Evil for Evil Page 22

‘Right. Then maybe someone noticed something last night, or the fire chief might give us a lead. But think about it, Tam – they’d have to be crazy to pull a stunt like that so soon afterwards.’

  MacNee was stubborn. ‘That’ll be what they’ll want us to think. Gallus, like I said.’

  ‘Fair enough. But look at it the other way – we find Smith’s body, and suddenly all hell breaks loose. Neither Sorley nor Steve Donaldson was around ten years ago, and Hugh was, as far as we know, contentedly farming as tenant to old Mrs Lovatt. This could have a Manchester dimension. Say Smith grassed on his nasty chums, and—’

  ‘Hmph.’

  She gave him a sharp look. ‘No?’

  ‘Let’s just say, it’s kinna elaborate. Knife in the back, body left in a gutter in a backstreet – I’ll buy that. Bullet in the head, even, and a trip to a nearby quarry – OK. Carrying a prisoner all this way to meet a lingering death on a remote Scottish island that no one south of the border’s ever heard of …’ He gave a dismissive shrug.

  Fleming resented his rubbishing of her precious new theory. She resented it even more as she thought about it herself and it crumbled.

  ‘Put that way,’ she said stiffly. MacNee grinned, but wisely said nothing.

  ‘Since you’re so smart, what’s the connection between Smith and Lovatt’s house being set on fire?’

  ‘There isn’t one. Sorley’s got off with everything he’s done so far. He’s the wee boy! That’s how he sees it. And here – maybe he really thinks there’s gold in them there graves and he’s going radge because he can’t get at it. Burn the house to the ground, Lovatt has to leave, temporarily at least, and he has time to do his searching undisturbed.’

  ‘That’s plausible,’ Fleming conceded. ‘Anyway, at least the news about Melissa Lovatt’s good this morning. They were lucky, though. If the girl hadn’t raised the alarm she and Lovatt would both have wakened up dead.’

  ‘Oh, Andy can pick ’em,’ MacNee said, grinning. ‘Is he away down to see her now?’

  ‘Yes, he and Ewan were scheduled to do interviews there anyway. In fact, they wanted to make a start last night, but I didn’t feel it merited overtime. I actually said nothing would happen if they waited till the morning. I’m feeling guilty about that – maybe if I’d let them go it wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Or maybe it would,’ MacNee said firmly. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. When do we go?’

  Fleming glanced at her watch. ‘Half an hour? I’ve a couple of things to do first—’

  She broke off as her phone rang. It wasn’t a long call; MacNee raised his eyebrows as she said, ‘What!’ but she didn’t meet his eyes. Her face was sombre as she put the phone down.

  She said awkwardly, ‘Tam, you’re needed downstairs. I’ll come with you.’

  MacNee said sharply, ‘What’s happened?’

  But she only said, ‘I’ll explain on the way down,’ and preceded him out of the room.

  The ashes were cooling but still not cold when DS Macdonald and DC Campbell arrived at Lovatt’s Farm. One fire engine was still standing by, ready to extinguish any flare-up, but the weather at least was favourable: dry, with a touch of autumn sunshine, and so far at least, with no sign of wind to breathe a smouldering beam into sudden life.

  The back wing of the farmhouse was a hollow shell, with empty windows like dead eyes and a roof reduced to spindly blackened struts and sagging slates at the end nearest the main building. The rest of the house was, remarkably, intact, though there were smoke streaks in the stonework and every door and window was open to try to clear the air. Smoke damage would be extensive, and water damage, too; the ground area round about was a boggy mess. The leaves on the trees, great broadleaves in a sheltering half-circle a few yards from the house, were shrivelled from the heat, though the heavy rain had saved them from greater harm.

  Firemen with thick boots and rakes were working in what had been the office, clearing debris and carrying out a few metal items which, though buckled and blackened, had survived more or less intact. A twisted filing cabinet was lying on the ground where it had been dumped, papers spilling out of the drawers.

  The fire chief, Angus Williamson, was a burly, grey-haired man also in heavy boots and wearing a helmet which he took off as the detectives joined him.

  ‘Wicked business, this,’ he said heavily. ‘Pure chance that it’s not a murder inquiry.’

  ‘Deliberate, then?’ Macdonald asked.

  ‘No question. I’ve been in there this morning – unmistakable.’

  ‘How was it done?’

  ‘An accelerant of some sort. Petrol, almost certainly – yellow flames and oily black smoke observed in this area last night. And then with all the wood, it’d go up like a Christmas tree.’

  ‘Someone chuck a Molotov cocktail?’ Campbell suggested, but Williamson shook his head.

  ‘There were multiple points where it was splashed around – the fluid dynamics of the blaze are quite clear. Someone broke in first – there, we think.’

  He led them across to what remained of the glass-panelled back door of the office. It had fallen outwards as the fire destroyed its fixings and though damaged was still relatively intact. He pointed to the square immediately above the door handle.

  ‘Here, you see? There was glass among the ashes right on the threshold. ‘All the rest of the glass was blown out, but this fell inwards. There’s still the jagged edges from where it was smashed, look. I’ve warned the lads not to touch it.’

  There was a key still in the keyhole, too. ‘Not much thought about security, anyway,’ Macdonald said. ‘Simple enough to break in.’

  ‘Casual about smoke alarms too. Don’t know what they had in this wing, but the ones in the main house have dead batteries.’

  ‘Never think it could happen to you, do you?’ Macdonald said uncomfortably, making a mental note to buy batteries on his way home. ‘Thanks, anyway.’

  He was turning away when Campbell spoke. ‘Why spread the petrol around? Chuck something in a window, let it blaze – easier.’

  Williamson looked at him. ‘Certainly. Not as quick, though. This would spread in seconds.’

  Macdonald, his mind on Christie Jack, felt sick. ‘Right,’ he said hollowly. ‘Thanks, Chief. We’d better get on. We’ve a lot of people to see.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Williamson said. ‘You want this one behind bars as soon as possible.’

  Matt Lovatt, his dog at heel, walked along the foreshore. He was avoiding the path; too many of the neighbours were out gaping, some blatantly, some making the excuse of ‘just being out for a stroll’ when they saw him. He tended to prefer the blatant ones.

  He still couldn’t get the taste of smoke out of his mouth, and he had slept little in one of Georgia Stanley’s spare rooms. He must be looking as bad as he felt; Brodie, who had got a bed from a friend in the village, had taken one look at him and said he’d take charge.

  ‘You and Christie take the day off – I’ll easy manage. I’ve an errand to do first, but there’s nothing special needs doing today.’

  Lovatt didn’t feel strong enough to argue. The dog, unsettled last night by the smoke and noise and strangers, needed a proper run, and then he’d go to Dumfries to see Lissa. She was on the road to recovery, but they planned to keep her for another day. It was frightening to think how close she had come to death.

  He would have died too, but for Christie, but Lissa had come closer. Christie had tried to wake her, of course she had. She’d said that. But Lissa had spelt out to him before, in malevolent terms, that Christie had what she termed a ‘crush’ on him. Was it possible …?

  No, of course it wasn’t. But how come he, half-suffocated by smoke, had realised the bolts hadn’t been drawn back and she, who had half-dragged him out and down the stairs, hadn’t noticed?

  She’d done the best she could in the circumstances, he told himself. Perhaps Lissa had taken sleeping pills – she sometimes did. That would be it, of course. Comforted, he walked on
. He’d check when he went in to see her later.

  Matt had outdistanced the gawpers now. With a gesture, he set the dog free to roam and clambered over one of the groynes of rock going down to the sea. This was one of his favourite places; a neat little bay beside a curving promontory which, like a protective arm, sheltered it from storms sweeping in up the Solway. It had a special tranquillity, on a morning like this—

  He was sharing it with someone else. And to his dismay, it was the strange woman who had been attacked by his stag and now was being approached by his dog, which could cause alarm even when right beside him. If she complained …

  ‘Mika, here!’ he called, his anxiety putting an edge on his voice, and the dog immediately obeyed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to her stiffly. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

  She seemed faintly amused. ‘I met him before, and I’m not scared of dogs,’ she said. ‘I won’t make a fuss.’

  Embarrassed to have betrayed that his concern was for the dog rather than for her, Lovatt said hastily, ‘Of course not. It’s just he looks ferocious, though he isn’t.’ He ruffled the animal’s fur affectionately, then said, ‘Er – I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal?’

  ‘I could say the same to you,’ she said. ‘I gather no one was hurt?’

  At least she was being civil this morning. ‘No, thankfully. My wife’s all right, but they’re keeping her under observation for the moment.’

  ‘That’s good.’ The woman nodded, then turned away.

  ‘Hope all this isn’t ruining your holiday,’ Lovatt called after her, then turned back himself. He wasn’t going to get the peace he so desperately craved so he might as well go home.

  Or he could go to the island. He headed back to the jetty, untied one of the boats and snapped his fingers to Mika, who jumped into position at the prow.

  Lovatt needed the quiet to think. Guilt, guilt, guilt – that familiar refrain. His wife had almost been killed and a damaged girl been drawn into deeper danger, under his roof, because of him. It felt like a punishment – but how could he complain he didn’t deserve it? The charge sheet against him wouldn’t be hard to write.

  From the shore, Elena Tindall watched the boat speed over to the island. It wasn’t cold this morning, but she was having to brace herself to stop shivering. She was half-slept, of course, and her head still seemed to be ringing with the noise of the sirens.

  She left the beach and walked back along the path past the farmhouse. The smell of smoke was heavy on the air here and she felt colder than ever, looking at the destruction – cold with fear.

  Her car was outside the chalet door. She could be in Salford tonight, loved and safe, not lonely and utterly, utterly vulnerable. But that was false security; the enemy within was the greatest threat, and she had sensed it becoming more powerful by the day. She could have no refuge until it was vanquished.

  There was a wall of pigeonholes on one side of the entrance to the university hall of residence. It looked innocuous enough, but Catriona Fleming approached it as if confronting a savage beast. Yes, there was something in hers. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she took it out and opened it.

  It was from her tutor, just as yesterday’s had been. This one was angrier, and mentioned a time which – Cat glanced at her watch – had passed already. She didn’t know what to do – well, she did, really, but it would mean going to see an angry woman who, the note said, had twice come to the residence looking for her.

  She couldn’t face it. She could walk out now, give it all up. She could be back home in two, three hours, back to Dad who would make it all right. Mum would be angry, but Cat was still Dad’s little girl.

  But he couldn’t make it all right, could he? She wasn’t a little girl any more, and she’d screwed up her whole career. He was so proud of her; how could she tell him she’d let him down? Her phone rang.

  She took it out and looked at it suspiciously. If it was Mum again – but it wasn’t; it was Lily, and suddenly everything seemed better.

  ‘Sure,’ Cat said. ‘See you in half an hour.’

  Fleming held open the door for Tam MacNee as, looking shocked, he went into the reception area. There was a man sitting there, an old man with a drink-ravaged complexion, unkempt and smelling.

  It was far from unusual. Galloway had its share of down and outs. But what was different was that this one had a journalist with him: Tony Drummond, his eyes bright with anticipation. A photographer stood, camera at the ready, behind him.

  ‘DS MacNee, this man says he’s your father. Can you explain how he comes to be destitute on the streets of Glasgow, without any help from you – or even contact? He tells me you washed your hands of him twenty years ago.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Thanks for letting us in,’ DS Macdonald said with real gratitude as Georgia Stanley opened the door of the Smugglers Inn just wide enough to admit them, then shut it again hastily. ‘Thought they were going to eat us alive.’

  ‘I checked out of the window first. They’ve been driving me demented, ringing the bell and banging on the windows. What on earth is it about? A fire, even arson, no one really hurt – you’d expect a report in the Herald, a photo, maybe – but this?’

  ‘They’re linking it to the bones in the cave,’ Macdonald said. ‘Some of them followed up on the stag story and now this’ll mean headlines like “Village of Horror”.’

  ‘Not wrong there,’ Campbell said with feeling.

  Georgia gave a little shudder. ‘It’s all right for you. You’ll be going home at night, but I live here. What’s going to happen next? Honest, my loves, it’s really scary. The atmosphere—’ She broke off. ‘But you haven’t come to listen to me rabbiting on. You’ll be wanting a statement, I expect. Not that there’s much to say – woke up, saw flames from the bathroom window, dialled 999. Anyway, come through to the house. It’s a bit quieter at the back.’

  She led them beyond the bar and into the little kitchen adjacent to it, then stopped, lowering her voice.

  ‘Christie’s through there having her breakfast, looking like a ghost, poor kid. I’ve just made her toast and coffee. I offered her bacon, eggs, anything, but …’ Georgia shrugged.

  Seeing a gleam in Campbell’s eye, Macdonald shot him a look which dared him to speak, and he subsided.

  In the cosy sitting room at the back, a log fire was burning and Georgia had drawn up a table beside it where Christie was sitting, clasping a mug. The toast was untouched.

  Macdonald’s heart went out to her. She looked so pitiful, drawn and white, her blue eyes bloodshot and her lips dry and cracked. She was trembling so that when she set down her mug it clattered against the plate. He went over and before he could stop himself took her poor, shaking hands in his.

  ‘You’re in a bad way,’ he said gruffly. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

  Taken by surprise, perhaps, she didn’t resist. ‘Not a lot of point. It’s just reaction. I’ll get over it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He was still holding her hands. She seemed only now to notice and pulled them away, looking from one officer to the other.

  ‘Is that an official question?’

  As Macdonald coloured, Campbell said firmly, ‘Yes.’ He pulled over a chair and took out a notebook; as Georgia discreetly withdrew, Macdonald sat down too, trying to switch into professional mode. He led her through the sequence of events – straightforward enough, up to the point where she had led Matt Lovatt out of the burning building. Then she stopped.

  ‘And …?’ he prompted.

  ‘I–I don’t know.’ Christie was looking flustered.

  Campbell glanced up sharply. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I … well, I had a flashback,’ she said reluctantly. ‘It … it just hit me. Probably the heat set it off, like I was back in Afghanistan.’

  ‘Right,’ Campbell said. ‘I’ll write that down.’

  Sensing scepticism, Macdonald said sharply, ‘A horrible experience, I can imagine. So what happened af
terwards?’

  Christie nibbled at a piece of dry skin on her lip; she pulled it away, then licked at the raw patch. ‘When I … when I came round, sort of, Matt had gone back to rescue Lissa.’

  Macdonald was startled. ‘But … you said you had roused her first?’

  ‘I … I banged on the door, opened it and shouted. The fire was on the other side of the landing, where Matt’s bedroom was. He was the one in danger.’

  ‘Waken her, did you?’ Campbell said.

  ‘Apparently not.’ Christie was on the defensive now. ‘She must have taken pills or something. I didn’t go and shake her, if that’s what you mean. She wasn’t at risk then, and Matt was. I hadn’t time to go fussing after her.’

  ‘Don’t like her much, do you?’ That was Campbell.

  She didn’t answer. She tore another piece of skin from her lip.

  ‘So,’ Macdonald said, ‘you had every reason to suppose she had left the building while you were rescuing Matt, and then once you had got out you were hit by the flashback?’ He could feel Campbell’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up.

  ‘Yes,’ Christie said gratefully.

  ‘Then Matt realised she wasn’t there, and went back in for her?’

  She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Macdonald looked at her uncomfortably. There was something there, something she wasn’t telling them. He should probe …

  ‘What are you not telling us?’ Campbell said.

  Tears came to Christie’s eyes, but she said fiercely, ‘You’ll find out anyway. I should have noticed – when I went down with Matt the door was still bolted. I was in a state – it was terrifying. I’d probably have realised she was still in there once we were outside, like he did. But—’

  ‘Oh yes, the flashback.’ Campbell nodded, and Macdonald was seized with a sudden desire to hit him.

  There wasn’t much more she could tell them. As they left Macdonald said, remembering his instructions, ‘Just one last question: does the name Andrew Smith mean anything to you?’