Cradle to Grave (42 page)

He drove on to the Bailey bridge over the Carron with exaggerated caution. It gave him a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach to glance down into the river, now shrunk back within its normal bounds. If he went in now, he could wade across, but he still didn’t fancy it.

The army, anyway, seemed to have done a good job. There was some heavy plant working now at clearing the mess for the poor bastards whose homes had been wrecked.

There was no one around at Rosscarron House. There were two cars and the Discovery parked at the front, but somehow it seemed to MacNee to have a forlorn look about it. Maybe he was just getting imaginative in his old age. He’d have to put a stop to that.

The rain had gone off now. He walked to the side of the house, where he could see the wires of the phone line coming in, the connection just beside a window on the upper floor. Easy enough to reach out of there and cut it, certainly. He went back to the front door.

The brass handle and the bell itself were tarnished, and when MacNee rang it, there was no reply. He rang again and heard an irritable voice shouting, ‘Cris, the doorbell! Where the hell are you?’

Declan Ryan flung open the door. ‘Yes? Oh – it’s you again. What do you want this time?’ He looked dishevelled, and judging by the bags under his eyes, he wasn’t sleeping well, and was probably hitting the bottle too.

MacNee smiled. There was a warm glow spreading through him, like the first sip of a good malt: it was a real bonus to see a suspect softened up before you even started.

‘That’s not very nice. And here’s me thinking we were old pals. I’m just back for another wee crack with you.’

‘I don’t suppose it will do any good to tell you I’ve nothing to say to you?’ Ryan sounded weary.

The sergeant shook his head. ‘Uh-uh.’

‘You’d better come in, then.’

The white hall, with its random purple wall, was just as chillingly impersonal as MacNee had remembered it. He hadn’t enjoyed the music that was always playing, but in its absence the place felt colder and more unwelcoming than ever.

The sitting room, however, looked definitely lived-in, though not in a good way. There were dirty plates and glasses abandoned on the tables and floor, and it was plain that no housework had been done for days. Ryan even seemed embarrassed by the mess.

‘We’d have been gone by now if it wasn’t for you,’ he said bitterly. ‘The cleaning woman won’t come back because she says she’s scared and Cris seems to be on strike.’ He sat down, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Get on with it, then. I’ve too much on my hands to waste time dictating something for you to write down in your notebook.’

‘I’ll get straight to it, then.’ MacNee took his seat immediately opposite. ‘Was it you cut the phone line to the house?’

Ryan gaped, opening and shutting his mouth like a codfish. ‘No, no. I – I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Bull’s eye! ‘Aye, you do. The phone line. The line that brings the telephone connection.’ MacNee spoke like a nursery teacher addressing a three-year-old with learning difficulties. ‘You know, the one you leaned out the window to cut.’

The man wasn’t going to boak, was he? His face had gone pale green, but he managed to say, ‘I’ve no idea what window you mean.’

‘That’ll be right,’ MacNee said ambiguously. ‘I had a wee look as I came in so I can maybe find it.’ He got up and went to the door.

Ryan jumped up, saying hastily, ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘Second window from the front on that side, as far as I can see.’ MacNee pointed as he led the way up the stairs.

‘One of the guest rooms,’ Ryan said. ‘I don’t think it’s been in use.’

His voice, MacNee noticed with annoyance, had steadied. He opened the door indicated and MacNee saw a room similar to the one he’d used himself after the accident – white-painted with splashes of colour in a canvas on the wall and cushions on the bed, rust and orange this time.

Ryan went to the window and stuck his head out into the rain. ‘Oh, yes, here it is. I’d never noticed before.’

‘Do you tell me that?’ MacNee said with polite incredulity. ‘So, who would know, then?’

‘Possibly my late lamented father-in-law. Or Cris, quite likely.’ Perhaps it was the rain that had revived him: Ryan sounded quite perky as he threw Pilapil to the wolves. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever been in this room before, but he’s responsible for all the maintenance. He’s the man you need to talk to.’

‘Oh, I’ll be doing that, right enough. Who else was here on the Wednesday night?’

Ryan had suddenly become obliging. ‘Myself, Cara, Nico, of course. Gillis too, because it happened before he died. Cris, Joss Hepburn – no, I tell a lie, Joss arrived next morning. So really, you need to talk to Cris. In fact, he can tell you that I came to him at the time to ask what had happened to the line.’ Ryan had started to look pleased with himself. ‘And of course it could have been someone from outside.’

It had taken the man a wee while to think of that, but now MacNee watched with a jaundiced eye as Ryan warmed to his theme.

‘It could easily be that man who killed himself – much more likely! Nothing to stop him shinning up there at night.’

‘Won’t wash, Declan. We’ve searched his house – no ladder.’

‘Maybe he borrowed one. Or dumped his somewhere.’ Ryan made a passable attempt at sounding bored. ‘Anyway, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Now, did you want to speak to Cris?’

Reluctantly recognising a dead end, MacNee agreed.

As she got off the Newton Stewart bus in Dumfries at last, Lisa Stewart was feeling light-headed after two journeys on an empty stomach. She’d better get something to eat before she drew attention to herself by fainting from hunger. There was a little café just across the road there; she went in, found a table by the window and ordered coffee and a bacon buttie. So far so good.

The trains to Glasgow were quite frequent, so she should be on one before anyone missed her, but she’d need to find a cash machine first and take out as much as she could on her card. There were a few things she ought to buy, like hair dye and more knickers. And jeans – she was still wearing the ones Maidie had given her. The new pair she’d bought were drying somewhere in the hotel.

Lisa felt her spirits lift. Even just sitting in this dingy little café, she had a sense of relief, of freedom. No one in the world could know she was here, now there wasn’t someone at her side betraying her every move. She hadn’t felt hungry for days – weeks, even – but the bacon roll tasted really good. She might even order another one.

She didn’t notice the silver Ford Focus parked just across the street, or the man wearing driving gloves and reading a newspaper as he sat at the wheel, a man with dark hair that grew in a widow’s peak.

21

Kershaw was brimming with questions she didn’t have the guts to ask, and Fleming’s stony face, when she met them after the interview, wasn’t encouraging. After they agreed that even if Hepburn was in Kirkluce that evening, it was basically a ‘so what?’ situation, she ventured to ask, ‘Did we get anything out of that, boss?’

Fleming hesitated, and Kershaw had to fight the impulse to say, ‘You owe us!’

Perhaps that had occurred to the inspector too. ‘Just one thing,’ she said, with some reluctance. ‘There’s a drug dealer who’s been on our books for years. Small fry, done a couple of stretches when he’s been more than usually careless. I happen to know that Hepburn used to buy from him, and I smelled cannabis on him when I was staying in the house. After a few days at Rosscarron he could be running short. It occurred to me he might have remembered, and paid the man a visit.’

‘Right,’ Kershaw said slowly. It would have to be checked out, of course, but she’d thought herself that nine o’clock was early to come into the town, if you planned to kill someone two hours later. And of course Hepburn would be evasive if he was buying drugs. Disappointing, if true.

Fleming had left almost immediately. ‘Where’s she going, dressed like that?’ Kershaw asked Campbell, not expecting an answer.

‘Under cover, maybe,’ he said.

‘Under cover? You’re joking,’ was Kershaw’s immediate reaction, but maybe Campbell was right. He often was.

DI Fleming was seldom a passenger in a police car, since she much preferred to drive. Today, though, she was in the hands of DI John Purves – also wearing jeans, with a thick checked shirt – and he drove as he did most things, with quiet competence. Once she realised that he was applying the brake pretty much as her own right foot touched the floor, she found it was quite relaxing.

‘So, where are we headed?’ she asked.

‘Girvan. The Asda superstore coffee shop.’

‘Girvan?’ Fleming was startled. ‘Into Strathclyde? Have we got permission?’

‘It’s not official. We had to get off our own patch. I doubt if anyone would know me, but you’re quite high profile among the local villains. And our guy is nervous – very nervous. We’re taking serious precautions, and I’m not even going to tell you what they are.

‘I told you the story. You’re Mrs Hay and you own a builder’s yard in Stranraer. I’m Bob, your foreman. You’re needing someone to do deliveries, collect supplies and generally shift stuff around. That envelope in the pocket beside you – there’s a job description with hours and rates of pay, and a couple of brochures from suppliers to show the sort of stuff you deal with.’

Fleming took out the transparent folder and flipped through the contents. ‘You’ve been thorough, I’ll say that for you.’

‘When he arrives, call him Dave, which isn’t his name. We both shake hands with him, then you produce the bumf and spread it out on the table. We talk about the job until we can be quite sure no one’s followed him in.’

Fleming shook her head, feeling a little dazed. ‘The whole thing sounds, well, like a film script.’

Purves glanced at her. ‘It’s all too real, I’m afraid. This guy’s taking a big risk. If we don’t look after him . . .’ He drew his finger across his throat.

Silenced, Fleming applied herself to memorising the details on the papers she had been given. It still felt as if she were learning her lines for a play – a play in which failure to convince would mean sudden death, not in the stagy sense but in the most literal way.

Cris Pilapil seemed to have fallen apart since MacNee saw him last. The efficient, well-groomed personal assistant was unshaven and the clothes he was wearing were crumpled and not even particularly clean. When he opened the door to MacNee, he was reeking of drink, and in the corner of his room the bed was unmade and there were piles of clothes on the floor. A TV was showing a panel game, and there was a half-f bottle of gin and an empty glass on a table in front of it. Pilapil looked at his visitor with lack-lustre eyes.

MacNee walked into the room without invitation, shutting the door on Ryan hovering in the corridor behind him, and switched off the set.

‘We’re needing to talk, Cris. Sit down.’

Pilapil did as he was told and reached for the glass and the bottle. ‘Want some? There’s another glass somewhere.’

‘No,’ MacNee said, suppressing a shudder. ‘And you’d better not either. I’m wanting to get some sense out of you.’

He removed bottle and glass from Pilapil’s hands. The man blinked at him owlishly, but made no protest.

Was he too far gone already? MacNee really didn’t want to have to take him in to Kirkluce to sober up in a cell; apart from anything else it was hell trying to get the smell of sick out of upholstery and he’d take a bet Pilapil would be throwing up within the hour.

‘Where does the phone line come into the house, Cris?’ he asked.

The young man’s brow furrowed. ‘Phone line? I don’t know. Beside the study, probably.’

At least he had understood the question, and MacNee believed his answer. The man was too drunk to think quickly, and besides, if Ryan hadn’t cut the wires himself, MacNee was as sure that the slippery sod knew who had, as if he’d confessed rather than trying to cover up.

He moved on. ‘You thought Gillis Crozier was great, didn’t you?’

Pilapil’s eyes brimmed. ‘He was my saint. I would do anything for him, anything. He is dead and now I have nothing. What am I to do? Where am I to go?’ Maudlin tears began to fall.

‘Whoever killed him was a total bastard,’ MacNee said, his eyes fixed on the other man’s face. ‘Shouldn’t get away with it, should he?’

‘I hate him! I hate him to my very soul!’ Angry colour came to Pilapil’s face and he bowed his head over his clenched fists. ‘If I had him here, I would kill him now. No mercy – I would show him no mercy.’

Just drunken belligerence, or was there more to it? Carefully, MacNee said, ‘You can tell me, laddie. Who was it that did it? Who killed Gillis?’

Pilapil looked up again, showing a mask of despair. ‘If I knew, you think I would be sitting here, crying? I would have gone after him, found him. I’ll show you what I would do.’

He got to his feet, walking unevenly, and pulled open a drawer, producing a long, pointed knife with a razor-fine edge. He stabbed and slashed at the air.

Making no sudden movements, MacNee got up, keeping a wary distance from him on the other side of the chair. The guy was very drunk, high on grief and anger, and waving one of the most businesslike shivs MacNee had been on the wrong end of for a very long time. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.