Evil for Evil Page 25

  Fleming laughed. ‘Bunty’s something else! But Tam, I have to warn you – the press coverage won’t be good. We did our best for you, but—’

  ‘Och, I just won’t read them and I’ll see Bunty doesn’t either. It’ll blow over.’

  ‘That’s the way to take it. I’ll call you when Bailey’s forgotten about it.’

  Fleming rang off feeling bemused. Tam philosophical about this – cheerful, even? She frowned. Oh well, maybe it was just that he was relieved to have got his father back and needed the time to make arrangements, as he had said.

  Or maybe not.

  MacNee gave a little smile as he put the phone down. No duties, no supervision. A free agent, eh? That would do nicely. Brodie wouldn’t know what hit him.

  Knocking on the door had produced no response at Derek Sorley’s much scruffier chalet. Campbell crossed the rough, weedy patch in front of it and peered in the picture window.

  ‘Not in.’

  ‘He’s avoiding us – the Donaldsons certainly are. As the wife was telling us they were away for the day looking at stock I could almost see her nose growing. I’d like to bring all three of them in, but we haven’t a scrap of evidence to justify it. Sorley may be quite innocently at work.’

  ‘Has to come home eventually.’

  ‘So do we. There’s no overtime on this one. We’d better get back and report to Big Marge – not that we’ve much to report on.’

  ‘Not much,’ Campbell said.

  Macdonald gave him a sharp look, then he reddened. He said abruptly, ‘Nothing to signify. And we’ve nothing on Andrew Smith either, and the uniforms knocking doors only got blank looks all round.

  ‘I wonder if Georgia knows where Sorley works? We could call in on the way back.’

  ‘Reckon she’d do us another sandwich?’

  ‘Don’t even ask. That was a favour. Bag of crisps, if you must.’

  Georgia, though happy to supply the crisps, could only tell them that Sorley drove a delivery van for a stationery firm in Kirkcudbright, so there wasn’t much point in going the long way round to look for someone who could be anywhere across the county.

  ‘Bit of a wasted morning, that,’ Macdonald said as they drove back to headquarters. ‘No progress at all. I feel a bit dispirited, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘I feel hungry,’ Campbell said. ‘Hope we get back before all the bridies have gone.’

  From the window where Fergie sat, listlessly observing the outside world through the gap in the slats, he saw Brodie come down to the jetty on the mainland and climb into the small boat.

  His heart gave a little frightened thud as it always did when Brodie appeared. He was quivering with nerves today – when the sirens last night had wakened him, he’d thought he’d have a heart attack. Seeing the house on fire had given him a terrible nightmare afterwards, that the bothy too was ablaze. He woke, screaming, and then was afraid all over again that someone might have heard him. He hated this place. It terrified him.

  If it went on, he could go mental. He was halfway there already, sleeping most of the time, though somehow he’d no energy for his workout. He got panic attacks sometimes, when he felt he couldn’t breathe, and he found himself thinking weird thoughts, like there was someone lurking in the shadows so he was scared to look over his shoulder.

  Going out at night, though, didn’t scare Fergie the way it had at first. The deer, he realised, paid no attention to him, and he got so stiff from lack of exercise that he was desperate to stretch his legs. He didn’t go far from the bothy, though, or into the woods with the noises that had spooked him. He usually went up the hill behind and over to the back of the island, passing the old graves at the top with a shudder. He’d plucked up courage to look at them once, then wished he hadn’t; there was a newish one there, a small one. Sharing the island with some dead kid! He’d run all the way back after that.

  Would it be so bad being in jail? He’d have company, and the worst would have happened so the gnawing fear of discovery would be over. The worst? Who was he kidding? The worst would be when Brodie found out he’d given himself up, because he’d never forgive him. Things were bound to slip out when they grilled him, and he’d no doubt Brodie’s reach could stretch to any jail Fergie was likely to find himself in. It might be easier just to top himself now and get it over with.

  He watched bleakly as Brodie moored the boat and he went over to unlock the door. At least it would mean new scoff – he’d finished all the fresh stuff.

  It was better than that, though. As Brodie dumped a carrier bag on the floor, he said, ‘I’ve good news for you. They’re going to risk a run in the next day or two, when conditions are right. Don’t know when, but they won’t hang around. You’ll have to be ready.’

  ‘No problem, Sarge!’ Fergie hadn’t smiled since he got here, but now he was grinning from ear to ear, and when Brodie left, he went straight to pack his meagre belongings into a carrier bag. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  Macdonald and Campbell had given Fleming their disappointing report and she was brooding on it now. She hadn’t expected an eyewitness to fire-raising at an isolated house surrounded by trees in a quiet village in the middle of the night, but it was still depressing that the only interesting information should be that Sorley and the Donaldsons seemed to have been celebrating afterwards. Which might be nasty, but was hardly a criminal offence.

  She hadn’t exactly expected information about Andrew Smith to emerge either, but she’d allowed herself to be hopeful. MacNee had been so certain that there must be a link with the village, and she’d come round to agreeing with him.

  Had he been wrong, though? Was this something that had its roots in Smith’s activities in Manchester after all? Villains, too, had been children once; perhaps, fifty years ago, there had been some kid staying in a caravan – maybe organising his own gang even then, getting his hand in with a spot of extortion and shoplifting from the Johnnie-a’-things …

  No, she was being silly now. But what other possibility was there? Certainly the village folk were a close-mouthed lot, but surely they couldn’t all be in a conspiracy to conceal any knowledge of the man?

  What would Tam say? On an impulse, Fleming picked up the phone, but it was Bunty who answered. Tam was out, but when Fleming asked after Davie, she told her he was having a wee nap, poor old chap, and she’d have his tea ready for him when he woke up.

  Fleming smiled as she rang off. Bunty sounded to be in her element; whether Davie liked it or not she’d have him clean and respectable. She’d have him trundling round the coffee morning circuit yet, though Fleming did wonder whether, after the life he’d led, this would be the way Davie would choose to spend his declining years.

  And what was Tam doing? Maybe he was sorting things out, just as he had said. She shouldn’t be so cynical.

  Fleming had just started on her clogged inbox, doing her pea-shelling act with the emails, when DC Campbell appeared. Fleming was surprised to see him; it was only quarter of an hour since he and Macdonald had left.

  ‘Ewan!’ she said. ‘Problem? Take a seat.’ There was something about Campbell’s customary economy with words that made it catching.

  ‘Need to warn you, boss. Christie Jack – Macdonald’s not sound.’

  ‘Not sound?’

  ‘She could’ve left Melissa Lovatt asleep on purpose. Door was bolted – obvious that no one got out before her and Lovatt. Claims she’d a flashback – didn’t notice. Doesn’t know what happened.’

  Fleming wasn’t sure she’d ever heard him utter so many consecutive sentences. ‘And you don’t believe her?’

  ‘Don’t believe, don’t disbelieve. Point is, Andy believes her. Or says he does. Trying to shield her.’

  ‘Right.’ Fleming had seen the way Macdonald looked at Christie Jack. She’d seemed a nice enough girl, but then she’d never even spoken to her. ‘You think he should be kept out of anything to do with her?’

  Campbell nodded. ‘And there’s this.’ Ca
mpbell handed her a printout. ‘Louise Hepburn’s interview with Mrs Lovatt.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Fleming had made a point of noticing the young DC since MacNee’s linguistic flourish. ‘Oh yes, I remember she was tasked to go to the hospital. Interesting?’

  He handed it to her without reply, and she speed-read it. Yes, it was interesting: Melissa Lovatt was stating that she hadn’t taken sleeping pills, and was not only accusing Christie Jack of leaving her to die in the fire, but of setting it in the first place for that very purpose.

  Fleming groaned. ‘Oh dear. So are you saying we have to take Andy off the case?’

  ‘Not my job.’

  He was right, of course; she had no business asking him. ‘Leave it with me. But when next Christie Jack’s interviewed it won’t be Andy who does it.’

  Campbell nodded, and left.

  ‘Don’t bring me problems, bring me solutions,’ was a favourite phrase of Bailey’s and for once Fleming felt in sympathy with him. It seemed to be nothing but problems today – MacNee banished, Macdonald kneecapped. Whatever next?

  She’d told Macdonald and Campbell to call in Sorley and the Donaldsons tomorrow for questioning; what the neighbour had said about them celebrating was justification enough. She wanted to talk to Lovatt herself, so she could speak to Christie Jack at the same time.

  She glanced again at the report in her lap. It was competently presented and Hepburn seemed to have asked the questions she’d have asked herself. MacNee wasn’t often complimentary about the younger detectives – au contraire, as he would probably start saying now, after his French lessons. There was certainly no one else she’d felt tempted to bring on to her own elite team – perhaps Hepburn deserved a chance to show her mettle.

  Sorley drove back from work in a gleeful mood that afternoon, despite his lingering headache. He was willing to bet that, rough as he had felt today, Steve would be feeling worse. Driving up the track to the chalets, he glanced across at the farmhouse, now all but a ruin, with a satisfied smile. No one could live in a place like that.

  Right enough, Lovatt didn’t give in easily. It had been spelt out that he wasn’t welcome and anyone else would have left long ago. Still, he’d have too much to think about now to care who was walking around his island, and if the stubborn bastard did decide to rebuild and carry on farming, that would be Steve’s problem, not his own.

  In any case, Steve would get his share. All Sorley needed was half an hour, an hour at most, up by the graves with a pickaxe and spade. Gold, the metal detector had said. Gold.

  He could slip across today, even. He’d seen police around the village, but not near the island. He could see the causeway now—

  Submerged. He swore under his breath. From the look of it, the tide wouldn’t be low enough for hours. He couldn’t go across in the dark; a light up at the graves would be visible all round the bay, and anyway, if you couldn’t see where you were going you could break your leg on the causeway. He’d have to get hold of the tide tables.

  With the last of the crates of prawns landed, Cal Findlay’s deckhand sketched a salute to his skipper and headed thankfully for home. Cal was a moody sod at the best of times, but today he’d been downright dangerous. OK, a line had got fouled as he brought in a catch, but the way Cal had reacted he’d been afraid he was going to be chucked overboard.

  He’d look for another job, if there were any. Which there weren’t.

  ‘Oooh, teacher’s pet!’

  Louise Hepburn’s lips tightened as her colleague made the barbed remark on the way out after the briefing, but she’d learnt, with some difficulty, that it didn’t pay to lose your temper. She said lightly, ‘Oh, give her an apple and she’ll eat out of your hand,’ and walked on to the CID room, doing her best to conceal her satisfaction.

  She was dark-haired, with dark eyes and olive skin like her French mother, but her features owed nothing to her Gallic ancestry: she had her late father’s strong nose and a very square chin. Combative by nature, she’d learnt to stick it out at primary school in Stranraer where ‘Froggie’ was the least objectionable of the insults flung at her. She’d taken on her tormentors fearlessly and gained nervous respect.

  Hepburn was sorry for Tam MacNee, but she was ambitious and MacNee’s misfortune was her own big chance to mark her card with the boss, if she got it right. She was looking forward, a little anxiously, to the interviews next day.

  She had broken her own rule and bought some wine today, and a half-bottle of good brandy too. She needed something warming, as if it could reach through to the cold centre of her being. She felt … hollow, that was it. As if there was nothing there any more, except the coldness.

  As darkness crept in over the sea, a stealthy shade at a time until the silver-grey had deepened to charcoal and the charcoal to black, Elena Tindall sat in her chair by the window, her shoulders hunched and her slim hands cupped round a cheap wine glass to warm the brandy it held. Her hands were icy, though, and no fragrant bouquet rose from it as she swirled it round. She drank it anyway, in a gulp at first, then, with conscious restraint, a sip at a time.

  The island had almost vanished into the gathering dusk. The island … She twisted the bracelet on her left wrist, and winced.

  A beam of light scattered the darkness as a car came up the track. Elena shrank back instinctively, but it swept on. Someone going to visit weasel-face, probably. The Donaldsons? Her skin crawled at the thought.

  Her mobile rang. Eddie, of course; she wasn’t in the mood to speak to him tonight, but she dared not ignore it. Asking lots of questions about what he was doing had kept him happy at first but now his impatience was starting to show and his enquiries about her own activities were more probing. Tonight she hadn’t the energy for a long, fencing conversation.

  He wanted to know what the weather was like. Was he sitting with a weather chart in front of him, looking for clues?

  ‘Changeable,’ she said, then after a minute broke into a question about whether she’d taken the right clothes with her. ‘Sorry, darling, would you mind if we didn’t talk long tonight? I’ve got a splitting headache and I just want to take a couple of paracetamol and go to bed.’

  He was all concern, as Elena had intended him to be, and rang off. She sank back into her chair with a groan. It hadn’t altogether been a lie about the headache, but it wasn’t going to stop her finishing the brandy in her glass. Then she’d switch to wine – less likely to leave her totally incapacitated in the morning.

  It was a question of nerve. All this – she mustn’t let it destroy her. She must use the cold core to freeze the questioning, freeze the fear.

  She hadn’t achieved that yet, though. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as she heard a stealthy sound outside, then another, and another – footsteps! She had seen nothing; whoever was there must have come up the grass on the far side of the path to the chalet. She was holding her breath when the knock came on the door – a soft, tentative tapping.

  If she slipped to the floor, here in the darkened chalet, she would be invisible from the window. But it was as if she was paralysed: her limbs refused to obey her, she was having to remember to breathe—

  The tapping came again. And then, a low voice, ‘Are you there? Open the door.’

  Fear gave way to anger, and brought her to her feet. How dare he frighten her? She opened the door.

  ‘Cal! You scared me half to death, creeping up like that.’

  ‘Didn’t … didn’t want people to see me, and talk,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Then for goodness’ sake don’t stand out there. Come in.’ Elena made to put on the light, but he stopped her.

  ‘Curtains first.’

  She nodded and went to the window to shut out the night. He flicked the switch and she stared as she saw him. He was looking terrible, his dark hair wild and his eyes bloodshot. She thought he had probably been drinking, though he wasn’t actually drunk.

  ‘What’s happened, then?’

  ‘Nothing – everything.
’ He made a helpless gesture with his hands.

  His very weakness strengthened her. ‘Sit down,’ she ordered him then went to the kitchen, and came back with another glass. She slopped in some brandy and set it down on the table by the window.

  ‘Drink that,’ she said.

  Cal didn’t sit down. He was standing twitching; he took a couple of staggering steps towards her then grabbed hold of her, burying his head in her shoulder.

  ‘You’re driving me mad,’ he sobbed. ‘I can’t take this.’

  Elena stiffened at his touch. She had accustomed herself to Eddie, but she had not been held by another man since their marriage, and even being air-kissed by a casual acquaintance was uncomfortable. Yet she overcame her revulsion, softened her rigid arms to cradle him and, her fair head against his dark, rocked him like a baby.

  ‘Shh, shh, it’s all right. It’s all right.’

  When the phone rang at one o’clock, Marjory Fleming was instantly awake. She’d been almost expecting something else at Innellan and she felt the familiar lurch in her stomach as she braced herself for more bad news. At her side, Bill stirred a little in his sleep, but accustomed to such interruptions didn’t surface as Fleming answered the phone.

  It wasn’t what she expected to hear. Her face went pale as she listened, struggling to absorb the necessary details, and she had to make two attempts at ringing off.

  Then she turned to her sleeping husband, shaking his shoulder. ‘Bill! Bill! Wake up! It’s Cat! It’s terrible!’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN