Evil for Evil Page 23

  Christie looked at him blankly. ‘No. Should it?’

  ‘Just routine. Thanks, that’s all.’

  The interview with Georgia didn’t produce any surprises and the detectives left to run the media gauntlet again. When at last they outdistanced them, on their way to conduct the interviews at the farther end of the village, Campbell said bluntly, ‘You’ll need to keep out of this. At least where she’s concerned.’

  There was an eloquent silence. Then Macdonald said, ‘I know it looks bad. But I don’t believe for a moment she left the woman in there to burn. It’s not in her nature.’

  Campbell’s silence was even more eloquent than his own had been.

  MacNee’s face looked, Fleming thought, as if it had been carved in stone. ‘No comment,’ he snapped.

  The old man blinked blearily up at him. ‘Tam? Is that you? Here, son – you wouldn’t have a drink for your old man, would you?’

  Tony Drummond said, ‘He was found in a backstreet in Glasgow, in the state you see him in now. Look at him – does it not make you feel ashamed?’

  Involuntarily Fleming’s eyes went to the tattered clothes, filthy with stains she didn’t want to think about, the cracked hands with their broken nails, ingrained with dirt, the pathetic face with its drinker’s complexion and a ragged growth of old man’s stubble. One of his eyes, watery with age, spilt moisture like a tear and Fleming heard the camera click.

  MacNee’s hands were clenched at his side and the muscles in his jaw tightened visibly as he forced out, ‘No comment.’

  Drummond was visibly enjoying himself. ‘No comment – that’s the best you can say to the father you haven’t seen for twenty years?’

  MacNee took a half-step forward, his clenched fist coming up. Fleming stepped in front, blocking him.

  ‘DS MacNee has said he has no comment,’ she said icily. ‘There will be a statement put out by the press officer later – to all the press. In plenty of time for them to catch their evening editions.’

  Drummond’s face, as he saw his exclusive disappear, was comically crestfallen.

  Fleming smiled, walking over to the outside door and holding it open. ‘Bad move, Tony. I don’t know who arranged this pantomime, but you’ve just killed the goose who might have been prepared to lay an egg or two for you in the future.’

  Sullenly, the journalist and his sidekick left, the FCAs at the reception desk watching in frozen silence. In ten minutes’ time this would be all round the station.

  ‘Right,’ Fleming said briskly. ‘Interview room.’ She took the old man’s arm, trying not to wince at the smell. ‘This way, Mr MacNee.’

  He peered up at her suspiciously. ‘Here! Where’re you taking me? I’m no’ a vagrant – I’ve money, look!’ He pulled a five-pound note out of his pocket. ‘I’m just needing to buy a wee drink.’ From the fumes on his breath, it wouldn’t be the first that day.

  ‘It’s all right, we’ll see about that later,’ she said, propelling him, still protesting, out of the reception area.

  MacNee followed them, a stricken look on his face. His father turned to say over his shoulder, ‘You’ll look after old Davie, won’t you, son? I dinna like this place. We’ll away and have a wee bevvy, just the two of us, eh?’

  It was with some relief that Fleming deposited him on a seat in the interview room and said, ‘You stay here, Mr MacNee. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Coffee?’ He gave a snort of disgust. ‘I’m no’ needin’ coffee.’

  Ignoring a pleading look from MacNee, Fleming headed back to reception to order it. After all, there must be things father and son had to say that didn’t need an audience. Surely?

  There was a buzz of talk at reception that died as she approached. She thought of saying something, then decided there was no point. This would be all over the tabloids tomorrow.

  Returning to the interview room she paused at the door, listening. The last thing she wanted to do was intrude – and if she was honest, the second last thing she wanted to do was open it. But there was no sound of conversation inside and with a sigh she went in.

  Davie had fallen asleep in his chair. His son was sitting on the other side of the room, still with that stricken expression. He didn’t turn his head until Fleming said gently, ‘Tam?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he burst out. ‘What kind of a son is he, to leave his father drunk in a gutter? That’s what everyone will be thinking.’

  ‘I’m not. I know you wouldn’t.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, no. But it’s come to the same thing, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

  He hesitated. Fleming leant forward, her voice coaxing. ‘You’ll have to have a statement for the press officer. Tell me, and we’ll work on it together.’

  MacNee buried his head in his hands. ‘Give me a wee moment,’ he said.

  She sat in silence. Davie gave a snore and half-woke, then subsided back.

  At last MacNee sat up, squaring his shoulders. ‘The thing is, it was him cut me off. Wouldn’t have anything to do with me after I joined the polis. He was doing fine at that time, if you didn’t ask where the money came from, but I was asking. I won’t say what he told me I could do to myself, but you can maybe guess.

  ‘I’ve wondered where he was, what he was doing – of course I have. I’ve still got pals in the Glasgow force I can ask to check the records for me and there’s been nothing for years now. I just thought maybe he’d decided to go straight – or got better at not being caught. But, of course, if folks end up on the streets, minding their own business, they drop off the radar – a caution, even a fiscal fine, maybe, but no criminal record.’

  ‘Can’t have been easy for you, deciding to join the force with influences like that as you grew up.’

  MacNee gave a cheerless laugh. ‘That’s the joke. He wasn’t the bad influence – I was. He used to rant on at me about the company I was keeping. Guys like …’ he drew in his breath ‘… Kerr Brodie.’

  ‘Ah,’ Fleming said. ‘I wanted to know about Brodie.’

  ‘We lived in the same tenement. They’d the swanky flat on the ground floor. His old man did favours for folks. You didn’t ask.

  ‘Mine worked in the shipyards – unskilled, so he didn’t bring home a big wage. But he was straight, so we’d just the wee room and kitchen flat at the top of the stairs. After my mam died it was just him and me. He told me to keep clear of the Brodies, but Kerr was …’ MacNee paused, then said slowly, ‘Kerr knew all the big names. He’d always money, he – put things my way too.’

  He didn’t elaborate, but Fleming saw his face darken – with shame, perhaps? But he went on, ‘Glasgow was in a bad place at that time – the ice cream wars, T.C. Campbell, the Doyles. There was a big stushie about a shooting, but I didn’t think anything about it when Kerr showed up at the door one afternoon. Said he’d a message for me, and he wanted to come in. My dad had been on an early shift so he was around and I mind it was awkward – he wasn’t best pleased, but Kerr could be good company when he wanted so he sat down and we’d a bit of a crack. Can’t remember what the message was – nothing much.

  ‘They came that night with a warrant, and of course they found the gun they were looking for in the chair where Kerr had been sitting. I told them, but they wouldn’t believe me. They took him away in handcuffs.’

  Davie stirred in his sleep and started to snore. MacNee turned his head to look at him, and Fleming saw his face soften, as if he were seeing for a moment the man his father had once been in the sad ruin before him. His voice was harsh as he went on.

  ‘He’d been stitched up, good and proper. The gun was hot, of course, but he’d a lucky alibi so he went down for possession – seven years, and that was when you served the full term. By the time he came out, Bunty and I were married and I’d joined the force. I wanted revenge on the folk like Brodie, and Bunty wouldn’t let me do it any other way.

  ‘When he came out he was – destroyed. H
e’d been paid sweeties all his working life, but he’d been an honest man. “The noblest work of God”, as Rabbie says.’ MacNee’s voice faltered. ‘And his reward was to be screwed – by the establishment, as he saw it, and there were the Brodies standing by to offer him a kindly helping hand. I tried to make him see that for what it was, told him it wasn’t an apology, just a plan to use him in the future like they had last time.

  ‘But …’ MacNee shrugged. ‘He never wanted to see me again. I tried, a couple of times, when I heard he’d gone down, and got a good swearing. Nothing I could do.

  ‘And Brodie’s behind this now. I knew he’d joined the army after it all happened – probably had some nice little scam going there. He knows I’m out to get him and he wants me off his back.’

  It wasn’t the moment for a lecture on police ethics. Fleming said gently, ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Take him home to Bunty.’

  Of course. Bunty, who had never been known to turn away a homeless cat or an abused dog, would see her father-in-law as just another project. ‘She’ll get him sorted out,’ Fleming said, smiling. ‘I’ll get the press officer to draft a statement. But Tam, however she words it, there’s flak coming your way.’

  MacNee compressed his lips, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. Then he turned to the old man and put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Come on, Dad,’ he said. ‘Wake up. You’re going home.’

  Davie sat up, blinking. ‘Home? Where’s that?’

  ‘You’ve made an appointment for that moron Jenkins. I didn’t want to see him till I’d all the details to hand.’

  Marianne Price gave her boss an appraising look. Eddie Tindall had been in a cantankerous mood when she arrived this morning and since there wasn’t a cat for him to kick he was taking it out on her. That Woman’s fault, no doubt.

  ‘You always say if an employee wants to speak to you, the door’s open.’

  Eddie grunted. ‘Not this employee. Not at the moment.’

  ‘I’ll just tell him that, shall I?’ Marianne made as if to leave.

  ‘Oh, I suppose … Since it’s in the book …’

  Stifling a smile, she said, ‘Fine. Do you want me to get his line manager on the phone, then?’

  ‘Right.’ Tindall picked up a report from his desk and began to read it without enthusiasm.

  Marianne went to the door, then turned with artistic casualness. ‘Heard anything from Clive, then?’

  She really shouldn’t tease him, poor old bloke. She knew perfectly well he hadn’t, or it would have been the first thing he’d have told her when she came in. She’d steered clear of mentioning his missing wife for the last couple of days – she’d had enough of his agonising over That Woman – but now, given the chance, it all poured out.

  ‘I’d like to know what I’m paying the man for! Not a word, and when I phone him all he can say is “making progress”. Progress! Not that I can see.’

  And there was more. Elena, he disclosed, had been very chatty on the phone recently, wanting to know what he was doing, how he was getting on. She’d even asked once what Lola had left him for supper!

  ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’ Marianne said, uncertainly.

  It wasn’t, apparently. As he explained his concern, she got a new insight into that strange marriage. What a cow! It could only be the sex, she concluded. Sex addled the heads of even sensible, decent guys like Eddie. Till he got her back – if he got her back – Marianne would suffer. Maybe she should get an office cat – but Eddie would just go soppy over it, and she’d still be in the firing line, having to take out litter trays as well.

  When the call came from Clive, she put him through with some relief. Maybe if he’d solved the mystery, Eddie would go back to thinking of something else – like his business, for instance.

  Five minutes later, Eddie’s office door opened. He was frowning.

  ‘Don’t know what to make of this, Marianne. Clive’s persuaded someone to track Elena’s mobile. She’s up in Scotland. What does she want to go to Scotland for?’

  ‘A holiday?’

  ‘Some place called …’ He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand ‘… Kirk-cud-bright.’

  ‘Kirk-coo-bray,’ Marianne corrected him. ‘I’ve a friend had a holiday there. Nice place, she said.’

  Eddie pounced on that. ‘So you think she maybe just went there for a holiday?’

  She was fond of Eddie. She’d been with him a long time. He was a good boss, and he paid her well, but sometimes she thought she earned every penny, and there were limits. ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’

  ‘You see, I was just thinking I might go up and take a look myself. But Clive could only tell me the general area, and it’s big. What do you think?’

  What Marianne thought was that the divvy sponging on poor Eddie should come back and earn her keep, and let everyone else get on with life. With exemplary tact, she suggested it might not be a good idea.

  ‘If you don’t know where she is, there’s not a lot of point, is there? And supposing you found her, how’d you explain how you knew she was there?’

  Eddie was struck with this. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Could be awkward, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Certainly could,’ Marianne said heartily. ‘She’s probably just looking for a bit of peace and quiet.’

  And she could fancy a slice of that herself, to deal with the work that was piling up on her desk while she played agony aunt to her boss. And maybe the most useful thing she could do would be to find the Blu-tack, make a model, and stick drawing pins in the vital organs.

  Kerr Brodie switched off his mobile, scowling. Lissa Lovatt was rapidly becoming a major problem. She’d called him from the hospital phone trolley before she’d even phoned her husband, expecting him to rush instantly to her side to check for himself that he hadn’t lost her. Lost her! Chance would be a fine thing.

  He’d better things to do today – these, at least, seemed to be going according to plan – and he’d tried to choke her off, but he could hear her voice rising, and she could go all dramatic on him any minute. God, he hated hysterical women!

  He’d have to deal with her sooner or later, but for the moment all he came up with was laying it on thick about Matt’s devotion and romantic heroism in saving her life, when Christie had left her inside the house to burn. Lissa had seized on that. It might give him a breathing space if she turned her attentions back to Matt.

  The success of his other venture was more important, though. This was his chance, with the local police running round like chickens with their heads cut off and MacNee otherwise occupied. He gave a small, self-satisfied smirk.

  The lads in the Isle of Man could do a quick run, removing the wretched Fergie, and once all the fuss died down, it would be back to business as usual – if Lissa wasn’t planning to cause trouble. If she was … His scowl returned.

  MacNee kept the car windows open as he drove across town. At his side, Davie kept up a constant stream of complaint and he was feeling chilly himself, but even with the flow of fresh air it was hard not to choke.

  The physical cold wasn’t as bad, though, as the cold misery inside. He felt guilty and ashamed, even as he told himself angrily there was nothing he could have done. Davie had deliberately disappeared from his life, but he knew how to find Tam, knew too, surely, that his son would always see to it he had a roof over his head. Still, to see his dad like this …

  It was the drink, of course. The younger druggies wouldn’t make old bones, but with this generation their addiction didn’t kill them outright, just sucked the life out of them till all that was left was a pathetic husk, to be finished off by a cold night on the streets. It was amazing he’d survived this long.

  You couldn’t change the past. You just had to take it from here, work out what to do next. Davie needed rehab, but Tam wasn’t taking him to a clinic until he could go there with dignity: cleaned up, well clad, and properly fed. He’d have to take him back to Bunty, and he had de
ep misgivings about that.

  Not that he doubted her good heart – never that. But he’d been terrified a year ago when Bunty had a breakdown, and though she was fine now, even seemed quite like her old self, it all depended on her medication. Tam had an almost superstitious reverence for the magic pill, but he wondered now if its effects were powerful enough to counteract the stress of an alcoholic, down-and-out father-in-law. If she got that way again … Tam winced at the thought.

  But there was no alternative. If he didn’t take him straight home, Bunty would get stressed over what the neighbours would think of headlines suggesting Tam wouldn’t even let his poor old father over the doorstep. No, he’d just have to do his best to cushion her from the worst effects, and keep Davie discreetly topped up for the moment. The last thing they needed was him with the screaming abdabs.

  Brodie was behind it, of course. MacNee knew that, as well as if he’d heard him making the phone calls that had brought Davie to the police station. He could guess, too, what it was about: Brodie must have stuff waiting to be brought in. If MacNee was taken out, the surveillance he was prompting would slip, especially with all that was going on just now. He could read Brodie like a book.

  But Brodie could read him, too. Their shared culture went bone-deep and they both knew that this duel at a distance would be fought with no holds barred – every kid on a Glasgow street knew that, in the catchphrase, there are no rules in a knife fight.

  But Brodie wasn’t going to win this one. This told MacNee he’d touched on a nerve, and he’d been right all along: Brodie was running drugs, and to nail him, he just had to outsmart him. If the motivation had been strong before, now it was all-consuming.

  They had reached the road end. As he turned in, Tam said, with forced heartiness, ‘Here we are, Dad. Bunty’ll give you a hot drink to warm you up.’

  ‘Hot drink? Och, I’ll not trouble her. Just a wee tot – that’ll warm me up fine.’