its surface and giving the waves white, feathery tops as they ran up almost to Lisa’s feet, then retreated with a soft fizzing of foam, which left a trail of bubbles on the hard sand. She had to take a hasty step back when a wave, bolder than the others, threatened to soak her feet.

Almost mesmerised by the rhythmic sounds, she stood for a long time, gazing out to sea. The sky was overcast, but suddenly a rift in the clouds appeared and a shaft of light gilded the farther side of the bay with its direct rays. A Bible sky, Lisa’s granny had called it, because it looked as if the heavens had opened. A good omen?

At last, reluctantly, she turned to go, then stopped. Reaching into her bag, Lisa took out the mobile she had hidden under the floor, then threw it as far as she could into the sea.

Walking back across the road, she felt lighter, freer already. Perhaps getting rid of the phone had begun the process of starting afresh, and at the gate of the Rowantrees Hotel she glanced up at the graceful trees as if they might, indeed, be guardians to protect her.

The lobby of the hotel was old-fashioned, with a gleaming wooden floor and dark furniture. A bowl of roses stood on the reception desk, their scent competing with the smell of furniture polish. It felt comfortable and reassuring. And
safe
. Lisa blinked away exhausted tears.

There was no one about. A little hesitantly, she pinged the glittering brass bell on the counter and a moment later a plump, cheerful-looking woman with greying hair and bright blue eyes popped out from the door under the stairs.

‘Oh, you must be Lisa! I’m Susan Telford. I’m so glad you caught that bus. With the service on Sundays you’d have had a long wait if you’d missed that one.’

‘I just made it. The driver let me off by the hotel.’

She nodded wisely. ‘Ah, that would be Doddie. You were lucky – if it’d been Rab, he’d have gone on to the official stop and you’d have had a mile to walk. Now, let me take you to your room.’

Still chatting, she led the way up a staircase, carpeted in turkey red, then opened the door to a light, spacious bedroom to the front of the house with a shower room off it.

‘I thought we’d give you a nice sea view. Jan said you were needing to be cosseted, after all that’s happened, so we’ll have to look after you.’ Susan smiled at Lisa with great warmth. ‘There’s a tray there for tea, and some of my biscuits in that wee tin there. Now, you just take your time, have a nice rest. When you’re ready, you’ll find Jan down in the sitting room. She’s looking forward to seeing you again. Anything more you’re needing?’

Lisa managed to say no and thank you. When the door closed, she sat down on the bed. The white bed linen smelled faintly of lavender fabric conditioner.

It was so quiet, so peaceful! It felt – that word again –
safe
.

It was dangerous to relax, to let her guard down. There were times when she’d thought she was safe before and he’d found her. But he was dead now, wasn’t he?

16

The door to the sitting room at Rosscarron House burst open and Cris Pilapil appeared in the doorway.

‘Well, it’s really hit the fan now!’

Declan and Cara Ryan were sitting together on a sofa to his right. Both heads whipped round; both faces registered expressions of shock and alarm. From the other side of the room, hidden by the open door, DS Macdonald and DC Campbell were perfectly placed to observe their reaction.

Pilapil stepped fully into the room. He looked unkempt, Macdonald thought, and his face was pale and puffy around the eyes. He said, ‘I’ve just been on the phone, and—’ then stopped in consternation.

Ryan moved quickly. ‘Never mind the problems with the PR firm, Cris. This is rather more serious. The officers have come to tell us that one of the fans was murdered in Kirkluce last night.’

As an exercise in damage limitation, it was impressive. Pilapil, though, was struggling to follow the lead. ‘Oh – oh, really? That’s – that’s very sad,’ he stammered. ‘What happened?’

‘Sounds like a brawl outside a pub,’ Ryan said. ‘Can’t see it’s anything to do with us, Sergeant, but of course if we can help in any way . . .’

‘That’s not quite what I said, sir,’ Macdonald corrected him. ‘The body was found in the garden behind a small guest house. The gentleman was someone we interviewed here yesterday, before the campers were allowed to leave. He gave his name as Damien Gallagher – does that mean anything to you?’

Pilapil said quickly, ‘I have nothing to do with the campers. Sorry.’ Ryan looked blank and shook his head. Cara was looking blank anyway, sitting back now on the sofa with her hands clasped in her lap.

Perhaps he shouldn’t jump to conclusions – perhaps she was still just in shock after her father’s death. ‘Mrs Ryan?’ Macdonald prompted.

Cara looked at him vaguely. ‘The campers? I don’t know. I didn’t go up there.’

The doorbell rang. Pilapil said, ‘I’ll go,’ and disappeared.

‘Where were you last night?’ Campbell said bluntly.

‘We were all here. As you can imagine, there’s been a hell of a lot to do, sorting things out. We want to be ready to leave here whenever you lot give the OK so we can deal with what will be waiting for us at the other end. Maybe you could get on with that, instead of asking us stupid questions.’

Ryan’s petulant response seemed a little too pat, Macdonald thought. ‘When you say “all”?’ he probed.

‘Cara, myself, Nico of course, Cris and Joss Hepburn – one of the stars of the festival. He’s an old friend of my father-in-law’s.’

‘Perhaps we could have a word with him too,’ Macdonald was saying, when the door opened and Pilapil ushered DS Tam MacNee into the room.

Seeing his fellow officers, MacNee’s face fell. ‘Didn’t know you were here,’ he grunted.

This wasn’t the moment to point out the virtues of simply doing what you were tasked to do, but Macdonald promised himself that this would be a treat deferred.

‘We’ve just been asking Mr and Mrs Ryan about last night,’ he said, allowing his annoyance to show. ‘Everyone was here all the time, apparently.’

Impervious, MacNee turned to Ryan. ‘You’d be sorry to hear about Mr Gallagher.’

Like a dog sensing danger, Ryan stiffened. ‘Sure. But I didn’t know him.’

‘Aye, did you!’ MacNee said. ‘You were having a wee crack with him the first time I saw you, on Thursday. Then again, when we were up together at the campsite later, I saw you and him having a good blether.’

There was a moment of stillness. Ryan’s eyes flickered; then he said, ‘I – I talked to everyone at the site. That was my job. OK, I probably talked to him. So? I didn’t know his name or anything about him. What did he look like?’

Again, it was a clever reply. Macdonald had to oblige with a description and Ryan was able to say immediately, ‘Oh, I know who you mean. Nice guy. That’s really tragic.’

Campbell said, ‘You’ll have his booking form?’

‘I guess. It’ll probably be on the computer that your lot took away.’

Stalemate, Macdonald reckoned, but MacNee wasn’t giving up.