Carrion Comfort Read online

  Thank God she had locked the doors. But then, she thought, she hadn’t locked the windows – in fact there were windows open all over the house for air on this warm humid night. The locked doors were only intended to keep her in, not to keep someone else out. She was too afraid to move; all she could do was listen with frantic intensity.

  She could make out actual footsteps now, towards the front of the house. Outside on the paving, or inside in the hall? If they came up the stairs there was one that would creak – the third or fourth step, she thought. If she heard that she would scream, grab for her phone, call the police …

  It wasn’t inside. The next footsteps were quick, running now, and certainly going away. As Gabrielle leapt out of bed she heard a car door slam and a car being driven off, fast. Then it was out of sight from the window and she ran downstairs to fling open the door.

  There was a bloody pile of – something – on the doorstep. She screamed, convulsed with horror and shock. But there was no one to hear her. She was on her own. She had to calm herself, control her panic, look at the thing, whatever it was.

  It was offal – heart, liver, lungs, the detritus of a butcher’s shop. The sort of thing people used to buy to feed their dogs but was now probably consigned to a refuse bin round the back. The stench of flesh rotting in the summer heat made her gag.

  She knew that as Paddy’s daughter she had enemies in the village, but who hated her enough to send the message ‘You’re dead meat’? Its brutal cruelty took her one more step along the road to despair.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DC Livvy Murray came into the dining room looking around her hesitantly. It was a huge room, panelled in gloomy pitch pine with several long tables down the middle, obviously set up for bus parties. The North Coast 500 route round the top of Scotland – promoted as ‘the Scottish Route 66’ – was bringing the tourists in their droves, but none of them were having an early start today, apparently.

  There were smaller tables round the edge near the windows and only a couple were occupied, by single men; reps, possibly, from the neat short-sleeved shirts and ties. They looked as if they didn’t view the day of selling ahead of them with sunny optimism.

  It was early yet, not much after half past seven, and there was no sign of either of her colleagues. Good! She’d no wish to spend more off-duty time than she had to with the loathsome ‘Kevlar’ and she might feel more ready to cope with meeting Strang after a Full Scottish and several cups of coffee.

  As she chose a table, a waitress went past her with a plate – soft, greasy bacon, a frizzled egg, a grey-looking sausage, a dry disc of black pudding, tinned tomatoes and watery-looking baked beans with a fried tattie scone curled at the edges – and she changed her mind. ‘Just toast and coffee,’ she said when the waitress came.

  The coffee was grey and lukewarm, but she gulped it down anyway for the caffeine hit, such as it was. She emptied three of the tiny packets of butter to spread on the leathery toast and had topped it with two packets of some indeterminate red jam when she saw DS Taylor coming in. As he reached the table she picked up her toast and stood up.

  ‘Morning, Sarge,’ she said. ‘Just going to finish up a few things so I don’t keep you waiting. See you in the hall in ten? Strang’s probably along there already.’

  Taylor glared at her. ‘You can wait till I’m finished here. You needn’t think I’m going to miss having a proper breakfast just so’s we look keen.’ But he didn’t look happy at the thought that she might show him up.

  ‘Let me know if you find one.’ Murray went out munching her toast, satisfied with her tactics so far. She’d got Taylor feeling edgy and she hadn’t had to sit at the breakfast table with either him or the boss. And tomorrow, she vowed, she’d find a wee cafe that would do her a decent bacon butty, even if she would have to pay for it herself.

  Kirstie Mowat was feeling sick as she walked to the village hall. She tried to blame it on the poached egg on toast that her mother had forced her to eat before she would allow her to leave the house, but she knew perfectly well that it was anxiety making her stomach churn.

  At least the policeman hadn’t come to the house yesterday so maybe, just maybe, her parents wouldn’t need to hear about it at all. But that left the problem of how the police were going to react to her not telling them about finding the man there right at the start. The fear that was haunting her was that the man might not even have been dead, that if they’d checked to see he might have been saved. She’d had nightmares about that.

  There were cars and a big van in the car park outside and the double door was standing open. The hall was cluttered now with chairs, tables with computer terminals and screened-off areas like little rooms. There was a group of officers in uniform standing in the middle listening to a tall man wearing a light jacket over a shirt and tie.

  Kirstie hesitated on the threshold and when one of the policemen said, ‘Sir,’ and nodded towards her, he turned his head. The first thing she noticed was that he had a scar down the right side of his face, the second that he had the sort of gaze that made her feel that she wouldn’t need to tell him anything because he knew it already. She gave a little quiver.

  He saw that too, then came across. ‘I’m DCI Strang. Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m-I’m Kirstie Mowat. I think you wanted to speak to me.’

  Strang turned to the group. ‘Anyone know about this?’

  She recognised the policeman who stepped forward, the one with the pathetic moustache who’d come to the cafe. He had turned bright pink and she suddenly realised that he didn’t want to talk about that any more than she did.

  ‘A witness reported that she might have information relevant to the discovery of the body. I was going to get a statement—’

  Kirstie jumped in, ‘Yes, so I thought I ought to come in to see you myself.’

  The policeman seemed relieved. Strang looked from one to the other, then said, ‘Right, Constable, leave this with me.’

  He led her to one of the screened-off cubicles; he sat on one side of the table and waved her to a chair opposite. ‘All right, Kirstie, what did you have to tell me?’

  She hadn’t quite expected this. She’d thought they’d ask questions that would tell her what Calum had told them already, but this way she could be volunteering stuff they didn’t need to know. She hesitated.

  Strang smiled. ‘Will it help if I tell you we’ll find out anyway and there’s no point in trying to work out a story?’

  She gave a little gasp. ‘I wasn’t … I wasn’t—’

  ‘I think we both know you were.’ He wasn’t smiling now. ‘I’ve a lot to do today. Don’t mess me about.’

  Kirstie gulped. ‘Well, me and Calum – Calum Cameron – kind of meet up sometimes, just to like, hang out, you know?’ She had a nasty feeling that he did know, but she went on, ‘That old empty house where they found the body? Well, it’s up near our farm and we all used to muck about there when we were kids. We went up there on Thursday night—’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  She could feel her face getting hot. ‘I don’t know – midnight, maybe?’

  ‘Midnight? After your parents were asleep, perhaps?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Then she burst out, ‘Will you have to tell them? I’ll get in so much trouble.’

  ‘We don’t make any promises. Go on.’

  ‘The door was standing wide open, but we never thought anything about that except maybe we hadn’t shut it properly the night before—’

  ‘Stop there. The night before? You went the night before and there was nothing there?’

  ‘That’s right. But that night, when Calum went in he saw this man and he went, “Oh!” and stopped. I looked over his shoulder and saw him too – it was gross, he was all, oh, dirty and smelly. We didn’t think he was dead, though.’ She stopped. ‘Was he – was he still alive then? If we’d checked he was all right, could we—?’ Her voice quavered.

  ‘No, Kirstie,’ Strang said. His v
oice was more sympathetic this time. ‘He was definitely dead. There was nothing you could have done. And it definitely wasn’t someone you recognised?’

  ‘Didn’t look, really. But – but might it have been?’ she faltered.

  ‘Probably not,’ he said smoothly. ‘And after that?’

  ‘We just went home.’

  ‘And you didn’t say anything to your parents about this? Not even after your father had found the body?’

  Kirstie hung her head. ‘No. My father would kill me if he found out I was there with Calum. Please don’t tell him!’

  ‘I think you know that he wouldn’t. He might very reasonably be worried and angry. What age are you, anyway?’

  ‘Fifteen. And a half.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t worry. It’s all over with him,’ she said, venom in her tone. Indeed, when this was over his might very well be the next murder they’d be called on to investigate.

  Strang’s mouth twitched. ‘Well, Kirstie, I’m not going to seek out your parents and tell them. On the other hand, I have to warn you that some of the information you have given me is highly significant and you might even be called as a witness at some future trial. If you want my advice, tell them yourself.’

  ‘Mmm, thank you,’ she said, almost as if she meant it.

  ‘DCI Strang?’ a voice said behind her and she turned her head. It was an older man with a small, bristly moustache and a rather red face. ‘I’m DI Hay.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Strang half rose. ‘Can you give me one minute and I’ll be with you? Thanks.’

  The man withdrew but somehow Kirstie had the impression that he was none too pleased.

  ‘Very quickly, then, Kirstie. Can I check two things? The body was not there on Wednesday but was on Thursday night – you’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Second, the door. You said that was standing wide open and that was unusual?’

  ‘That’s right. You see, it has bars nailed across it, so no one can go in, but actually the nails were worked loose ages ago and all the kids knew you just pulled and it would open. But we didn’t want grown-ups finding out because they’d go and barricade it properly.’

  Strang got up. ‘Thanks. I’ll send someone in now to record a statement. Tell him exactly what you told me and then it’ll be brought back to you to read and sign. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ She gave a deep sigh of relief as she got up. It hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared. He wasn’t going straight to clype on her and everyone knew trials took ages to come to court. She might even have left home by the time her parents found out.

  Ailie Johnston wasn’t looking forward to work that morning and sure enough the receptionist told her when she arrived that Mr Michie wanted to see her at ten o’clock. She nodded and went on to her office with a feeling in her stomach as if she’d swallowed a stone.

  She tried to get on with the list of priorities she always drew up before she left at night, but she wasn’t able to concentrate. She could feel herself getting more and more nervous, and at quarter to ten she decided she’d had enough. If he was going to sack her he could do it at her convenience and not his, and since she had half a mind to walk out anyway it hardly mattered if he was annoyed. She jumped up and walked down the corridor to his office.

  She had just raised her hand to knock when she realised he was on the phone. She was about to turn away frustrated when she heard what he was saying; in this modern building the doors weren’t very thick. It was her moral duty not to listen. She listened anyway.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Chris, Tom. Make sure you’ve got it straight – this needs to be watertight or we’re in big trouble. And you know not to mention—Yes, that’s right. OK?’

  There was a listening pause and then Michie said, ‘Right, right. And be careful. A real bastard he could be, if you ask me. And keep in touch.’

  Ailie retreated along the corridor. She waited at her desk, turning over what she had heard, then went back at ten o’clock precisely. She wasn’t sure now that she wanted to be sacked. If Niall really had been murdered and Bruce Michie was involved, she would do her level best to find out anything she could and pass it on to the nice DCI Strang, starting with that last conversation.

  In fact, Michie seemed surprisingly calm about it all. ‘Ah, Ailie. Good,’ he said. ‘I hear you went to the police with your worries about Niall?’

  She could feel her cheeks getting hot. ‘Well, I was—’

  ‘No, no. That’s fine. Of course, I’d prefer that you’d come to me first, but you did your civic duty and I’m the last person to find fault with you for that.’ He gave a little chuckle, which she immediately assessed as phoney.

  ‘That’s good, Bruce. I was sure you’d be supportive.’ She could do phoney too.

  ‘Of course, I’d hate to think this really was anything to do with Niall, but I got the impression the inspector was taking this quite seriously. Was that your impression too?’

  It gave Ailie a sick feeling even to acknowledge it, but she had to agree.

  ‘I know that you were close to him, so I think you should prepare yourself in case it is indeed bad news. And as a firm, of course, we should be ready for that too. For instance, do you know if he had any relatives?’

  ‘His mother died recently. I think he mentioned a sister, but I don’t know more than that.’

  ‘You don’t know her name or where she lives?’

  Ailie thought for a moment. ‘No, sorry. I don’t think they were close.’

  ‘Pity. So important for the employer to be able to offer support. If you do remember, be sure to let me know. Now, I know this has been distressing for you. Are you all right to work today?’

  Ailie assured him she was and left with her head spinning. When had Michie ever shown the smallest concern about what anyone else was feeling – and why had the man who had been utterly scornful of her worries about Niall changed his stance so completely after the visit from the police?

  Niall Aitchison’s house was a white-painted harled cottage just on the edge of Forsich. It stood in a row of houses in one of the back lanes of the village, with a pleasant outlook over the fields and some scrubby woodland. It had a pretty garden, very well maintained, and the paintwork was fresh and the windows shining in the bright sunshine.

  DC Murray had put on one of the thick sweaters she’d brought with her before she left the hotel; now as the sun got higher in the sky she was sweltering.

  ‘I thought it was supposed to be cold up here in the north. It’s far hotter than Edinburgh. Sticky too.’

  ‘You’d better strip off, then,’ Taylor said with a leer. ‘Not that it looks as if you’ve much to flaunt.’

  Murray’s lips tightened. Oooh, she’d have him once they got back, and to hell if the lads in the station didn’t like it. This was going in a log; she looked at her watch to check the time.

  Fortunately, she had put on a white Gap T-shirt underneath. She took the sweater off and chucked it in the back as she got out of the car.

  There was no answer when she rang the bell. They walked round into the back garden, also neat, with a table and bench set up on paving outside the back door.

  ‘Not a bad wee place,’ Taylor said. ‘No one here, though. Best get back to report to Strang.’

  God, he was sloppy. ‘Shouldn’t we check the neighbours to see if anyone knows where we might find him?’

  He looked huffy. ‘Oh, I suppose we could. Bet we don’t get any joy, and anyway we won’t know what to ask until we see Strang. I’m going to put him on the spot about that.’

  Rather than laughing in his face, she said, ‘Why not?’ as she led the way to the house on the left-hand side.

  There was no one in and Taylor looked triumphant. ‘Told you it was pointless. I don’t know what you’re hoping to find out, anyway – the man’ll be out at work and we’ll get him in later, once Strang’s got round to briefing us.’

  Murray paid no attention, walking alo
ng the lane to the house on the other side. This looked more promising; there was an outer front door that was standing open and when she rang the bell an elderly lady with a sour expression, leaning on a stick, opened it remarkably quickly.

  Before Murray could speak, she said, ‘Saw you there at the house. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Mr Aitchison?’ Murray asked.

  ‘Aye, him. Just went off without a word to me. Expecting me to go on feeding the cat – at my own expense, mind you – until his lordship decides to turn up again.’

  Taylor had caught up on the doorstep. ‘Gone away, has he? Thank you very much, madam.’

  He was turning to go when Murray said, ‘Could we maybe come in and talk to you for a minute? We’re police officers.’ She held up her warrant card.

  The woman peered at it for a moment, then said, ‘No.’

  It didn’t sound like the opening bid in a negotiation. Taylor was already walking down the path when Murray said, a little desperately, ‘How long have you been looking after the cat for him, Mrs …?’

  ‘MacFarlane. Nine days. I’m counting, and if he’s not back by five the night, it’s ten I’ll be charging him for. Fair enough, I said I’d look after Agnes’s cat when he was away at work, but he paid money down first.’

  ‘Agnes?’

  She gave Murray a look of contempt for her ignorance. ‘His mam, of course. When she passed on, I’d to do it for him so the wee beast comes to me if it’s hungry. I’m not wanting a dead cat on my conscience, but you can tell him he’d better get back here or else I’ll shut the door and ignore the yowling. Someone else can take a turn.’

  Murray was doing a calculation in her head. ‘So – Mr Aitchison’s been missing since a week past Saturday?’

  Mrs MacFarlane sniffed. ‘If you call it “missing” when he just drove off in his car. I was having my elevenses and he could have come in and told me when he’d be back.’

  She asked, though not hopefully, ‘Do you know the registration number?’