Authors: Aline Templeton
‘Killed on the spot?’ Fleming asked.
Wallace shook his head. ‘The pathologist said there’s blood spatter on the clothes but there’s none in the surrounding area and no pool of blood beside the body. There’s no lividity evidence to show it was moved, but that takes time to get established – if the body was moved almost immediately there wouldn’t be any sign. There’s no disturbance on the road edges where it was found and given it was a quiet road his suggestion is that the man was killed elsewhere and then dumped from a car.’
‘So we’re looking for a large stone with traces of blood and tissue, somewhere in the Galloway countryside?’ Fleming said hollowly. Today was getting worse and worse, and it wasn’t just because the sugar rush from the chocolate biscuit was wearing off.
Wallace was tactfully silent. MacNee, with an anxious glance at his boss, said, ‘Have the lads turned up Randall Lindsay yet? We’re hoping for a wee word with him.’
But they hadn’t. Fleming pulled a face. ‘We’ll go and call again at the house. It’s almost seven o’clock – he could just have been out for the day.’
When they reached Ballinbreck House, though, there was no one in. ‘Maybe they’ve all done a runner together,’ MacNee suggested facetiously, but Fleming wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
‘Could be working late at the office,’ she said. ‘Find out where it is and we’ll go there now.’
The warehouse was in a road parallel to the main street, near the centre of the village and the board outside read ‘Etcetera – Interior Design by Philippa Lindsay’ and though the main building had no windows, one small window on an upper level at the side had a light burning.
The outer door of the warehouse was open, too, and when they pressed the bell beside it, there was a pause, then round the edges of the inner door light showed in the main part of the building and it was opened cautiously by Philippa herself. She began, ‘Sorry – we’re closed,’ then recognised them. ‘Oh, I see. What is it this time?’
‘We were just wanting a word with your son,’ Fleming said. ‘Is he here?’
‘Here?’ Philippa gave a bitter laugh. ‘You’d think, if you had a son who was a banker that he’d be able to take over at least some of the business side, but not a chance. I sell all day and then work on the books at night.’
The woman seemed weary and distinctly fed up with her son, Fleming thought. Through the open door she could see into the warehouse and it was impressive: fabrics beautifully displayed, room settings laid out to highlight elegant lamps and vases made of heavy glass or Chinese blue-and-white ceramic, and sculptures in alabaster and black polished stone on dark-wood coffee tables. Philippa certainly had good taste.
‘He’s probably at the house,’ she went on. ‘And I don’t suppose he’s making supper either.’
‘No one there,’ MacNee said.
‘Oh?’ she didn’t seem very interested. ‘Of course, Charles was golfing this afternoon – he’s probably eating at the club. And I’ve no idea about Randall – haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.’
The two officers exchanged glances. ‘I wonder,’ Fleming said, ‘if it would be possible for us to have a look in his bedroom? We haven’t applied for a search warrant as yet but we are very eager to speak to him and if he’s gone off somewhere it would be helpful to know if his bags are missing.’
Philippa frowned. ‘What’s this about?’ she asked, her voice sharp.
Fleming told her smoothly that it was just routine enquiries, and after giving her a long, cool look Philippa shrugged.
‘I was more or less finished here anyway and if it’s just looking I don’t have any objection. If you wait a minute for me to lock up, I’ll walk along and let you in.’
As they waited in the car, MacNee said, ‘Know something? Never took to her before but I feel quite sorry for her today with those two freeloaders round her neck.’
‘She obviously works hard. And I think she’s ready to give up on Randall. I wonder if there’s something she knows that we don’t.’
Philippa went ahead of them into the house. The sun was still shining outside but the hall was gloomy and she went to switch on a huge, deep-blue glass lamp with a white linen shade that stood on a heavily carved chest at the foot of the staircase.
‘Up there,’ she pointed. ‘Second door on the left – help yourself. His car isn’t here so I don’t suppose he is. I’m going to get a drink. You’ll find me in the drawing room, through there.’
‘One of our more trusting clients,’ Fleming said as they climbed the stairs. ‘How does she know we’re not going to take his room apart?’
‘Doesn’t care,’ MacNee said.
Philippa’s clever hand was evident here too. With its French-Grey walls and white bedlinen, the room would have looked like a picture from an interiors magazine if it hadn’t been for the fact that the bed wasn’t made, cushions were thrown carelessly about the floor and there were dirty footprints on the silver-grey carpet and dirty smears on the white duvet cover. It stank of cigarette smoke; there was an ashtray full of stubs on the bedside table. There was a well-worn sweater, along with a pair of mud-stained jeans slung over the back of a neat little grey velour tub chair.
‘Slob,’ Fleming said crisply. ‘Poor woman.’
They looked around. ‘Can’t see any bags,’ MacNee said, ‘but maybe he’s put everything neatly away in the drawers.’
With a sinking heart, Fleming acknowledged that this was possible, though definitely unlikely. When they opened the doors of the carved armoire, which had shelves beside the hanging space, there was nothing there apart from a couple of folded blankets, a thin dressing gown and a hairdryer, clearly put there for guests.
‘Taken off,’ MacNee said.
‘Yes. So – put out all the usual alerts, I suppose.’ She had been almost expecting it, but it still managed to be a shock.
They went back downstairs and Fleming stuck her head round the door of the drawing room, tranquil and pleasing with its turquoise silk curtains and cream sofas. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Lindsay. That’s all.’
Philippa, lounging on a turquoise linen upholstered chair with a large glass of white wine in her hand, said, ‘I suppose I should ask you what you found.’
‘I didn’t see any bags, so I think your son may be away somewhere. Would you have any idea where?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Perhaps you could let us know if you hear from him, or if he returns?’
‘Certainly.’
Fleming turned to go, then paused. ‘Just for the record, Mrs Lindsay, would you be willing to tell us what you were doing today, say from ten o’clock to about two?’
‘It’s not difficult. I drove to Kirkcudbright to the antiques centre, did a couple of things there, then visited two art galleries. I had a sandwich with the owner at one of them, then came home.’
Then she sat up straight. ‘Hang on – routine? Why did you want to know? Has something happened? Randall?’
‘No, no, Mrs Lindsay, as far as we know Randall is perfectly all right. Just routine, as I said. Thank you again.’
They left before she could ask anything more.
Back in the car, Fleming said, ‘I just want to go along to The Albatross before we set off back. I’d like to see how Kendra’s taking all this.’
When they reached the darkened pub, though, a police liaison officer told them that she had taken the news badly and was now in sedated sleep. ‘Mr Stewart’s through the back, if you want me to fetch him.’
‘It’ll wait,’ Fleming said. There was probably little useful that he could tell them and it was time she went back to face all the explanations and arrangements she would have to make.
It was late and Marjory Fleming was very tired when she got back to Mains of Craigie. Bill was on his way to bed, but came back downstairs when he heard her arrive.
‘Bad day?’ he said sympathetically as he saw her white face.
‘Grim,’ she said, patting the collie, who had pranced across to greet her. ‘Yes, Meggie, I see you.’
‘Dram?’ Bill offered but she shook her head.
‘Just something to eat and a mug of tea.’
As she made a cheese sandwich she told him briefly what had happened: that one of the suspects had been killed and another had disappeared, that there was an alert out to have him picked up.
‘Want to talk about it?’
Marjory shook her head. ‘It’s all too muddled and I’m too tired. You go on up – I won’t be long. How was your day?’
‘Just the usual. Cammie’s gone to some do or other in Glasgow. Oh, and Cat’s Nick phoned to thank us for the weekend. Very nice manners, I thought.’
‘Oh.’
Bill frowned. ‘You don’t think so?’
She was too tired to be diplomatic. ‘I think he’s a smarmy little creep and I think he’s making fun of you behind your back.’
Her husband’s face darkened. Famed for his even temper, Bill had been more irritable since his illness and he was annoyed now.
‘And I’m just too stupid to notice – is that what you think?’
‘No, of course I don’t think you’re stupid!’ Marjory cried. ‘I think you’re too nice, that’s the problem.’
‘Better than being too nasty. You’ve got to the point where you’re suspicious of everyone. Perhaps it’s the job, but you’re going to wreck your relationship with your daughter completely if you go on like this. She’s not stupid either, you know. She’s a grown woman and if she thinks this young man is right for her I’m happy to accept her judgement. If you’re wise you will as well, but I’m not sure you are.’
‘Bill—’
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think there’s any point in discussing it – you have your view and I have mine. I think I’ll just go on up to bed. Goodnight – I shut up the hens.’
Marjory looked after him miserably as he went out. The cheese
sandwich seemed supremely unappealing but she forced herself to eat it; if she hadn’t been so tired and hungry none of this would have happened.
She and Bill rowed so seldom that when they did it really hurt. And they’d always agreed that they shouldn’t go to bed on a quarrel but he seemed to have forgotten that tonight. She could go up now and say sorry, but it would be meaningless unless she was planning to change her mind about Nick Carlton, and she couldn’t do that.
And she was so tired! She really didn’t need this, to add to all she was coping with at the moment. Her eyes prickling, she put her head in her hands and groaned, then felt a nudge on her knee from Meg’s nose.
She laughed, then sniffed, looking down into the dog’s anxious eyes and stroking her head. ‘I’m all right, Meg, really,’ she said as she bent down to have her cheek licked. ‘Look, what about a bit of cheese sandwich?’
Meg, reassured, accepted it gratefully and went back to her bed by the Aga. Marjory refilled her mug and her mind slid away from her domestic problems, back to the professional ones.
She knew she wasn’t thinking straight. There was something blocking her, something stopping her seeing the way ahead. She needed to think this through, here in the quiet house where the only sound was Meg starting to snore gently.
There was a pile of accumulated bumf on the kitchen dresser and she sorted through it until she found a circular with a side left blank, then tried two or three dried-out ballpoints standing in a mug beside the phone until she found one that still worked and went back to the table.
Mind maps had always been Marjory’s way of clearing her brain and she drew one now: the victims, the suspects, the links between them. And as she stared at it, the picture began to clear
before her eyes. She drew two separate circles and then drew a sharp, decisive line.
That would do. She had a new direction to go in tomorrow.
Marjory got up, put her mind map into her bag then her mug and plate into the dishwasher and switched it on. As she turned off the light she decided that if Bill was still awake, she’d say sorry anyway and hope he wouldn’t ask her to be too specific about what she was apologising for.
He was sound asleep, though, of course. She gave a little sigh then dropped a gentle kiss on the top of his head before she got into bed.
Louise Hepburn, a glass of white wine in front of her, watched as Ewan Campbell set about a pie and chips.
‘I don’t know how you’re not obese,’ she said, torn between admiration and revulsion. ‘You had a bridie for lunch – if I ate like that I’d be the size of a house.’
Ewan, thin and wiry still, if starting to show a paunch ignored her but Andy Macdonald, eating crisps along with his pint, grinned. ‘And he’ll be away off home to his tea in a minute.’
Ewan paused long enough to say, with some bitterness, ‘Aye, but what’ll it be?
Salad
!’ Then he turned his attention back to his plate.
Louise and Andy both laughed. It gave her a warm feeling; it was the first time she’d ever been asked to join them for a drink after work. She’d made a virtue out of her independence, prided herself on her mates being outside the Force, but it was undeniably good to be part of the gang.
‘So – what’s Big Marge going to do now?’ Andy said. ‘She was a bit antsy at the briefing. Unless they pick up Randall tonight there’s going to be a big media stushie tomorrow.’
‘No wonder. A serial murderer on the loose is enough to get any sub with a headline to write to start drooling,’ Louise said. ‘And no one seems to have seen him for a couple of days – could be anywhere by now.’
‘If he’s taken his car abroad it’ll be on a ferry list,’ Andy pointed out. ‘And my guess is he wouldn’t go without it.’
‘You’d feel sort of vulnerable, escaping on foot,’ Louise agreed. ‘It’s not logical – you’re actually more anonymous on public transport. But I can understand it.’
Ewan cleared his plate, set down his knife and fork and said, ‘Why’s he gone?’
The others stared at him. ‘Because he knows we’re on to him,’ Andy said patiently.
‘How?’ Ewan said. Then he got up. ‘Better get home.’ He walked out.
Louise looked at Andy. ‘Is he always like that?’
‘Yup. Always.’
‘I don’t feel I know him at all, really. I’ve never been partnered with him and he says so little in meetings that the only impression I have of him is from isolated remarks like that.’
‘Not sure I know him either. We go around the place in silence, mostly, or with me doing a sort of stream-of-consciousness monologue in the hope he’ll come out with one of his remarks to shed a new light. If he actually says something it’s always worth hearing, I can tell you that.’
‘So what do we make of that last remark?’
They were both silent for a minute, then Andy said, ‘He’s got a point, you know. How would Randall know we were out to get him? He’d be far smarter to carry on as normal.’ He drained his pint then said, ‘Fancy the other half? My shout.’
‘Thanks,’ Louise said. ‘You get them in and I’ll think about that.’
When Andy came back, she had developed a theory. ‘Randall hasn’t actually been around since just after the party, has he? He could think we’d be on to him after his attack on me – I could have realised, you could have seen him. He’d issued threats.’
‘But he must have been in touch with Will Stewart or he couldn’t have killed him. And we know Will and Skye were both in the car with Connell Kane – are we assuming that Randall was there too?’
‘We won’t know till we get a search warrant and can find his prints to check against the records from the car. But if Kane’s murder was some sort of follow-up from Julia’s – and I can’t imagine there’s not a connection – Randall only had to know that Will had been summoned to the station yesterday afternoon to need to get rid of him.
‘And it wasn’t premeditated.’ Louise was warming to her theory. ‘He met him to check that he’d keep schtum, then found out he wasn’t planning to – wasn’t prepared to leave Skye to carry the can, say – and he picked up a handy stone.’
‘That works for me. It looks like a panicky impulse – and once he realised what he’d done, that Skye couldn’t be blamed this time, he took off. We’re a good team – you know that?’ Andy held his glass across to clink with hers. ‘Cheers!’
‘Will you tell the boss tomorrow, or will I?’
‘You can,’ Andy said graciously. ‘Provided, of course, that you give full acknowledgement to the brilliance of my input.’
‘Naturally. And Ewan’s, of course. Wonder how he’s enjoying his salad?’
There was something very comforting about hens, Marjory Fleming thought, as she watched her little flock mill around her, waiting for her to fill the feeding trough, shoving and jostling. Cherie the alpha hen was there in the forefront, having trampled right over Sam Cam, a new arrival who was hanging back with what Marjory would like
to think was well-bred politeness but was presumably terror.
It gave you a sense of perspective: whatever unpleasantness lay ahead of her in the world outside today, tomorrow the chookies would still be here, scratching and pecking and squabbling and making that soothing crooning sound when they were happy.
Marjory allowed herself just a few moments to watch them as she ate a slice of toast, then with some reluctance went back to the house. She hadn’t time to check for eggs today; she’d have to leave a note for Bill. Unfortunately she’d overslept and he’d gone up the hill before she woke.
The drive into Kirkluce gave her time to collect her thoughts for the morning briefing. She wasn’t quite ready yet to share generally what she’d been considering last night, not before she’d had a chance to kick the idea around with her team. It felt right, but there were still too many pieces that didn’t fit into the jigsaw.
So today she would make time for review and meticulous examination of the evidence they had. Not exciting, but this was the stuff real police work was made of. So unless some other disaster happened – she winced at the thought – she would just have to resign herself to a very dull day ahead.
‘The informal report we have, that Will Stewart was killed with a blow from a large stone, suggests that this wasn’t premeditated,’ Fleming told the morning briefing. ‘There was mud in the wound so it was probably snatched up from the ground at the time – the result of an argument, perhaps, or even because the killer discovered that Stewart was to attend here for questioning yesterday afternoon and there was something incriminating that he could tell us.
‘Two obvious questions: what might he have been going to say, and who was he going to say it about? So far we don’t have the answer to either of these so keep them in mind as you go about your interviews today.
‘His hire car isn’t at The Albatross and the number’s been circulated locally but we haven’t found it yet. Randall Lindsay’s car licence number has been circulated too and Border Force has been alerted, though there’s a danger he may have left the country already. We want to know of any sightings of him since Sunday morning and there’s a dedicated phone number being broadcast for information from the public. It’s possible – just! – that there may be gold in the avalanche of dross.’
That got a polite ripple of amusement. She went on, ‘So it’s pretty much routine legwork today. Don’t despise it – that’s where the dramatic breakthroughs come from.
‘Right. Questions?’
A hand was raised. ‘Is Skye Falconer still our prime suspect for Connell Kane’s murder?’
It was an entirely legitimate, not to say obvious, question, but it was one Fleming had hoped wouldn’t be asked directly. ‘For the moment, yes,’ she said. ‘Anyone else?’
The rest only needed routine responses and she gave them with brusque efficiency, then went up to her room to wait for her team to join her.
DC Hepburn was first and when DS Macdonald appeared he took the chair next to her, to Fleming’s quiet amusement. Could peace really have been declared at last?
MacNee came next, leaving Campbell to pull forward one of the chairs by the table and Hepburn moved hers to widen the circle. A nice, cooperative grouping, Fleming thought with satisfaction.
She launched straight in. ‘I want to look at connections. Four acts of violence: Kane’s murder; Eleanor Margrave’s murder; the attack on Louise after the party; Will Stewart’s murder yesterday.
‘Weapons: a cosh, almost certainly; a ligature twice; a random rock, probably, though we’re waiting for further tests. Comments?’
There was a brief silence, then Hepburn said, ‘The attack on me had to be unpremeditated, at least to the extent that no one knew until quite late in the evening that I was there. It would be easy enough to find something and head out after me, like a belt or a scarf, say, or even a thin rope – there were lots of tents and things in the garden.’
‘And even if you’d gone to Sea House with the intention of killing Eleanor Margrave, you could easily conceal any of these,’ Macdonald offered.
‘The cosh,’ Campbell said. ‘Odd one out.’
Fleming nodded. ‘Precisely. There is no innocent reason for acquiring a cosh. You might, I suppose, carry it for protection but that too sheds a light on your activities. The fingerprints of Kane, Stewart and Falconer were all in the car. It’s possible there may have been someone else – Randall, say – but the unidentified fingerprints there are could be perfectly innocent, relating to a previous owner, say. So that’s the assembled cast.’
Hepburn was thoughtful. ‘You wouldn’t be likely to have a cosh, would you, unless you were a professional, so to speak.’
‘Or a cop,’ Campbell said.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Fleming admitted, ‘but it’s true, of course. Will Stewart could easily have had access to confiscated weapons.’
‘But if he had it,’ Hepburn argued, ‘why wouldn’t he use it on Eleanor Margrave? I think it’s far more likely it belonged to Kane.’
Macdonald was the only one who hadn’t spoken. ‘I agree with Louise. Stewart was unlikely still to have had it to hand, after two years.’
This came under the heading of ‘remarks least likely for Andy Macdonald to make’ and Fleming sensed, rather than saw, MacNee’s quiet smile. However, she said only, ‘So – are we talking self-defence? For some reason, Kane goes for Stewart and Skye gets caught up in it somehow?’
Hepburn went on, ‘And then either she or Stewart or possibly even Randall throws the cosh away, into the Solway probably, to get rid of the evidence. They don’t know they’re going to need to kill Eleanor Margrave, so—’
‘Or they didn’t do it.’ That was Campbell.
Fleming pounced on the remark. ‘That’s what I was mulling over last night. There are two very different MOs. The blow to Kane’s head worked, so why change to strangulation?’
‘Circumstances.’ MacNee was unconvinced. ‘Stewart’s murder – blow to the head too, but unplanned. The murderer just lost it for some reason and grabbed what came to hand. But like Andy said, if you’d a surprise attack in mind you could easy hide a ligature.
‘Say Randall goes out from the party to nobble Louise here, if he was carrying a hammer or something he could be noticed and he couldn’t rely on finding a handy stone. Scarf in his pocket and then – aargh!’ His hand went to his throat in a pantomime of strangulation.
Fleming saw Hepburn go pale and Macdonald protested, ‘For goodness’ sake, Tam!’
‘Oh, sorry, sorry, lass.’ MacNee was immediately penitent. ‘Got a wee bit carried away there. But I still don’t think we need to complicate things. Find Randall and squeeze him till the pips squeak.’
Fleming glanced at the clock. ‘This has been useful, and it’s opened up the discussion but that’s about as far as we can go for the moment.
‘There’s going to be a lot of stuff coming in today and I’m going to be stuck at the desk. Tam, I want you and Louise to interview Jen Wilson again. Try to get the truth this time – I have a gut feeling that there’s something there that we need to know.
‘Andy, could you and Ewan go to The Albatross and lean on the Stewarts again? I reckon Logie’s alibi is solid for Eleanor Margrave’s murder but it might be as well to check up on what he was doing
yesterday. He can’t have felt a lot of brotherly love towards Will if he was carrying on with Kendra. I wouldn’t put money on him but the MO’s different this time so we have to take that into account.
‘I’m more interested in Kendra. Her alibi is shaky for that afternoon and she would know that Will was coming in to talk to us.’
‘And the way she was looking yesterday, she’d be ready to take a knife to anyone who happened to be passing,’ MacNee said. ‘You might need body armour.’
‘Anyway, that’s it,’ Fleming said, ‘except that you could touch base with the uniforms – they should be all over the place like a rash. And be sure you’re up to date with the reports of all the interviews before you go. Tam, you filed the Will Stewart one, didn’t you?’
MacNee nodded, and she finished, ‘And spare a thought for me stuck here all day, ploughing through paper.’
‘I felt as if I were going round in a tumble dryer in that meeting,’ Hepburn grumbled as she drove with Tam down the now overfamiliar road to Ballinbreck. ‘Whenever I thought I had something straight in my mind and was following a line, something else came up to confuse me all over again.’
‘Aye, it’s kind of a mess, this one,’ MacNee agreed. ‘But I think the boss is getting there. She’s a lot more upbeat this morning than she was last night.’
‘I wish I was. If Randall really has managed to vanish, it could be tied up for weeks. Months, even.’
‘Oh, we’ll get him. It’s what we’re best at, picking people up, unless they’ve got professional help to cover their tracks. He’s an amateur.’
‘Why’s the boss so set on Jen Wilson, anyway? She’s got thirty kids as an alibi for the Margrave murder.’
MacNee thought for a moment. ‘Has she, though? She told us she
was in school but we didn’t check. Teachers have free periods, don’t they – pop out for a bit of shopping, maybe. And she was definitely in the area on the night Kane was killed.
‘I tell you something else – she was ducking and diving when we questioned her, and hell-bent on dumping her pal Skye right in it. But she still wasn’t prepared to give us the full story.’
‘Mmm.’
Hepburn fell silent and after a moment MacNee glanced at her. ‘You’re doing that thinking thing again. Want to share it?’
‘It was just what the boss said about MO. Suppose there are two people involved, Killer A who bashed Connell Kane and Will Stewart over the head, and Killer B who strangled Eleanor Margrave and tried to strangle me?’