Lying Dead Read online

  He went to fetch the file he’d been working on the day before, and Kerr came across with a report she’d promised to look out for him. She must have dyed her hair again yesterday – it was kind of a hobby with Tansy – and it was bright yellow with a streak of dark green at the front.

  MacNee leaned towards her confidentially. ‘Maybe no one’s liked to tell you, Tansy, but your hair’s gone mouldy.’

  Kerr didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Your problem is you’ve no fashion sense, MacNee. Look at Jon over there –’ she raised her voice to attract attention, ‘see how he’s colour-co-ordinated? That funky beige shirt just matches the colour of his teeth.’

  There was a general guffaw at this and Kingsley shot her a look of intense dislike. MacNee joined in, adding with malicious satisfaction, ‘There you are, Jon. As Rabbie Burns says, “It’s innocence and modesty/That polishes the dart.” ’

  Kerr groaned and Kingsley scoffed. ‘Innocent and modest? You should have been at the pub after work last Friday.’

  Cheered by this exchange, MacNee settled down to another day of pushing paper. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could find something in the files that would give him an excuse to go out and interview someone. And if he did, he’d take Tansy with him as a reward.

  Detective Inspector Marjory Fleming set the paperweight to the right of the computer screen on her desk, considered it, then moved it back to the other side. She could, unusually, actually see the surface of her desk, which the office cleaners were forbidden to touch; pulling a face, she took a tissue and removed the accumulated dust. Taking another one, she licked it to scrub away the ring left by a coffee mug. It wasn’t a method you’d see used on How Clean Is Your House? but it worked, sort of.

  She picked up the pen pot which seemed to be acting as a dating agency for ballpoints, producing hybrids which she was ready to swear she’d never put there. Some had obviously dried out; she threw those away, then tipped out the pot, marvelling at the detritus of paper clips, rubber bands and stray coins collected in the sludge of sticky ink blobs at the bottom.

  For once in her life, Fleming was on top of the job. There was no outstanding Government form, demanding information on the number of breaths each officer took in making an arrest. There was no major investigation at the moment, just the ongoing problems with alcohol and drugs, petty theft and vandalism which were all being satisfactorily dealt with at a lower level. She’d a couple of appraisals to do later and she was jotting down budget proposals to discuss with her superintendent, Donald Bailey, at their regular meeting tomorrow, but she’d had no difficulty in working office hours for the last week or two. She wasn’t under pressure, and she wasn’t enjoying it one little bit.

  Perhaps she’d become addicted to the adrenaline rush that came from being permanently stressed and these were just withdrawal symptoms. But if she was honest with herself . . . She usually was, blaming Calvin, as Scots do when they don a moral hair shirt, but it was a habit she couldn’t break, so she had to admit that one of the things she liked about her job was the white noise of permanent over-commitment which blotted out the voice of domestic conscience.

  This last spell, she hadn’t been able to plead overwork as an excuse for ignoring the dusting, snatching a ready-meal from the freezer and even, when it got right down to the wire, taking a mountain of dirty clothes for a service wash at the launderette – and how boring it was! Bill, her farmer husband, was more ready to help his wife than most of her male colleagues were theirs, as far as she could tell, but he had his own heavy load to carry.

  And in fact, it was just as well she wasn’t at full stretch at the moment. Over the years, it had been largely thanks to her mother, Janet Laird, that the household chores didn’t get totally out of hand and that the Fleming children, Catriona and Cameron, actually knew what it was like to have good home-cooking as well as someone with all the time in the world to listen to them.

  Janet had always behaved as if Marjory was still a lassie who had somehow acquired a husband and children to be gathered under her own motherly wing. And even Angus Laird – ‘Sarge’ to the officers of the Galloway Police Headquarters for more years than anyone had wanted to see him serve, and a father who had never forgiven his only child for being a daughter not a son – had served his time on the touchline when rugby-mad Cammie was playing.

  Until recently. The last few months had seen Angus retreat into a strange and troubled world where his only emotion was rage at the terrifying confusion surrounding him. Marjory had watched impotently as her mother aged ten years and her plump and comfortable frame wasted away to alarming frailty. With her days and nights dedicated to preserving from actual harm the physical husk of the man she had shared her life with for forty-five years, corrosive anxiety had destroyed her cheerful serenity.

  ‘Janet, you can’t go on like this,’ Bill had said to her gently, taking her thin hand in his. ‘He’s still strong. He could hurt you in one of his rages.’

  Janet’s brown eyes looked faded, as if the tears she had shed had washed some of the colour out of them, but she drew away her hand and responded fiercely, ‘He still knows me, Bill, still calls out for me sometimes. And as long as he does, how could I leave him? What would he feel if he wanted me and I wasn’t there?’

  And Bill, recognizing defeat, had raised his eyebrows to his wife and she had shrugged helplessly.

  That was the worst of it: Marjory was bad at helpless, and she wasn’t very good at Bill’s kind of philosophical acceptance either. While she went round regularly, Janet had an army of friends who were supporting her on the practical side so there was nothing for Marjory to do except fret over her mother’s increasing distraction. Janet seldom managed to finish a coherent sentence while Angus was awake; it was almost as if, using the instruments of torture – sleep deprivation, uncertainty, fear – he was trying to draw Janet after him into his own disordered world.

  Marjory couldn’t bear it. ‘A home – somewhere he’d be well cared for – you’ll make yourself ill . . .’ Whatever vow of silence on the subject Marjory made before she went to see them, she couldn’t stop herself returning to it, and Janet would look hunted, as if her daughter’s urging was one more burden she had to cope with.

  Yesterday, with Angus for once asleep, Janet had said in a tone that was, for her, almost sharp, ‘You’re rich, Marjory. You have Bill and the children – you don’t need me. But poor Angus – I’m all he has.’

  Marjory had felt ashamed, justly rebuked for her selfishness, and that was on her conscience too today. Her relationship with her father had always been difficult. No son could have tried harder than Marjory to make Angus proud, but her success in his own profession had only made him bitter. In being promoted beyond the rank he had achieved, she had somehow diminished his life’s work in his own eyes.

  Intellectually, she’d recognized long ago that she would never win his approval, but emotionally a tiny hope had always remained of a more mellow old age. It hadn’t happened, of course; in old age, in senility, you don’t become different, you become more intensely whatever you were. She could never hope now for understanding, reconciliation . . .

  But she couldn’t, surely, be jealous that her sick, needy father was absorbing all her mother’s time and attention? It was a most uncomfortable thought.

  Restlessly she got up and walked to the window, a tall, fit-looking woman in her early forties with clear hazel eyes and neatly cut bright brown hair, showing only a few threads of grey at the temples. She opened it wide; it was very stuffy in the office today and she had an unpleasantly muzzy head. A fly flew in, then buzzed stupidly against the panes as she unconsciously drummed her long, slim fingers on the window-sill, looking out on the street scene below.

  Fleming liked this vantage point with its view over Kirkluce High Street. Through the new green leaves of the plane trees below she could look down on the traffic, motorized and human, as it went about its business in the thriving market town.

  It was par
ticularly busy today, with the recently established Friday Farmers’ Market. Popular with producers and consumers alike, the market gave the farmers a fair price instead of the pittance paid by the supermarkets, and the customers a chance to know where their food came from and what had been done to it on its way to their plates.

  Bill would be down there somewhere. Raising only sheep now on a small hill farm, he didn’t have a stall, but farming was a solitary life and he enjoyed the social side, catching up on the gossip and having a pie and a pint at lunchtime with some old mates. He’d have brought in eggs from Marjory’s hens to the stand which their neighbours, the Raeburns, always took to sell cream and cheese from Hamish’s dairy herd as well as Kirsty’s dried flowers and home-baking.

  Marjory consulted her watch. She could take an early lunch hour, pop out and have a chat with Kirsty . . . But it felt all wrong.

  She sighed. This benign spell of weather had meant that even their regular clients were more inclined to strip off their hoodies and sit around, roasting their pale grey goose-pimples to an equally unbecoming shade of puce, than to get out there and do a dishonest day’s work. It was just too quiet; that made her uneasy too.

  Again, she looked at her watch: eleven forty-five. She’d done enough overtime, heaven knew, to tack on an extra fifteen minutes. There wasn’t so much as a breath of air coming in through the window and the oppressive atmosphere was making her headache worse. She might feel better outside and then come back with more enthusiasm for checking through the files, neatly laid in her in-tray, for the first appraisal. Well, she might. It was always possible.

  Feeling like a schoolgirl bunking off, Marjory hurried out, masking her guilt with an ostentatiously purposeful air.

  Chapter 2

  Drumbreck, a scattered hamlet strung out around a sheltered inlet near the estuary of the River Cree, just north of Wigtown, was looking as slickly perfect as a picture postcard this morning. The tide was in; a pair of swans, exuding majestic indifference, sailed round the pontoons of the marina between the expensive yachts and dinky little boats which jostled and clinked as they rode their moorings, glossy paintwork shimmering in sun-sparkles from the waves, while a school of Mirror dinghies was circling round an instructor in an inflatable with an outboard motor. It looked stage-managed, an advertisement shoot, perhaps, for Your Holiday Paradise.

  The houses too, tucked round the margin of the bay or on the rising ground which sheltered it, were all trim and freshly painted, even if a number of them showed the signs of being currently unoccupied: no car outside, half-lowered blinds, shutters closed on downstairs windows. By this evening, though, with a half-term holiday week ahead, it was a safe bet that the 464s would soon be arriving and this select little enclave would again leap into active social life which would become more and more frenetically social as the summer approached.

  Within easy striking distance of Glasgow, Drumbreck was much favoured by businessmen keen to adopt the sport once described as standing under a cold shower tearing up fivers. Not all of them, perhaps, were as keen on the activities which took place on the heaving deck as they were on those which went on after the sun had sunk below the yardarm, but if seasickness, along with a degree of terror, was the price of acceptance in Drumbreck society, then it must be paid.

  The Yacht Club by the marina, once a mere wooden shack for occasional sailors, had been transformed by a major fund-raising drive four years ago into a smart social centre with a swimming-pool, gym and squash courts.

  It all drove up the property prices, so that by now almost none of the houses, whether substantial villas, with a bit of ground, or two-bedroom cottages, were owned by families native to the area. And it wasn’t surprising, when Drumbreck was looking as it was this morning, with glinting water covering what lay beneath: at low tide, the boats now floating so jauntily would be stranded on the mudflats below.

  A Land Rover Discovery appeared, turning cautiously into the narrow road round the bay then pulling up in a parking area outside a pretty cottage set above the road, painted the colour of clotted cream with bright green paintwork, and with a steep flight of steps leading up to it through a terraced garden. A buxom blonde, in jeans and a green camisole top revealing ‘invisible’ plastic bra straps, jumped out and went round to open up the back. It was packed with cases, boxes and Marks and Spencer carrier bags, and she stood back, hands on curvaceous hips, looking from it to the flight of steps with some distaste. A small child, strapped into his safety-seat, began a monotonous chant, ‘Want out! Mummee, Mummee, want out!’

  Her only response was an impatient sigh. Groping in her Prada bag for house keys, she prepared to embark on her unappealing task of haulage – no fun at all in this sultry heat. She was sweating already, just looking at what she had to do. First, though, she turned to look along the shore road towards the marina, shading her eyes against the glare from the water.

  The nearest house was a charmless Victorian monstrosity, large, sprawling and run-down, an eyesore in smart Drumbreck. The litter of diseased timbers, discarded plasterboard and chipped sanitary-ware in the yard to one side suggested a renovation project, but the way the grass had grown up round about hinted at slow progress. It had a large paddock to one side where a tall man in a blue-checked shirt and moleskin trousers seemed to be working a curiously small flock of sheep with a black-and-white collie.

  The woman’s face brightened. Taking a few steps along the road, she called, ‘Niall! Niall!’

  Niall Murdoch looked round. ‘Oh, Kim,’ he said, without marked enthusiasm. ‘You’re back.’ He had very dark hair, falling forward at the moment in a comma on his brow, and with his strong features and deep brown eyes, he was a good-looking man; though there were lines about his mouth that suggested temper, they gave him a sort of edgy charm. He was looking sullen at the moment but his brooding expression could, with a certain generosity of spirit, be considered Byronic.

  Kim’s nature, when it came to men, was generous to a fault. She wasn’t easily discouraged, either. Ignoring the complaints from inside the car, becoming more insistent, she swayed along the road to lean over the dry-stone dyke separating the paddock from the road.

  ‘Yes, that’s me just back to open up the house.’ Her Glasgow accent suggested that it had been only recently refined. ‘Here, it’s great to see you! Like last summer, all over again.’ Her smile was an invitation.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Niall said flatly, then added, ‘Adrian coming too?’ He spoke without enthusiasm. Adrian McConnell was a sardonic, smart-ass accountant he’d fallen out with over the extension to the marina years ago and the man never lost the opportunity to put the boot in. Truth to tell, his own ill-advised response to Kim’s overtures last year probably had more to do with private revenge than anything else, and it didn’t compensate for her personality which, once the novelty was over, affected him like nails scraping on a blackboard.

  ‘Not till tomorrow, with Kelly and Jason for the half-term week.’ She pushed back her hair and gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I’m all by my wee self tonight.’ Then she added, with an unenthusiastic glance towards the car, ‘Well, apart from him, unfortunately.’ She gestured towards the child confined in the car, whose protests were starting to sound tearful. ‘He’s such a crabby little sod.’

  ‘Yes. Look, Kim, I’m sorry – I’ve got to get on. It’s the trials tomorrow, and this bloody dog doesn’t seem to know its business.’

  Kim gave a throaty gurgle. ‘Oh, Niall, you never learn, do you! Glutton for punishment!’ she giggled. ‘But don’t you worry, pet, I’ll be there, cheering you on. I never miss it – I always think the trials are the proper start to a Drumbreck summer. Come here and I’ll give you a big hug, just for luck.’

  Niall, with resistance in every line of his body, submitted. Kim embraced him, then patted his cheek.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’ll need to get on with heaving all this stuff up into the cottage. It’s so hot, though – really sticky!’ She looked at him hopefully, then
, as no offer of help was forthcoming, said, ‘You know what? The marina should be hiring out porters. There’s a real business opportunity.’

  Niall had turned away already. Sulkily, Kim went back to the car, where the child had started wailing.

  ‘Oh, you just shut up, Gary!’ she snarled. ‘You’re not going anywhere till I get all this dragged upstairs, so you may as well get used to it.’

  Scowling, Niall Murdoch turned away. Stupid bitch! He’d have to get free of her somehow. Not that he suffered from pangs of conscience: given his home life he reckoned he was entitled to do whatever he liked. His wife wouldn’t care, and his daughter treated him like something she’d found on the sole of her shoe.

  But Kim McConnell, unfortunately, wasn’t the sort graciously to accept a hint that time had moved on; she had a big fat mouth and a spiteful nature. He didn’t appreciate her comment about the sheepdog trials either, even if he knew people laughed behind his back.

  Jenna had seen to that. ‘Face it,’ she told him, with the sort of brutality you shouldn’t have to take from your wife, ‘you’ll never train dogs like your father did. You haven’t the personality for it. And even if you did win, you wouldn’t be proving anything because he’s been dead these past six years – remember?’

  Niall had actually believed that once the old man wasn’t there, putting a hex on him with his critical eye and mocking his failures, he’d have the confidence to win. It mattered; somehow his father, rot his black soul, had instilled this into Niall’s consciousness as a measure of the man.