Lamb to the Slaughter Read online

  Was it something you had to adjust to as you got older – becoming the generation that should know all the answers, even if you didn’t? Learn to make pompous pronouncements, as Donald Bailey did, since they were less dangerous than off-the-cuff suggestions which wouldn’t be subjected to proper scrutiny? She wasn’t ready to do that, not for a long time yet.

  OK, so she enjoyed power. If you looked at it closely, everyone did, from the two-year-old winding up his mother by refusing to open his mouth for the Brussels sprouts, to granny playing games about who would get the Clarice Cliff tea set once she was gone. Trouble came when the balance of power shifted – look at parents and teenagers. Take Cat, for example, starting to assert her independence – but she didn’t want to think about that.

  Fleming’s problem at the moment, though, was not losing power, but finding herself with more than she wanted. It was fine to be able to direct operations, to decide when and where to take a hand, to reap the benefit of others doing the more boring parts of the job. But now it felt as if what she had was the power to fall flat on her face because no one would pose the awkward questions she hadn’t thought of herself.

  Andy Macdonald would have to learn to challenge her, when necessary. He was no fool, and he wasn’t lacking in courage either. In that last, most painful murder enquiry, he’d dared to offend his Super, risking his own promotion.

  Fleming suspected, though, that he was personally more in awe of her than he was of Bailey. She knew her reputation for having, as her mother would say, ‘a tongue that could clip cloots’, and there were several officers who could display the shredded rags of their self-esteem in support of the ­accuracy of that assessment.

  To be realistic, she wasn’t going to change. That was how she ran her team and Andy would have to learn to be a big brave boy.

  Restlessly, she shifted the papers on her desk. She’d be as well to tackle the budget now. She hadn’t any excuse, and wouldn’t have, at least until Macdonald, Kerr and Wilson reported back, which wouldn’t be until much later. She turned reluctantly to her computer and opened a new file.

  When the phone rang, she picked it up with unusual enthusiasm. ‘Fleming.’

  She listened, then said blankly, ‘Who did you say?’

  9

  ‘It’s awful good of you to come, Tam,’ Annie Brown welcomed him as she took him through to the immaculately neat front room of her semi. ‘There’s not many people would think about how I’d feel, losing the Colonel, but it’s been twenty-five years I’ve worked for him – that’s longer than I had with my husband, God rest him!’

  Tam MacNee followed sheepishly, making embarrassed noises. She insisted on fetching him tea and a slice of her fruit cake and sat down, ready to talk for as long as he would listen about the loss that was obviously a genuine bereavement. And her gratitude for his ‘kindness’ would make it harder for him to push the conversation the way he wanted it to go.

  The Colonel’s devoted care of his arthritis-crippled wife was Annie’s starting-point, and she favoured MacNee with a rather more robust description of Mrs Carmichael than she had given Macdonald that morning: ‘Oh, the woman was a right besom! The man was a saint.’

  MacNee was cynical about saints. In his experience, a man behaving that way likely had either a very wealthy wife or a guilty conscience, or both, but he knew better than to say it.

  ‘Have you had the police round?’ he asked instead, and was treated to a report on their activities more exhaustive than any that would reach Big Marge’s desk. He smiled inwardly. He might be out of the official loop, but he had his spies.

  The photos of the foreigners she described seemed a mildly interesting irrelevance, but her description of Giles Farquharson’s odd behaviour left him feeling frustrated. That demanded follow-up, and no doubt Andy Mac was even now probing all the sore places, while MacNee didn’t even have a plan for how to get a word with the man. As Annie talked on about the shortcomings of the future owners of Fauldburn, MacNee found his mind wandering.

  He’d spoken already to Senga Blair and George MacLaren. Senga was desperate to sell, right enough, but she was even frailer than MacNee had remembered, and she was a gentle soul anyway. George was a jolly, open-faced man in his late fifties, whose jokey asides made waiting in the often lengthy queue a positive entertainment. He was forthright in answer to MacNee’s innocent question, as he purchased three chump chops, which Bunty would be most surprised to receive.

  ‘It’s win-win, as far as I’m concerned. If it falls through I go on doing a job I like fine – I’m not past it yet. If it goes ahead, I can retire a few years early and start taking those Caribbean cruises the wife’s set her heart on. Don’t mind much either way – but I tell you, it’s as well that Herself doesn’t know one end of a shotgun from the other!’ He had roared with laughter and turned to his next customer. ‘There you are, my dear – this steak’s tender as a woman’s heart. So maybe you’d prefer a pound of sausages?’

  It was hard to imagine George gunning someone down for the sake of an early start to the Caribbean cruises.

  The ‘Highlights of the Colonel’s Virtuous Life Over the Last Twenty-five Years’ recital was still going on. MacNee was beginning to rehearse tactful escape techniques when Annie said something that did catch his attention.

  ‘I wouldn’t tell anyone else this, Tam – to be honest, I don’t like looking a fool. But you’ve been that kind, letting me blether on, and this just shows how the Colonel always looked after me.

  ‘I’ve a wee bit money put by and I’ve a friend over Stranraer way that’s in this Ladies’ Investment Club. They put in money and get it invested by these fellows who know the ropes, and I’m not getting much on my savings account. I’ve two wee grandsons and I want them to get something worthwhile, once I’m away.

  ‘So this lad came and talked to me a couple of weeks ago – Pete Spencer, you know, him that lives with Romy Kyle from the Craft Centre? Real nice, he was, and nothing too much trouble, explained everything so I could understand and it seemed fine, so I got out five thousand pounds from the bank and gave it to him.’

  ‘A lot of money,’ MacNee said gravely.

  ‘It is and all! I’d only meant it to be a thousand, but it looked that good, and it was for the boys ...’ Annie sighed. ‘I was talking to the Colonel next day and said what I’d done, and he said he didn’t like the sound of it. It was maybe all right, but then he told me Pete had been jailed for confidence tricks before – not in a gossipy way, mind, just because I should know, with so much money involved. He said it was the law that I could change my mind. He had a word with Pete for me, and right enough when I asked I got my money back.

  ‘Now, how many employers would do that for a stupid woman who’d only herself to blame?’

  MacNee agreed that indeed, the Colonel’s halo shone even more brightly after this disclosure, but it wasn’t the man’s imminent beatification that was foremost in his mind as he made his excuses and left.

  Fiona Farquharson was in the kitchen of the Ravenshill factor’s house, preparing the evening meal. She prided herself on her cooking and she had a nice little business doing shooting lunches and so on: nothing too elaborate for her clientele, just tasty traditional fare, but today she was wondering whether making a proper supper was worth her while. Neither she nor Giles had done much damage to the veal and ham pie at lunchtime.

  After his visit to Fauldburn, all he’d said was that the police were coming to interview them this afternoon, and somehow that took away her appetite. Of course, as she’d emphasised to him, this was merely routine, with him being the heir and obviously in the picture, and anyway they’d got it all covered. Just as long as he didn’t blow it. She did wish she could be sure he wouldn’t. He’d only to do as he was told.

  But when the phone rang, and Giles, who’d been driving her demented by hanging round her kitchen, jumped as if he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod and went to take the call in the study, the possibilities which intrusi
vely presented themselves left her in an unfamiliar state of nervous confusion. The call might be no more than everyday routine, it could be the call Fiona had been awaiting for years, which would make everything worthwhile, or it could be – disaster.

  She couldn’t possibly have held her breath for the whole of the lengthy phone call, but it felt like that. And when Giles came back, she knew that the first two possibilities were out. He had been looking dreadful when he went out, but now he looked as if he was about to face a firing squad.

  Fiona’s heart started thumping and her head seemed to be floating. ‘What? What, Giles?’

  ‘That was the lawyer. I’m not the principal legatee. Fifty thousand, that’s all.’

  ‘Fifty thousand!’ It was derisory, a pittance! So everything she had done had been wasted, pointless. All she had to look forward to now was the present dreary existence, kow-towing to the Forbes-Grahams to keep Giles’s job, living in this – this hovel – she cast a disparaging glance round the kitchen, fitted with cupboards from MFI, for heaven’s sake! – and on into an even more restricted old age. With Giles.

  Anger surged through her. ‘That deceitful, cheating bastard!’ she screamed. ‘All those years, dancing attendance, being charming – “Yes, Uncle Andrew, no, Uncle Andrew” – and for this? He must have lied to your mother all along. So who gets it? If it’s that Burnett woman, we must contest it – undue influence. He was probably bonking her. Is it her?’

  Giles sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. ‘He wouldn’t tell me. We’ll get details later.’

  The young man who came into DI Fleming’s office was a little above medium height, with small hands and feet. He was wearing what was clearly an expensive casual shirt with what was equally clearly a cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders and he had dark brown hair and eyes with a slight oriental tilt. He held out a business card in a slim brown hand with a heavy gold chain at the wrist.

  ‘Zachariah – Zack Salaman,’ he said.

  ‘DI Marjory Fleming. Do sit down, Mr Salaman.’ Fleming took the card and indicated a chair, trying to conceal her astonishment.

  ‘I’ve no doubt this may have come as something of a surprise to those who knew my grandfather.’ He had an English voice and he was very composed; he did not smile and the eyes which were assessing her coolly were very shrewd.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Salaman,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid we had no idea that Colonel Carmichael had children at all, never mind a grandchild.’

  ‘No one did.’ He smiled now, a formal smile which showed teeth so perfect they had to be a triumph of orthodontics. ‘I felt it was incumbent upon me to get in touch, as his next of kin. Do you want to put your questions to me, inspector, or would you rather I simply told you the background?’

  ‘That might be best.’ Listening to this supremely confident young man might give her time to collect her thoughts and have the right questions ready to ask when he’d finished.

  ‘I was born in London. My father is Malay, my mother is half Malay, half English – I’m sorry, Scots,’ he corrected himself, smiling. ‘They met in Kuala Lumpur where he was an investment banker in DBS Malaysia and later transferred to London.

  ‘My mother knew little of her origins, except that a major in the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, who had been serving in the then Malaya, was her father. She had a difficult life. Her mother’s pregnancy was a disgrace and her family disowned them, though they were well provided for financially through an allowance sent via lawyers. A condition of receiving it was that they made no attempt to get in touch.

  ‘My grandmother wouldn’t have tried. She accepted the situation – indeed, never even told my mother the father’s name – and died in her fifties. My mother, after she married, wrote to the lawyers and said there was no further need for maintenance payments, but she would value the chance to know more about her father. This was refused.’

  Fleming could see anger in the tension of his position in the chair. This was a very proud young man; he didn’t find it easy to accept that to his mother’s family, on both sides, he was a non-person. Who would?

  ‘She didn’t pursue it. I never knew my grandmother; I only discovered this story relatively recently. And unlike my mother, I wasn’t prepared to leave it there.’

  Fleming interrupted. ‘What do you do yourself?’

  ‘I am a corporate lawyer.’

  She might have guessed. ‘So – go on. What steps did you take?’

  ‘The obvious ones, of course. I repeated my requests to the lawyers in Kuala Lumpur through a professional contact, and was able to find the firm of London solicitors who dealt with it. They were, unfortunately, entirely unhelpful. The extent of their indiscretion was that payments came to them through another solicitor whose name they were not prepared to divulge.’

  He would, Fleming thought, make it quite difficult to refuse. She rather hoped not to have to come up against him: lawyers were tricky at the best of times, and someone in his profession in London would be top-flight.

  ‘So I took it from the other end. I employed a firm of international private detectives who didn’t find it difficult to narrow the field. I then employed a firm in Glasgow and with fairly precise dates and locations, it wasn’t very difficult to come up with Colonel Carmichael’s name and address.’

  Fleming had a brief moment of sympathy for the Colonel, suddenly exposed to this fierce young man’s attention. ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘I set it in train six, seven months ago, perhaps.’

  ‘And you met him at that time? Here?’

  ‘No, at my hotel in Glasgow, a bit later, once I had considered the matter thoroughly and then made contact to arrange a time convenient to us both.’

  ‘So is this your first visit to Kirkluce?’

  The young man hesitated. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I came last week. I felt it was time to have a look at the place, but I didn’t visit my grandfather.’

  For the first time, she was seeing signs of unease. Even a fool would realise that this was a significant admission in a murder enquiry, and Salaman was far from being a fool. He hadn’t tried lying, or even evasion; there were too many other ways the police might get this information.

  ‘When you met, what was his reaction?’

  ‘You won’t believe this, of course. It all sounds too convenient.’ Again, he gave that chilly smile. ‘But he seemed – pleased.’

  ‘He was ready to acknowledge you?’

  ‘Not – not quite.’

  Fleming raised her eyebrows. The man opposite her looked as if he was in his mid-twenties; professionally he might be formidable but when it came to the sensitive matter of human relationships he was little more than a child. Cruelly she asked, with synthetic surprise, ‘Not quite? When he was so delighted to find he had a grandson?’

  Colour rose in his face. ‘He had quite a lot to straighten out first. He explained that he had severed contact with my grandmother to “spare his wife”.’ There was a flash of anger as he said that, swiftly concealed. ‘He has a nephew, someone who expects to inherit, and he felt it was only fair to prepare him before he acknowledged me openly, as he was planning to do. As is only right.’ He had obviously prepared his defence.

  ‘And did your grandfather tell you about the offer from ALCO?’

  Salaman shifted in his seat. ‘I – heard.’

  ‘You have a contact in Kirkluce?’ It had been reported in the local press, of course, but that wasn’t what you’d say if you’d read it.

  ‘I – yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  His face went very still. ‘I don’t think that’s relevant, inspector.’

  There was little point in pressing him on that, for the moment at least. Fleming went on, ‘The offer was worth a huge amount of money, of course. Were you aware that Colonel Carmichael was considering refusing?’

  ‘It was my grandfather’s decision. Nothing to do with me.’ He was definitely uncomfortable now.

 
‘Did you discuss it with him? Express your opinion, as his heir?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Neat answer. Not quite a lie; half-truths were always easier. She wasn’t ready to let him off the hook yet, though. ‘But you must have an opinion?’

  Salaman met her eyes squarely. ‘Sentimentality is no way to do business. But as I said, it was entirely my grandfather’s decision.’

  The consistent use of the family term was revealing. ­Fleming changed her tone. ‘He was greatly respected, your grandfather.’

  His expression was hard to read. She had hoped for signs of pleasure, interest even, but he said only, ‘I’m sure.’

  Time to drop it and move on. ‘I’m afraid there are routine questions I must ask you,’ she said carefully.

  ‘I understand that.’ Salaman’s eyes were wary.

  ‘Where were you last Saturday, when Colonel Carmichael was killed?’

  ‘Fortunately, that’s very straightforward.’ He relaxed, which rather suggested to Fleming that she’d missed something. ‘I was celebrating a particularly good legal victory at Rules in London with some friends. I can supply you with their names, if you like.’

  ‘If we need that we’ll come back to you. I’m grateful to you for being so frank. It’s been most helpful. Are you going back to London, or staying in the area?’

  ‘I’m staying at the Gracemount House Hotel for a few days. There’s some business to be taken care of.’

  No doubt there would be some interesting conversations to have with ALCO, Fleming thought as she wrote down the name of the country house hotel.

  ‘Thank you. I would be grateful if you would tell me if you are planning to leave the area. Now, I think I only need one more thing for now – the name of the private detective you used to trace Colonel Carmichael, please.’