Cradle to Grave (36 page)

Watching her, Lisa’s face softened as the little blonde girl, wearing tiny jeans and a frilly pink top, trotted importantly around, taking a good look at the other occupants. When she got to Lisa, though, she stopped and gazed up at her.

‘Got dolly,’ she announced. She was holding a fabric doll, featureless from too much loving.

‘It’s a lovely dolly,’ Lisa said. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Dolly.’

Lisa caught the mother’s eye and smiled. ‘That’s a very good name for a dolly. Does she go to bed with you?’

The child nodded. Then she said hopefully, ‘Sto’y?’ and trotted across to fetch a book lying on her family’s table.

‘Rosie, you mustn’t bother the lady,’ her father said, but Lisa assured him she was unbothered, picked up the little girl and set her on her knee while she read a vapid tale about a rabbit. The soft, warm little body snuggled into her, and it was quite hard to keep her voice steady as she complied with two more ‘Again sto’y’ demands.

The family finished breakfast and Rosie’s mother came over. ‘Thank you so much! I don’t know how you can be so patient,’ she said, scooping up Rosie, who was now reluctant to be parted from her new friend.

‘I’ll see you later,’ Lisa promised, and Rosie waved over her mother’s shoulder as she was carried away.

Lisa looked down at her plate, knowing that her eyes were wet. Looking after small children was the only thing she had a gift for and she would never be able to do it again, never.

Jan had noticed, though. Her voice was very gentle as she said, ‘Children mean a lot to you, obviously.’

Lisa blinked hard. ‘They don’t lie, do they? Everyone else lies – oh, and they will too, when they get older, but before that, they’re so lovely.’ Then, to her horror, she heard herself saying, ‘I had a baby once, but he – he died.’

Jan reached out a hand to touch hers. ‘Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry!’

Lisa hadn’t meant to say that. He’d only been days old when he died, that little helpless thing, and she’d gone back to school afterwards and never talked about it. And now she’d gone and blurted it out, to a woman she hardly knew, in a public dining room with the waitress coming to offer her more coffee. She mustn’t break down.

Lisa hardened her voice. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, then, ‘No, thank you,’ to the waitress. Saying, ‘I’ve got some things to sort out,’ she got up and left the dining room.

What was she to do? She’d known Jan Forbes was dangerous; what else might Lisa find herself giving away? She couldn’t just disappear when the police had told her to stay – and anyway, where would she go? She didn’t want to leave this quiet, ordinary place with these nice, normal people. And Rosie might want some more stories later on.

‘Wouldn’t mind staying here,’ Kim Kershaw said to Ewan Campbell, as he turned into the Rowantrees Hotel car park. ‘It all looks immaculate, and that’s a really great view out over Wigtown Bay.’

‘Mmm,’ Campbell said. He hadn’t said a lot else on the drive down, but Macdonald had warned Kershaw not to take it personally.

‘He doesn’t make conversation – only speaks when he’s actually got something to say. I just blether on, say whatever comes into my head, and it works all right.’

Kershaw had adopted Campbell’s attitude rather than Macdonald’s and had enjoyed the quiet drive, punctuated only by the standard radio messages. It was sunny too today, and though it might not last, at the moment the lush, vivid green of the fields and the singing blues of sky and sparkling sea were colours so fresh that they might have been invented that morning.

Leaving Campbell in the car, Kershaw went into the hotel. Susan Telford, if a little stiff in her manner, cooperated to the extent of offering their own private sitting room for the interview with Lisa Stewart, though she said warningly, ‘She’s very tired and shaken after all that’s happened, poor child. She’s been under a great deal of strain.’

‘I’m sure,’ Kershaw said noncommittally. She had every intention of going in hard, though she felt a certain misgiving when she saw how haggard Lisa was looking. Nevertheless she had a job to do, and lying to the police was a choice with consequences.

Susan hovered protectively for a moment, then left, saying, ‘I’m just next door if you need me, Lisa,’ clearly making sure that Kershaw knew she was within earshot of a cry for help if they started running needles under fingernails.

Lisa hadn’t spoken. She sat down, folded her hands in her lap and looked towards Kershaw with cold, expressionless eyes.

Kershaw didn’t waste time on preliminaries. ‘Lisa, you lied to us.’

‘Oh?’ She raised her brows.

‘You told us you didn’t recognise the body of the man found outside the guest house yesterday morning. We now know he was your partner. His fingerprints are all over your cottage, so unless you are going to tell us there was someone sharing your home whom you never noticed . . .’

She ignored Kershaw’s sarcastic tone. ‘You said it was someone called Damien Gallagher. My partner’s name was Lee Morrissey.’

Kershaw almost gasped at her effrontery. ‘But you saw the body!’

‘I didn’t want to look at it closely.’

Oh, she was good! Kershaw, however, had done her homework. ‘We have an eyewitness who describes it differently.’

In her most dramatic reaction so far, Lisa blinked. But she went on, ‘It may have looked like that. I was probably in shock. I thought at first it could have been Lee, but his head was . . . well, damaged, and when you said who it was, I thought I must be wrong.’

Kershaw had believed she held all the cards, but she wasn’t winning this round. ‘But you admit it was your partner?’

‘If you say so. I expect you’ll make me go to that place again to look at him.’

‘Perhaps. Did he come to the guest house to see you?’

‘If he did, I didn’t see him.’

‘It would be a bit of a coincidence otherwise, wouldn’t it? Especially since you sat up late in the sitting room after everyone else had gone to bed – almost as if you were waiting for someone.’

‘I – I wasn’t sleepy. I was reading magazines.’

The hesitation was a good sign. ‘But you heard nothing, saw nothing?’

‘Nothing.’

Kershaw shifted the ground. ‘There was a body found at your cottage too, Lisa. Just another coincidence?’

Lisa didn’t reply, only stared at her with those strange round eyes.

‘We have reason to believe that he was Alex Rencombe, Gillis Crozier’s lawyer. Did you know him?’

‘No. I told you.’

‘Did your partner know him?’

Lisa shrugged. ‘He might have, for all I know.’

‘The thing is, it looks as if your partner killed him. With a cast-iron frying pan.’

Bizarrely enough, that was what broke her calm. ‘Granny’s frying pan! But we didn’t use it – it just sat by the range. Kind of like decoration, you know?’

‘So your partner could just have picked it up from there on the spur of the moment?’

‘Yes, but Lee wasn’t there! He had gone. I saw him off. Maybe Lee met him at the car park and brought him back, to talk to him or something. How would
I
know? I’d gone out by then.’ Lisa was agitated now.

‘Did you? In that case,’ Kershaw said with deliberate malice, ‘Mr Rencombe would have been dead before you left the house. Was he, Lisa?’

‘No, no, of course he wasn’t!’ she cried frantically. ‘I’ve told you again and again, I never saw that man before in my life.’

Kershaw allowed a pause to develop. Then she said, ‘You see, Lisa, we can’t trust you. We both know you were lying about your partner, so why should I believe you now? But I tell you what. Let’s wipe the slate and start all over again. Did you know that was your partner when you saw the body yesterday?’

‘Yes.’ It was a whisper. ‘I knew it was Lee.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘Why do you think?’ That was a spark of anger. ‘Because I was afraid if you knew who he was you’d think it was something to do with me. And you have.’

‘And it wasn’t?’

‘No!’

‘You’re lying again.’ Kershaw’s tone was conversational. ‘Let’s go for another take. Was it something to do with you, Lisa?’

Lisa was shaking now. ‘Sort of.’

‘What was it about?’

‘I don’t know!’ she cried. ‘I got a text message from him, that was all. He said he had to see me about something important – he didn’t say what. And we arranged to meet in the garden round the back. Then . . .’ She stopped.

‘Go on, Lisa,’ Kershaw coaxed her. ‘You’re doing the right thing, I promise you.’

‘I went out at the time we said and – and he was – lying there. I – I didn’t know what to do.’

Next time, just call the police, Kershaw thought, but she said, ‘Did you see anyone else?’

‘No.’ Lisa stopped again. ‘But – but I thought I heard a noise, a rustle behind one of the bushes. I was really scared. I just ran back down the alleyway, into the house.’

Did she believe her? Kershaw wasn’t sure, but the formal, recorded interview would be the time to apply pressure. She went on to the next big question. ‘Mr Rencombe was apparently doing a job for Mr Crozier. So what was your partner’s connection with him?’

It was as if Crozier’s name had turned her to stone. Kershaw saw Lisa go physically rigid, and when she spoke again, it was in that cold, dispassionate voice. ‘I didn’t know he had one.’

Despite pushing every button she could think of, Kershaw couldn’t shift her. She had to leave it there, but going back to the evening of Williams’s death, she was able to tidy up some loose ends, and even came away with one particularly interesting piece of information.

Kershaw went back to the car and opened the door at the driver’s side. ‘Come on, out of there, Ewan. How do you fancy paddling?’

The identification this time was straightforward. Declan Ryan and Joss Hepburn confirmed that this was, indeed, Alex Rencombe and then, as agreed, were driven to the Galloway Constabulary Headquarters in Kirkluce and shown to a waiting room.

MacNee, when he appeared along with Macdonald, viewed them without enthusiasm. He had no doubt who had been given the plum interview to do this morning, and it wasn’t either of them.

‘Right,’ he said brusquely. ‘Who’s first?’

Hepburn, sitting back in a chair with his long legs stretched out, was all in black again today – black open-necked shirt, black expensive-looking jeans and a black leather jacket which, MacNee saw with resentment, was the soft, supple kind that cost thousands, unlike the one he was wearing himself, picked up at TK Maxx in Glasgow five years ago. Black made Hepburn seem taller than ever; MacNee didn’t like that either.

‘You go first, Declan,’ Hepburn said to his companion who, in pale chinos and a light grey zip-top sweater, looked somehow insignificant beside the other man and, MacNee noted with interest, nervous too. Maybe they might get somewhere this morning after all.

Hepburn, however, was saying, ‘I need to have a word with DI Fleming first. Perhaps that could be arranged before you talk to me?’

Macdonald glanced at MacNee. ‘I don’t think—’ he began, but MacNee cut across him.

‘Fine. I tell you what, you come with me and I’ll take you upstairs and see if she has time for a wee word with you.’

Macdonald registered alarm. ‘I really don’t think . . .’ but found he was addressing MacNee’s departing back.

Hepburn, following, turned at the door with a broad wink. ‘It’s all right – we’re old friends,’ he said.

As MacNee keyed in his security number, Hepburn said, ‘This is great – I thought I might have problems fixing this up.’

‘Aye,’ MacNee said, setting off at a brisk pace up the stairs, keeping a couple of steps ahead to gain height advantage: he hated being towered over. ‘I’m not guaranteeing anything, mind. She’s maybe busy, but it’s worth a shot.’

He knew he was heading for trouble. He was asking for it, almost as if looking for a legitimate reason for his present sense of grievance. Anyway, Fleming was letting the personal intrude on the professional, in his opinion. It should be her doing the interviews with him, not Macdonald. Her background knowledge of Hepburn might have given them some sort of edge. Even with all this rationalising, though, it was with belated misgivings that he knocked on Fleming’s door.

She was at her desk. ‘Tam! Come on in. I had something to ask you.’

He said, ‘Mr Hepburn needed a word with you,’ then stepped back to allow Hepburn to pass him.

‘I hope this isn’t inconvenient,’ he said, smiling at her.

Fleming looked at MacNee and he saw her look of hurt betrayal before it changed to one of glacial anger.

‘Since you’re here,’ she said to Hepburn, ‘I can spare you five minutes. You can go, Sergeant.’

Perhaps that hadn’t been such a good idea after all, MacNee reflected, as he went back downstairs. Fleming was dangerous when she was as angry as that, but what troubled him more was the thought of betrayal. Rabbie Burns had some hard words to say about traitors.

And he realised suddenly what Hepburn, in his ‘cool dude’ blacks had reminded him of: the bad guy in a western. He wondered uneasily how the gunfight was going.