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  ‘Priority on that. We’re looking for confirmation and identities. We want to trace vehicle movements near the play park from 20.00 hours on – no CCTV, unfortunately. We’ll be interviewing a number of known recent contacts – more on that as information comes in.

  ‘The SOCOs will be finished by tonight so there will be fingertip searches around the crime scenes at first light tomorrow – and not a great forecast either. Sorry, lads, but someone’s got to do it. And if you’ve recently annoyed Sergeant Naismith, you’re probably on the list.

  ‘Jock, more specific interviews and background searches – have you got the details for CID?’ Sergeant Naismith nodded and she went on, ‘I’ll meet with my team in my office after this – ten minutes. Now, I’ll take questions, but be sure it’s one you need to ask. None of us has time to waste.’

  That would, she hoped, discourage fishing expeditions by inquisitive officers. There were too many answers she couldn’t give them at the moment, but choking off questions wouldn’t send the right message.

  She had no problem with the first two: Anita Loudon had been small and slight so no exceptional strength would be needed to move the body; she was local to the area, having grown up there and moved back after the death of her parents.

  That was fringing on the area she was keen to avoid and in the brief pause that followed Fleming swiftly gathered up her notes and half-turned away.

  ‘Er …’

  She turned back, her heart sinking when she saw her questioner. It was Brian Todd, one of the awkward squad, who had a grudge because he’d applied to CID and been turned down. Ever since he’d tried to show them what they were missing.

  ‘Yes, Brian?’ she said warily.

  ‘Is it right the body was found exactly where Tommy Crichton’s body was found forty years ago, with similar injuries?’

  There was a surprised reaction from a number of officers, but by no means all. So the story was out there already, and if Todd knew so would the press by now – and guess who would be taking the next conference with them howling for raw meat?

  ‘Yes,’ Fleming said then without elaborating made her exit. The decibel level rose as soon as she was out of the door.

  ‘Boss! Could I have a word before the meeting?’ Louise Hepburn’s voice spoke behind her.

  Oh, she could really do without that! Fleming turned, managing to smile. ‘Oh, Louise. Yes, of course.’

  ‘I just wanted to say Andy and I know who Marnie Bruce is.’

  Fleming looked at her sharply. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘We saw the photo of her mother in the reports about Tommy Crichton. She’s the spitting image.’

  Simple as that. ‘So who else saw it?’

  ‘Only us, I think. You’d have to have seen Marnie to know and we’re the only ones who’ve talked to her, except maybe the uniforms that went round to Bridge Street the other night.’

  And, of course, Shelley Crichton and Janette Ritchie and any of the other ladies who’d been around with them. It was presumably all over Dunmore and the media would have the full story by tomorrow, if not tonight. She could only hope that by then they’d have got clearance to be more open with the press.

  Hepburn went on, ‘I was wondering – does Marnie know about her mother? If she does, it would be quite brave to go back to Dunmore to ask questions.’

  ‘I think I’d say callous, if she did. But my guess would be that she was never told. It’s going to be quite a thing for her to cope with when it comes out. For that reason alone I’m keen to find her, apart from the investigation altogether.’

  ‘I don’t believe she killed Anita Loudon.’ Hepburn’s square, stubborn chin was definitely jutting. ‘She walked into a difficult situation, that’s all, and—’

  Fleming interrupted her. ‘Louise, I haven’t time for a discussion just at the moment. We have the meeting in ten minutes to explore our ideas. But taking up a position beforehand isn’t constructive and I’ll be looking to you to keep an open mind. Understood?’

  ‘Yes of course. But—’

  ‘No buts.’ Fleming took the stairs to her office two at a time, fired by her irritation. Hepburn was often a trial but she’d earned her place on the team in their last big case with her sharp, enquiring mind. Macdonald, for all his competence, lacked the spark that could fire up a new direction in an investigation, and Campbell – well, admittedly if he said something it was usually incisive. If.

  It would be good to have him back from leave, though. She could only hope Andy Mac didn’t succumb to a coronary before that.

  Marnie had never liked the idea of nightclubs. Loud music always seemed to pump out aggression and a mob of sweating dancers sounded wild and threatening. The time Gary had persuaded her to go with him hadn’t been a success – more a disaster, really. Even though this great barn of a place was empty and silent, the memory surged back.

  She is screaming, ‘I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!’ She’d been wanting to scream that ever since they came in but now that she’s right at the back of this horrible noisy hell with people pressing up against her she can’t keep it in any more.

  Gary’s looking embarrassed and people around her are staring. He’s bellowing, ‘Calm down!’ in her ear but she can’t, she’s hysterical, she doesn’t know what to do and people are nudging and pointing now.

  Blindly she starts to push her way through and a man stands deliberately in her way, grinning. ‘In a hurry, sweetheart?’ He makes a grab at her but she pushes past and he dodges in front again.

  She knees him in the groin and pushes on without a backward glance and there’s a space opening up in front of her and the bouncer holds the door open for her and she’s outside gasping the fresh cool air.

  The air in here wasn’t fresh. It felt stale and sickly as she stood wrestling with the images. There was something creepy about the atmosphere, with no windows and minimal lighting and chipped patches showing white against the matt-black walls. The bench seating was ripped in places with stuffing showing, and the wooden floor was scuffed to bare boards and pitted with the prints of countless stiletto heels. Once the lights and lasers were weaving their hypnotic patterns no one would notice but the sleaziness disgusted her.

  Marnie looked round uncertainly. Someone must be here, but there were several doors and she had no idea which one to try. The one she tapped on first led into a storeroom; the second to a small empty office. She was just shutting the door again when she realised that she wasn’t alone.

  In the shadows by the bar there was a slight figure in black, a woman wearing a headscarf. She was staring at Marnie with huge dark eyes, as if she was afraid of her. There was a pail and a mop at her feet.

  Marnie went over to her and saw her shrink away. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m just here to see Daniel Lee. Where would I find him?’

  The girl couldn’t be more than twenty. She dropped her eyes and muttered something, looking helpless.

  A language problem. Marnie repeated the question, more slowly, but the only response was a helpless fluttering of hands.

  She turned her own hands outward in a questioning gesture. ‘Dan-i-el Lee. Drax?’

  It seemed at last that the girl understood. She hesitated, then with a tiny jerk of her head indicated a door at the other end, beside the dais where the DJ’s equipment was, then bit her lip as if she was terrified she had done the wrong thing.

  It wasn’t reassuring. If Drax’s cleaner was so scared, did Marnie really want to allow him back into her life? She paused for a long moment, studying the black-painted flat panel door as if it might have the answer.

  Last chance, that was what it said to her. This is your last chance to find out if your mother is dead or alive. It’s the only trail you have left to follow. It may not lead anywhere but you’ve gone through so much, got yourself in so deep, that it would be unbearable to leave it unexplored. Last chance. And afterwards you can just walk out, drive away and disappear again.

&nbs
p; Marnie took a deep breath and tapped on the door. There was no answer. She tapped again, then opened it. It led to a staircase that spiralled up into darkness at the top. With her heart thumping, she began to climb.

  ‘The way into my parlour is up a winding stair …’

  ‘Let’s assume for the moment that Marnie Bruce is genuine in her attempt to find out what happened to her mother,’ Fleming said. ‘Of course it’s possible that she may have returned here with the intention of murdering Loudon to get her inheritance but it would be remarkably naive timing, after setting up a sophisticated cover story.’

  ‘Could she just have lost her temper?’ Macdonald suggested. ‘Suddenly lashed out for some reason, then found herself with an inconvenient body and parked it to try and shift the blame to someone with an interest in Tommy Crichton’s murder?’

  Hepburn gave him a sharp look but it was MacNee who spoke. ‘From what I saw of the corpse—’

  ‘From a distance,’ Fleming said pointedly.

  ‘From a few yards away, it didn’t look like someone lashing out. Right, boss?’

  In all the pressure of an investigation, you somehow pushed the sickening reality to the back of your mind. It came back vividly now. ‘Yes. This wasn’t someone who lashed out then was appalled at what had happened. It was savage. This was someone who killed in anger, then went on being angry. Shelley Crichton is certainly angry.’

  ‘Or it could be someone who wanted to suggest that,’ Hepburn put in. ‘Would someone who wanted revenge for Tommy really invite suspicion by putting the body there?’

  Fleming nodded. ‘I think we have to consider cold-blooded cynicism. But remember, too, there were people in the village who were angry enough about what happened to form a lynch mob for Marnie, and there is such a thing as vigilante justice, though I have to admit it’s hard to see why this would be aimed at Anita Loudon rather than at Marnie herself.

  ‘I couldn’t send the lads round the doors to find out who organised all that until there was confirmation that Marnie wasn’t still protected but the super phoned a few minutes ago to say she can be identified, so that can go ahead.’

  ‘And put out an alert to pick her up, I suppose,’ MacNee said.

  Hepburn looked horrified. ‘Are you going to do that right now? Can’t we see if we can get her to answer the phone first?’

  ‘You’ve been trying all day,’ Macdonald pointed out and got a death stare in response.

  Fleming said hastily, ‘I can get someone on to tracing the phone if necessary, though it may depend whether she’s switched it off or just isn’t answering. We’ll give them a chance to do that before we go in with the bells and whistles. A general alert means circulating a photograph and the media won’t be any slower than you two in realising who she is. It’s another reason why I’d like to find her – if she doesn’t know about her mother it wouldn’t be a good way to find out, and if the press get to her first they’ll crucify her.

  ‘Anyway, we can’t ignore our other lines of enquiry. Grant Crichton – as far as we know, he hasn’t any connection with Anita but as Tommy’s father he has to be considered. You could do that on your own, Andy.’

  She ignored his involuntary grin. ‘The other person we need to talk to as a priority is Daniel Lee. We noticed that a photo seemed to be missing from among a group on a table at her house, and now we know he was her lover it’s likely it was one of him and he removed it – that could be significant. I can’t take the time to go up to Glasgow myself, but you could take Louise, Tam.’ She ignored Hepburn’s pleased expression too. ‘How long will it take you to get there?’

  ‘Couple of hours? Thereabouts.’

  ‘His business address is a nightclub, Zombies. That’s all we have. Here it is – they dug that out for me.’ She flicked through papers on her desk. ‘Here.

  ‘Now – anything else? No? That’s fine, then.’

  MacNee hung back as the others left. ‘How far back are we going to have to go on this one, Marjory?’

  Fleming sighed. ‘Back to Tommy, certainly. But that was all meticulously gone into at the time so there probably aren’t too many surprises.

  ‘Kirstie Burnside’s disappearance – that’s something else. You and I both know that good old Jakie McNally swept everything under the carpet and then trampled it flat.’

  ‘We certainly can’t say anything about her. Unless she’s dead.’

  ‘And we don’t know whether she is or not. Unless Marnie’s managed to find out something.’

  ‘Something that Anita told her? Say she confessed that she’d killed Kirstie …’

  ‘Leaving everything to Marnie by way of redress?’ Fleming was struck with the idea. ‘It’s a more possible scenario than anything else we’ve come up with.

  ‘On the other hand, Shelley Crichton – I wouldn’t put anything past her.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ MacNee said. ‘The plant I was sitting beside was one of thae kind that eats wee flies and stuff. Not nice.

  ‘Well, I’m away. Here – I’m glad Andy didn’t have to take Louise with him to Stranraer. We’re not needing another murder to investigate and that would be pushing our luck.’

  The upper floor of the building seemed to have been created in the roof space of the old warehouse, a corridor running its length under the steel roof beams with doors on either side, dimly lit so that it vanished into shadows at the end. As Marnie reached the top of the spiral staircase she hesitated, looking about her uncertainly. She thought she could hear faint soft sounds, whisperings, perhaps, but perhaps that was imagination working overtime.

  A man’s voice speaking suddenly quite close to her made her jump. It came from behind the door just opposite the top of the stairs and it sounded as if he was on the phone.

  ‘No problem,’ he was saying smoothly. ‘Just send someone round and I’ll have all the paperwork ready for you. All right?’ There was a pause, then, ‘Yes, of course. Not a problem, as I said. Just give me a call to make sure I’m here, all right? Wouldn’t like you to have a wasted journey if I was out.’

  She heard him say goodbye. A moment later there was a crash as if something had been thrown across the room. Then he started swearing.

  Marnie froze. That was Drax – she recognised his voice – and he was in a temper. She knew what his tempers could be like.

  ‘Go into your room and shut the door,’ her mother’s saying to her. ‘Keep out of the way till I tell you to come out.’

  She doesn’t argue, even though her bedroom at Clatteringshaws hasn’t any heating and there’s a hard October frost. She hears Drax’s car arriving with a squeal of brakes, then her mother’s voice in the hall as she opens the door. She hates the way Mum sounds – sort of feeble and pleading and pathetic. She hears Drax yelling at her, hears her mother starting to cry and then she puts her fingers in her ears so she can’t hear any more. Except a crash so loud that she hears it anyway and she feels her heart pounding. What if he’s killed her?

  But then she hears Mum’s voice and she’s not screaming so she must be all right. It’s a long time, though, before the door opens and she can come out. Drax has gone and Mum doesn’t even have any bruises that she can see, so that’s good. She’s looking funny, though, sort of blank and looking through her daughter as if she isn’t there.

  That had been not long before it all happened, before her mother disappeared and the world went upside down. It struck her with a sudden chill: the man on the other side of that door could be her mother’s killer – and she was going to go in and challenge him about it? Challenge Drax, in a bad mood – she’d have to be mad. She turned, ready to tiptoe down the stairs.

  Suddenly, the door was flung open and there was Drax, his face black with temper. He almost bumped into her.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Marnie bleated, sounding feeble and pleading, like her mum.

  ‘Who the hell—’ he began, then stopped. A slow smile came over his face. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my l
ittle friend Marnie, all grown up! I’ve been expecting you. Looking for a chat, were you? You’d better come in.’

  He was always at his most dangerous when he was angry underneath but switched on the charm. What else could she do, though, except follow him in?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Revelling in his own company, DS Macdonald drove along to Stranraer. He drove with the windows open for the first few miles; even without Louise in the car, the smell of her French cigarettes somehow lingered.

  It was the least of his problems with her but it was somehow symptomatic of her irritating, immature desire to show that she was ‘different’, not just your standard police officer – as if the rest of them were happy to settle for ‘just standard’. They weren’t, but they didn’t feel the need to take up extreme positions to draw attention to themselves.

  No, however hard he tried – and if he was honest he didn’t, always – it was simply impossible to get on with Louise Hepburn. The trouble was that she approached cases as if she was agent for the defence for one suspect or another, and what annoyed the hell out of him was that somehow she always managed to draw him into being agent for the prosecution, instead of being magisterially cool and aloof.

  This thing with Marnie Burnside, for instance: he’d found himself almost accusing her of Anita Loudon’s murder, though that was wholly unprofessional at this stage of the investigation and wasn’t a considered position anyway.

  That was another problem: he wasn’t even sure what he did think. It was only this week that he’d realised how much he depended on his one-sided conversations with Ewan Campbell to clear his head and shape his thinking. Campbell seldom spoke, but if he thought Macdonald was going off at a tangent he’d cut through the verbiage with a single incisive remark.