Authors: Aline Templeton
Fleming got up. ‘I’m tired of this. I don’t believe you don’t know. I am inviting you to attend at the Kirkluce headquarters at four o’clock this afternoon for formal questioning. I would stress that this is an invitation you would be very wise to accept.’
She walked off downstairs. MacNee who, unusually, had not spoken once in the whole interview, said, ‘Not smart, laddie,’ with a certain amount of sympathy as he left.
Back in the car, he said, ‘Phew! You gave him laldy! What were you trying to do?’
She looked at him with a quizzical smile. ‘Trying to save Skye Falconer – what do you think?’
Will sat down after they had gone, his head in his hands, his mind spinning. He’d hoped there was an easy way out but that last, unpleasant quarter of an hour had shown him that it was firmly closed. It had also started him wondering, joining up loose threads. He knew what he had to do, but it was going to be rough.
The sun was shining when Hepburn and Macdonald came out of the bank and the Georgian elegance of Charlotte Square was showing to its best advantage, but she wasn’t really in a mood to appreciate it. As the interview with Mrs Brunton went on, she had felt more and more embarrassed about the way she had rubbished Macdonald’s ideas about Randall Lindsay.
Just because the man was a buffoon, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t capable of murderous violence. He was certainly strong enough to overpower Connell Kane, to transport Eleanor Margrave to the shore, to pull the noose tight about her own neck from behind. She gulped, and her hand went unconsciously to touch her throat.
He’d even given notice of his intentions but she hadn’t believed him, and hadn’t believed Andy when he’d warned her. She’d brushed any suspicion about Randall patronisingly aside; she could hear her own voice saying mockingly, ‘Any of you dudes got a cosh you could flog me?’
As they walked back to the car, Macdonald said, ‘Nice lady.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Food for thought.’
‘Mmm.’
He glanced down at her, eyebrows raised; she knew such reticence was unlike her but she couldn’t begin an apology out here in the street. They had found a parking place just across the square, and walked there in silence.
As Macdonald manoeuvred the car out, Hepburn said in a small voice, ‘Sorry.’
Macdonald frowned, then his face cleared. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I thought for a minute we were going to drive back in silence – though I should be used to it, with Ewan.’
‘You were right about Randall. I’ve been an idiot. It’s all there, isn’t it, and we’re looking at another murder too – the reason behind it all. Julia was going to shop him for theft and he had to stop her.’
‘Nothing easier than to murder a drug addict by engineering an overdose, certainly,’ Macdonald said grimly.
‘And if Connell Kane somehow got suspicious, Randall would have to do away with him as well. But Eleanor Margrave – how did she come into it? And Skye’s fingerprints were in Kane’s car—’ Hepburn stopped.
Macdonald turned his head to look at her. ‘Yes?’
‘Hang on, let me think about this.’ She could sense his impatience as she sat, her brows furrowed in concentration, but he didn’t speak.
At last she said, ‘I was just running through Randall’s interaction with Skye at the party. The way I read it was that he was besotted with her, trapping her in a corner so that she couldn’t get away while he was chatting her up. But what if it was all about this – that he was threatening her, perhaps, warning her not to say anything to anyone? It would explain why she was so thankful to escape when Will came back to rescue her, and why Randall was angry enough to provoke a fight.’
Macdonald was impressed. ‘And maybe it explains Eleanor Margrave too, if something Skye said that night when she came in from the rain was going to make Eleanor realise that her daughter had been murdered. He left it a long time, though. Why?’
‘He didn’t know immediately.’ Hepburn was getting excited. ‘She was lying low at Jen Wilson’s – he probably didn’t even know she was there, then when he found out he acted immediately.’
They looked at each other. ‘We could have this whole thing worked out, right there,’ Macdonald said. ‘We’re a good team, you know
that? I can’t wait to get back and tell the boss.’ He accelerated as he reached the Edinburgh bypass.
‘Watch out – you’re over the speed limit,’ Hepburn pointed out. ‘It would take the gilt off the gingerbread if the Lothian lads booked you. Hyacinth would go spare and Big Marge would have your guts for garters.’
Macdonald laughed. They drove on more sedately, and in perfect harmony.
‘Ewan!’ DI Fleming exclaimed, spotting DC Campbell working at a computer as she and MacNee walked past the CID room. ‘I thought you were off today.’
‘Was. I’m back now.’
‘Are you – are you all right, son?’ MacNee asked. ‘Don’t want to probe, but—’ He stopped in confusion. ‘I mean…’
‘I’m fine.’ He pointed to the screen. ‘Got something to show you, boss.’
Fleming and MacNee came to look over his shoulder. He pointed to what seemed to be an airline’s passenger manifest, detailing a flight from Toronto to London on April 10th.
‘Wondered if we were looking in the right place.’
Fleming looked where he was pointing and there was Will Stewart’s name.
‘And this.’ He flipped to another screen; the manifest this time was for a flight from Edinburgh to Toronto on April 15th. He pointed.
‘Flew back, after Kane’s murder, then flew over again,’ Fleming said slowly. ‘Well, well.’
‘There’s more.’ Campbell went back to the first screen. ‘She’s here too.’
MacNee let out a low whistle of amazement. ‘She was in Toronto after all – left with Will when he did, can we suppose? Lying bastard – said he didn’t know where she was.’
‘We can’t assume anything now, can we?’ Fleming said. ‘This turns the whole thing upside down.’
‘But she’s not going to open up now,’ MacNee said. ‘Will Stewart, though—’
Fleming had picked up her phone. ‘I’m calling Mike Wallace. I want Stewart picked up immediately.’
Macdonald and Hepburn were cock-a-hoop when they came into the CID room. They too were surprised to find Campbell there but their solicitude produced the same laconic response as the senior officers’ had.
‘Where’s Big Marge?’ Hepburn asked. ‘We think we’ve pretty much cracked it.’
‘So does she,’ Campbell said. ‘Arresting Will Stewart.’
Macdonald and Hepburn exchanged blank looks. ‘Why?’ she said.
Campbell demonstrated his discoveries once more.
‘What do we make of that?’ Macdonald said. ‘Are they all in this together, or something?’
‘One more thing,’ Campbell said. ‘I’d an idea, after the boss left.’
He opened another file. ‘See this?’
‘The exclusivity list!’ Macdonald exclaimed. ‘Of course, our fingerprints are all on file, for elimination. And they didn’t wipe Stewart’s when he left. So – don’t tell me …?’
‘Ucha.’ Campbell demonstrated, then opened up a new window on the other half of the screen, clicked a couple of times and there, among the fingerprints taken from Connell Kane’s car, was a set that looked to the untrained eye remarkably like Will Stewart’s.
Linda Morrison was in a bad mood before she even got back into the car. Martin had said he’d only be a minute fetching it but she’d spent fully ten waiting on the appointed corner of the High Street in Dalbeattie.
‘What took you all that time?’ she demanded as she got in. ‘We were only parked at the far end.’
‘You could have walked there, then,’ Martin said disagreeably, as he set out on the back road home.
‘I would’ve, only I just wanted to pop into that shop for a wee minute and you were being so ill-natured I thought I’d get on better with you out the way. What was keeping you, anyway?’
‘Met Rab Johnston – couldn’t just walk past him, could I?’
‘You could have said your wife was waiting, couldn’t you?’
‘How was I to know you were waiting? When you go in a shop you could be half an hour.’
‘Not in that shop – there wasn’t a thing I wanted to look at.’
‘And I was supposed to know that – how? Anyway, why is it all right for you to keep me waiting, but I’ve to jump to it the minute you crook your pinkie finger?’ Martin’s face was dark with temper.
‘Now you’re just being nasty for the sake of it. And you’re driving too fast.’
‘While I’m behind the wheel of this car, I’ll do the driving. You’re—’
‘Martin!’ she screamed. ‘Stop!’
They had just rounded a corner and there right in front of them was a man lying in the road. Martin swore, slamming on the brakes and swerving violently. Linda screamed again but there was nothing anyone could do. The car hit the man hard and ran over the body with a couple of sickening bumps before it juddered to a standstill, slewed across the road.
In the terrible silence that followed, the Morrisons sat transfixed. Then Martin said hoarsely, ‘Stay where you are,’ and got out, his legs shaking so that he could hardly stand.
He bent over the mangled body then turned away and was violently sick.
‘So you see,’ DS Macdonald said, ‘I think we need to consider that Julia Margrave’s death could well have been murder, rather than an accidental overdose. Nothing easier than to spike a drink – if she was high anyway she certainly wouldn’t notice.’
DI Fleming listened with some fascination as he and Hepburn tumbled over each other in their anxiety to tell her their theory; first one, then the other, but in perfect agreement. At last they were performing as a team, playing to their strengths as she had always wanted them to do: Hepburn sparking off the ideas and Macdonald tidying up the details. It was probably too much to hope that it would last, but it was good while it did.
‘But what about our pal Will Stewart now Ewan’s got him placed in the car?’ MacNee said. ‘That was good work, lad.’
Campbell only grunted, but he looked pleased.
There was silence for a moment, then Hepburn said, ‘Murder on the Orient Express? They’re all in it together?’
‘Car would be a bit crowded, would it not?’ Macdonald spoke dismissively and Fleming braced herself for an explosion.
But Hepburn said only, ‘Take your point.’
‘The problem is,’ Fleming said, ‘that we’ve got almost too much evidence.’
MacNee nodded. ‘Aye, and it’s pointing in different directions. So where do we go from here?’
Fleming thought for a moment. ‘Stewart’s being picked up. We need to get hold of Randall too. Louise, can you liaise with the lads who were doing interviews in Ballinbreck and find out if they’ve talked to him today? Andy and Ewan, check out any reports that have come in – there should be stuff from the door-to-doors by now and the technical stuff will be trickling in before long. Skye’s still steadfastly refusing to talk but I’m going to see that she’s brought along and asked at intervals until the extension runs out.’ She gave an evil grin. ‘Apart from anything else it will annoy the hell out of Damien Thomson if he keeps being dragged in.
‘OK, that’s it. It’s been an interesting day and I daresay it’s not over yet.’
When they had gone, she turned to MacNee. ‘What’s your take on this? I feel I’m going round in circles.’
MacNee shrugged. ‘It’s a fine wee theory Andy and Louise have come up with – and they’re agreeing for once. Wonders will never cease.’
‘It’s almost too neat, though. We don’t know that Julia was murdered—’
‘Don’t know she wasn’t, either.’
‘Fair enough. Certainly Randall Lindsay’s possible motive for disposing of her is clear enough and if we accept Louise’s idea about Skye letting something slip to Eleanor Margrave, and him not finding that out until later, it’s a motive for that one too. But Connell Kane, two years after all this happened? That’s my sticking point. It’s just starting to seem too elaborate. And after
all these years with Donald Bailey as super, going on at me about Ockham’s Razor—’
‘Remind me.’
‘Oh, this guy Ockham just said that the simple explanation is likely to be the right one.’
MacNee snorted. ‘Let me know when you find it, all right? Here – it’s past my lunchtime. Are you coming down to the canteen?’
‘Not just now. I went off to Ballinbreck when I should have been working through this stuff and I’ll have to pay for my pleasures now.’
She picked up the pile of papers on her desk and put them firmly in front of her, picking up a pen. But her mind kept drifting off.
Randall’s guilt was a pretty theory, with everything to recommend it to the procurator fiscal: means, motive and opportunity all neatly parcelled up. Just no actual evidence.
And according to Louise, Skye had shown signs of distaste in her dealings with Randall at the party. Why would she allow herself to be charged with murder without using his guilt to prove she had been an innocent bystander – if innocent she was? The more that emerged, the stronger Fleming’s instinctive feeling grew, reinforced by what Will Stewart had said – they had the wrong person.
But why would Randall have decided to murder Connell
two years
after it had all happened? Water under the bridge, you would have thought. Except somehow it wasn’t.
Which brought her right back to the root of the problem: why had Connell decided on resurrection, only to meet with death? He must have had a reason.
Blackmail? He bleeds Randall for years, Randall can’t pay any more because he’s lost his job and murder is the obvious way out? Bank account details would show that, but they’d need a lot more evidence to get an access warrant – and it still didn’t explain why Kane would obligingly turn up to put his head on the block.
And if she didn’t process the paper on her desk right now the whole investigation would grind to a standstill. She returned to it with grim determination.
DC Hepburn said, ‘Thanks, anyway,’ and switched off the phone. ‘They haven’t managed to raise Randall Lindsay yet,’ she said.
‘Not at home?’ Macdonald looked up from sifting through a pile of reports; Campbell at another desk was working at a computer terminal.
‘There was no one at the house and when they went to the warehouse where the Lindsays have their business, his father said he hadn’t seen him at all today. He can’t have bolted, can he?’ Hepburn said. ‘That would be equivalent to an admission of guilt.’
‘More likely keeping out the way,’ Campbell said.
Macdonald ignored that. ‘We haven’t seen him since the night of the party. He could be scared that you’ve worked out about him and Skye – he’d know that would bust the whole thing wide open.’
‘He has to be worried too about what she might say. She could have decided to tell us all about it to save herself – he doesn’t know that she hasn’t. He could be – I don’t know, on his way to France, or Spain, even. Villains do that. So what do we do now?’
‘Better tell the boss,’ Macdonald said, getting up.
Campbell looked at them both with exasperation. ‘Better look around for him first. Ask his mum.’
Hepburn stared at him. ‘Why his mum?’
Macdonald, more skilled at reading Campbell’s gnomic comments, said, ‘I see what you mean. It was uncanny – my mum always knew where I’d be if she wanted to find me. I’ll try phoning the business and asking to speak to her. Number?’
After a couple of clicks, Campbell read it out to him. He was put through promptly and Macdonald identified himself, explaining that
they wanted to speak to her son. ‘Do you have any idea where he’s likely to be?’
Philippa Lindsay, it appeared, was not a mother of Mrs Macdonald’s stamp. She hadn’t seen him today, she had no idea where he was and no suggestions to make. When Macdonald asked whether it was possible he had left Ballinbreck House she was sceptical – ‘Why would he? It’s free board and lodging,’ – but on being pressed agreed that it was theoretically possible.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Macdonald asked.
It had been yesterday, the morning after the party, she said, then, in mocking tones asked if they thought he had done a runner, adding that he was dumb enough to think it was a good idea.
Macdonald said stiffly, ‘Not at present, no. But if you hear from him would you please tell him to contact us as a matter of urgency.’
He disconnected, then said, ‘Wow! I’m glad she’s not my mum. No wonder Randall’s such a tosser.’
‘I’ll give the boss a buzz,’ Hepburn said.
Fleming asked her a few brief questions. ‘She’s not getting excited about it,’ Hepburn reported, ‘but she’s going to get the uniforms to look for him. So now we just have to wait and see. I hate that.’
Macdonald bundled together a pile of papers. ‘You work through those. It’ll take your mind off it.’
It was more than an hour since Martin and Linda Morrison had arrived at the police station in Kirkcudbright, but Linda was still on the verge of hysteria. She had been given hot sweet tea, though she looked at it askance.
‘Brandy’s what I need, not tea, after all I’ve been through,’ she said, but even mentioning what had happened had been enough to set her off again.
The traffic officer was having to extract the necessary information.
‘And you said he was just lying in the road?’ she said patiently. ‘Was he lying on his back or his front?’
‘Oh, I can still see his face!’ Linda wailed. ‘Just lying there, his eyes open—’
‘On his back, then? Stretched out, not huddled up or anything?’
‘Just … just lying there.’ Linda grabbed another handful of tissues from the box at her side.
‘And he couldn’t have been – well, sort of at the side of the road?’
Linda’s tears dried instantly. She sat up straight and glared at her questioner. ‘If you’re trying to pin it on Martin, trying to say it was him knocked the man down – well, you’re a liar, that’s all. Oh, I know what they say about the police, just wanting a conviction, no matter who it is! I didn’t believe it before, but I do now.’
‘No, no, Mrs Morrison, really we don’t,’ the policewoman said hurriedly. ‘We’re just trying to establish if perhaps the man had been taken ill, fallen into the road – a heart attack, or something …’
Only slightly mollified, Linda sniffed. ‘If he had a heart attack, it was before we came round the corner. That’s all I can tell you.’
Martin Morrison was more controlled, but even more anxious. ‘I can see you’ve only got my word for it, and Linda’s, that he was lying in the road when we arrived. But I can assure you that he was, flat on his back, not moving.’
‘Yes sir,’ the traffic sergeant said. ‘We’ve got all that written down. The post-mortem will no doubt be able to tell us exactly what happened.’
At the mention of the words ‘post-mortem’ Martin flinched, but then it seemed to trigger a memory. ‘Is it right what they say in
CSI
– that you don’t bleed after you’re dead? Well, there wasn’t much blood, even after both wheels going over him.’ He gulped. ‘I felt it happening, you know. Twice.’
Inspector Mike Wallace looked up as one of his sergeants came in carrying a plastic folder.
‘Ah, good,’ he said. ‘Is that the man’s ID? Messy business, I gather.’
‘Certainly was. One of our new lads was in the car that went out to it – doesn’t want his lunch.’ He took a wallet out of the folder and laid it on the desk. ‘This is all they found on the body – back pocket of his jeans. Getting them out wasn’t a nice job either.’
Wallace grimaced, picked up the wallet, took out a credit card and read the name. ‘Oh,’ he said flatly.
‘Know him, boss?’
‘You do too. It’s Will Stewart.’
‘I hadn’t really planned to drive this road again today,’ Fleming said as she and MacNee headed down to Kirkcudbright. ‘Maybe I should just take a room down there.’ She was feeling faintly sick, with a headache forming a tight band round her head.
‘We didn’t see it coming,’ MacNee said.
‘Should have, according to the super. She’s taken all the credit for Skye Falconer’s arrest and now she’s afraid it’s starting to fall apart. She can hardly claim the girl did this, after all.’
‘Maybe it was an accident,’ MacNee said hopefully. ‘Maybe he just took a heart attack, with us asking questions.’
‘I scared him to death, you mean?’ She gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, great! Thanks, Tam. But I don’t believe it, any more than you do.’
‘What are we going to do there, anyway?’
‘See Mike Wallace to get full details, then find Randall Lindsay and force the truth out of him. Or if we can’t find him, see whether the Macdonald–Hepburn sensationalist version is right and he’s taken his passport and bolted. Can you imagine what the press would make of that?’
‘No bother. They’d say—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ she snarled. ‘I can work it out myself.’ Then she sighed. ‘Sorry, Tam. I didn’t mean to snap at you.’
‘Didn’t get your lunch, did you? Here …’ He rooted in his pocket and took out two Penguin biscuits. ‘Picked them up from the canteen for our tea. You can have them both, if you like.’
‘Greater love – you’re a good man. One’ll do, though. And I’m sorry to be in such a mood, but I’m worried sick. If Randall’s realised he’s in the frame and is just lashing out frantically …’
‘What was Stewart going to do, if someone hadn’t killed him?’
‘Talk to us. That’s the obvious thing. But who would have known that was going to happen?’ Then she stopped. ‘Ah.’
‘Yes?’
‘Logie and Kendra, that’s who. And if you remember what he said, Kendra doesn’t have an alibi for Eleanor Margrave’s murder any more than he did. She was certainly here at the time Kane was killed—’
‘And that alibi was kinda vague, too. And perhaps it wasn’t that he was going to disclose something, perhaps she was afraid he’d blow her alibi and point us in her direction. But why would she want to kill Eleanor Margrave?’
‘Why would anyone? Oh God, Tam, we need more than this. I know I was complaining we had too much evidence, but in some ways we haven’t enough.’
‘Don’t know where we’re going to get it from, though. Skye’s not telling.’
‘The minute he hears about this her brief’s going to ask for her release on an undertaking to appear, and I can’t see how we could oppose. Hyacinth will go spare.’
MacNee grinned. ‘My, you are in a bad mood!’
Fleming looked rueful. ‘Oh, I do try not to use the nickname but sometimes it just slips out when she’s being more than usually shrill and demanding.
‘But could Kendra have had a reason to kill Julia? Jealousy again, I suppose, but that’s flimsy.’
‘The whole Julia theory’s flimsy, if you ask me,’ MacNee said. ‘Macdonald and Hepburn were egging each other on to work something up. Nothing in the autopsy report suggested murder.’
Fleming rubbed tiredly at the frown line between her eyebrows. ‘No, of course it didn’t. We could be back to square one.
‘There’s just one thing that keeps nagging at me, Tam. No, two things. First, why did Connell Kane come back? And why do I keep thinking that Jen Wilson is more involved in this than she’d like us to think?’
‘Hit on the back of the head with a stone, or something like that, according to the doc,’ Inspector Mike Wallace said. ‘Quite large, with rugged edges. Muddy, too.’