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  He put the phone back in his pocket. ‘I have an assignation with a lady in a tea shop. She doesn’t want to see me at home and she feels the village hall would be too public. Denise Crichton has something to tell me and if it’s not about the alibi she gave her husband you can get me lime and soda the next time you’re in the chair.’

  Michael Morrison arrived back in his office just after lunch. Vivienne was safely on the way to London, which was one less thing to worry about and though he was, as instructed, checking the Morrison Construction records for discrepancies they were in good order and he was confident that he wouldn’t find any. His major worry was Grant, who might have a good enough business brain but otherwise needed to have everything explained to him very slowly and clearly, preferably with pictures. He had a tendency to panic, too. That worried him. He and Drax were both on edge about Grant.

  He’d no worries about Drax. Drax was a genius, in his way; he’d spotted that when the smart, cocky lad had applied for a job all those years ago and had made himself indispensable in record time. The success of the consortium was largely down to him and though he drove a hard bargain he deserved the rewards in money and in status within the group.

  In the current mess, it was Drax who was making the running. He’d cancelled the consignment as being too risky, so they’d have a breathing space to get everything sorted out. He trusted him, and his belief that they would come through all this provided they all held firm was contagious. Most of the time.

  He’d better phone Gemma, tell her he was back and see how she was getting on. She was a good girl, his Gemma, and she hadn’t deserved the little sod who had done his best to ruin her life – though without him, of course, there would have been no Mikey. An intolerable thought!

  Gemma was worried. ‘The police came this morning, Dad, and they said we were to tell Mum to come back immediately for questioning. I said she wasn’t fit for it and that she needed a break, so I certainly wouldn’t tell her. They were a bit snarky – will I get into trouble?’

  ‘No, love, of course you won’t,’ Morrison said soothingly. ‘If they come back I’ll speak to them. She hasn’t anything useful to tell them and it wouldn’t look good for them to go hounding her over nothing at all. Just leave it to me and put it out of your mind.

  ‘How’s Mikey today?’

  ‘Had a great time at playgroup. He’s done a picture for you – says it’s of you but I can’t say I think you’ll be flattered.’

  He chuckled. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing it.’ Then a thought struck him. ‘Is Ameena in today?’

  ‘No, I think she must still have flu. I’m being your domestic slave instead.’

  ‘That’s the way it should be. I like a daughter who knows her place. See you tonight.’

  He set down the phone, then, with a sudden thought, picked it up again. ‘Morrison here. Gather Ameena has flu. I think she may take a while to recover. We won’t be expecting her back for the time being. Clear? Right.’

  He had just rung off when his secretary buzzed through to say that the police were there, wanting to speak to him.

  Denise Crichton was obviously nervous. Macdonald had arrived first and he saw her checking up and down the street before she came into the little self-service café. She had chosen it, he guessed, as somewhere that neither she – nor, perhaps more importantly, her friends – regularly frequented.

  He had a mug of coffee in front of him, though after he got it he had wondered if he should have chosen tea. However, the look of the mug of orange tea that Denise brought when she slid along the red vinyl banquette to join him in the booth didn’t look any better.

  There was a bowl of sugar packets in the centre of the table. He offered it to her but she shook her head, though as she started talking she took one out and began to fiddle with it.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’ she said. ‘Will you give me a straight answer?’

  ‘If I can, but I’m not promising.’

  ‘Is my husband’s business under investigation for something?’

  He remembered Crichton’s chaotic desk. ‘I’m afraid I genuinely haven’t any idea.’

  She considered that, took a sip of the orange tea and shuddered. ‘The thing is,’ she said carefully, ‘I’m afraid something’s not right. I’m afraid there’s going to be real trouble and I don’t want to be dragged into it.’

  ‘Are you involved in the business, then?’

  ‘Oh no, not at all. I’m just a housewife. Grant’s been very successful and my job is to make it easy for him to go on being successful.’

  The look in her eyes suggested that this was in itself a business agreement; not only that, but it was one that would be terminated with extreme prejudice should the goods not be delivered.

  ‘But you still seem to be worried that you might in some way be drawn into any problems?’

  Denise had managed to tear one side of the sugar packet and a little pile of white crystals spilt onto the table. She scooped it automatically into a neat pile and into her hand, then looked at it helplessly.

  ‘Here,’ Macdonald said pushing forward his mug, ‘tip it in here. I’m not going to drink it, anyway.

  ‘Look, Mrs Crichton, unless you tell me what your problem is, I can’t help you.’

  ‘It’s a big decision.’ She picked up another sugar packet. ‘I could just be getting myself in deeper. But … if I tell you something, will you keep it confidential?’

  Macdonald sighed. ‘This is a murder inquiry. If you mean, will I go straight and tell your husband that you’ve changed your mind about backing up his alibi—’

  Denise gasped. ‘How … how did you know?’

  ‘Because you were very obviously lying when you did.’

  Her face crimsoned. ‘He insisted,’ she cried. ‘I didn’t want to lie to you! I’ve never been in trouble with the police in my life before.’

  ‘Given that you’ve contacted me, and that you’re now going to tell me what really happened, you’re not in trouble with the police now. And we won’t tell your husband unless the situation demands it.’

  Macdonald could see calculation in Denise’s face: by that stage, would she have nothing to lose?

  ‘My conscience was bothering me,’ she said piously. ‘I just kept thinking of that poor woman, and where her body had been put. Of course, I’m sure Grant had nothing to do with it really, but I just wanted to do anything I could to help.’

  Up to and including tying a slip knot for a noose round his neck, Macdonald thought sardonically, but he only said, ‘Of course,’ with a grave inclination of the head.

  So out it all came. Grant Crichton, she said, had definitely gone out during the evening. ‘Then he bullied me into telling you he hadn’t. And so I lied to you. I’m sorry – I didn’t want to, truly.’ She put on a little girl, penitent face.

  Revolted, Macdonald had to struggle to sound warm and reassuring. ‘That’s all right. I’ll just make notes now for a brief statement that I’ll bring back and ask you to sign once I’ve written it up. We won’t mention your previous evidence, I promise.’

  Michael Morrison greeted the officers without enthusiasm and got his retaliation in first. ‘I gather you were speaking to my daughter this morning. She phoned me in some distress about being pressured to tell her mother to return for questioning.’

  DS MacNee glanced at DC Hepburn, who said calmly, ‘Yes, as my colleague said at the time, we need to talk to her as a matter of priority. She spent the day with Anita Loudon and may have information that could shed some light on what happened later.’

  ‘My wife told me all that Anita had said that day – poured it out, really, in her distress at the news. I can assure you there was nothing beyond the ordering of new stock and discussion of the latest fashion news – oh, and one client’s determined effort to get into a size 14 when in the ladies’ opinion a 16 would have been on the small side. I am now also fully au fait with the trends for the winter season, should you want to know.’<
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  He smiled, but neither of the officers did. MacNee said, ‘We’re needing to speak to Mrs Morrison direct. She maybe heard something that didn’t seem important so she wouldn’t think of passing it on to you. Where is she staying?’

  Morrison’s lips tightened. ‘I’m not going to have you bullying her. This is a question of her health and if you’re going to persist I’ll get her doctor to spell it out for you. She’s not a suspect—’

  ‘You’re all suspects, till we’ve got evidence to the contrary,’ MacNee said bluntly.

  Morrison bridled. ‘In that case, I’m happy to tell you that you can take her name off the list. My daughter and I can both vouch for the fact that my wife was at home all evening. Since I slept beside her I can definitely state that she didn’t go anywhere in the middle of the night.’

  ‘If we could speak to your wife for corroboration, maybe we could take you off the list as well,’ Hepburn said chippily.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be feeling less stressed in a couple of days.’ Morrison didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Now, if there’s nothing more, I’m a busy man—’

  ‘Did she take sleeping pills?’

  He gave Hepburn a look of intense dislike. ‘Occasionally. Very mild ones, when she’s stressed, and as far as I can recall that wasn’t one of the occasions. All right?’

  As they got back in the car, MacNee said ruefully, ‘Wasn’t much of a grilling, was it? He’d stated already he barely knew Anita Loudon and there’s nothing to suggest he did. He says he and his wife can alibi each other, which is probably true. Can’t see where we can go from here.’

  ‘At the moment,’ Hepburn insisted. ‘I don’t like him – far too smooth.’

  ‘You don’t like Daniel Lee either,’ MacNee pointed out. ‘And I can tell you Shelley Crichton’s no bundle of joy. Doesn’t prove any of them did it.’

  Hepburn conceded the point. ‘So where now, Sarge?’

  ‘Just a wee chat with a pal of mine. Won’t take long.’

  Janette Ritchie welcomed them warmly, beaming when MacNee said he’d just come to see if she was all right, ignoring Hepburn’s cynical look as they followed her in.

  ‘That’s really nice of you, Sergeant. Och, I’m fine. Just such an awful shock, you know?’

  ‘Of course,’ MacNee said sympathetically. ‘You’ll have been needing to comfort poor Mrs Crichton, too.’

  A cloud crossed Janette’s face. ‘She’s been a bit funny,’ she said slowly. ‘Probably just shock too, of course. But she’s not wanted me to go round, and to tell the truth, she’s … well, she’s not been very sympathetic about poor Anita.’

  MacNee hoped that she couldn’t see his ears pricking up. ‘Still upset about the business with the girl?’

  ‘Shelley thought she’d brought Kirstie’s daughter to make fun of her, I suppose. Whether she was right or not …’ Janette sighed. ‘I told her it wasn’t, but mind you, the lassie was the dead spit of Kirstie.’

  ‘Other people must have thought so too. That nasty business in Kirkluce …’ He shook his head.

  ‘Oh, that would be that Lorna Baxter, I’ve no doubt – her and her nasty friends. It’s got her mucky fingerprints all over it. She’s just a disgrace to Dunmore, that’s what she is.’ Janette’s cheeks flared with annoyance. ‘She got in trouble with the law for that kind of thing at the time when it all happened. She won’t admit to it, but you just send one of your chaps in uniform round to give her a scare and you’ll see, it’ll not happen again.’

  ‘We’ll maybe do just that,’ MacNee said and got up. ‘I’m glad to see you’re doing all right, anyway.’

  ‘That was real good of you to come in like that,’ Janette said as she showed them out. ‘It says a lot for the police force.’

  As they went down the path, Hepburn said, ‘I hope you feel ashamed of yourself, snowing that nice old lady.’

  MacNee grinned. ‘I’m long past that. Let them cant about decorum, Who have characters to lose.’

  DI Fleming gave a final glance at her emails then stood up and slung her bag over her shoulder. There wasn’t a lot more she could do today.

  The endless routine of statements and interviews was ongoing, but no clear line was as yet emerging and all she had been able to say to the unimpressed media was the standard ‘lines of enquiry’ guff. She was pinning her hopes on the forensic tests, and the labs certainly wouldn’t be working over the weekend.

  Now she’d better make the call to MacNee.

  ‘Tam, I just wanted to warn you. You’re on duty tomorrow, aren’t you? I should be but I’m going AWOL. OK, it’s a murder inquiry but it’s becalmed at the moment. Cammie’s playing his first game in a Scotland jersey and I’m not missing that.’

  She smiled at his congratulations. ‘Thanks, I’ll pass it on. I haven’t told the super, so will you cover for me? I won’t have my mobile on till after the game’s over.’

  MacNee reassured her that he had it in hand.

  ‘Oh, just one other thing, while I remember. Anita Loudon’s lawyer said he was going to send over her will and some letter that she left for Marnie. I don’t suppose lawyers work over the weekend so I guess it will be Monday before we see it. Can you contact Marnie and make sure that she’s here then to open it? I’ll see her myself. It’ll need a light touch – it may be a very emotional situation again.

  ‘All right, Tam? Thanks very much.’

  It was the darkness and the cold that drove Marnie back to the cottage in the late afternoon. Perhaps the cold had done her a favour; when it came to the point of walking into the loch the icy water looked so forbidding that her courage had failed her. Perhaps. She wasn’t sure.

  Instead, she had walked, walked and walked, stumbling sometimes on the stony paths, blind to everything except her own thoughts and the endless images of her childhood that bludgeoned her. She cried at some of them: tears of anger that her mother seemed to have been so unloving, tears of pity for the sad child she had been. And eventually, tears of pity for her mother too. She had suffered more in her childhood than Marnie ever had and perhaps it had warped her into being unable to love her daughter.

  There was nothing more she could do to find out whether her mother was alive or dead. As she got back to the cottage by the loch, her teeth chattering now and her breath a frozen cloud in front of her face, Marnie admitted defeat.

  Tomorrow she would try to strike a deal with the police that would allow her to go back to London and put all this behind her. Just one more night to get through, that was all.

  She didn’t know what had wakened her. For once Marnie had fallen asleep quickly and slept soundly. Then suddenly, she was wide awake.

  She sat up with a formless anxiety, looking and listening. Had she heard a car stopping outside the cottage – and was that a car door being shut, very, very quietly? With her heart racing she got out of bed, thrust her feet into her shoes and shrugged on her discarded jacket against the cold.

  She opened the door to the hall. The front of the house was lit up, by the headlights, presumably. Who—?

  Marnie wasn’t going to wait to find out. She tiptoed through to the kitchen, leaving the door open so that she could see to find her handbag and the key. It grated in the lock as she turned it, wincing at the sound. As she opened the door, she could smell a heavy, sickly stench on the bitter air. Petrol!

  She flung herself out of the house, her clenched knuckle in her mouth to stifle a scream of terror. There was a path down to the loch here at the back – where was it? Where was it?

  In the light from the headlights she spotted the gap in the trees. The sagging wire of the boundary fence tripped her and sent her sprawling; she scrambled up, knees bruised and her breath rasping in her throat.

  The path was overgrown and brambles snatched at her clothes as she fled, unnoticing, down it. She could see the shimmer of the water ahead but it was all she could see; behind her it was so dark, so dark – someone might already have heard her escape and be following stealth
ily behind.

  Marnie had just reached the shore path when the whole world blew up. She couldn’t stifle the scream this time, but it was covered by the noise of the explosion and the roar of a fire.

  Staring back through the trees, Marnie could see that where the cottage had stood with its old, dried-out wooden structure, there was nothing except a fireball of red, orange and yellow flames.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There was a wind blowing now, heralding a weather-change. As Marnie stood, still transfixed, she saw a tree take fire, and then another, the resinous pine prime for burning. The path she had only just left was engulfed a moment later.

  She would be safe by the shore, protected by the concrete area where her car was parked. She could get into it, drive away – but what if he was waiting for her there?

  Someone had meant to kill her. If he had realised she’d escaped, he’d be looking for her, hunting down his prey. She had to hide, away from the pines and the spreading flames, down by the loch side where there was only wet grass.

  The broch! She could see its roof in the lurid light and in blind panic she scurried to it like some small, threatened forest creature going to ground. Feeling her legs give way, she slumped down onto the wooden bench that ran round the stone walls.

  The smoke was billowing across now, but inside the familiar smell of damp earth triggered the memory.

  ‘Quick, quick,’ Gemma hisses. ‘He’s coming, he’s coming!’ She gives a little squeal of delighted terror as they dash into the broch. They clutch each other as they cower at the back, listening for the footsteps.

  She says, ‘They’re getting closer!’ and Gemma mutters, ‘What if he comes in? What’ll we do?’ They’re both covering their heads with their hands, as if that makes them invisible.

  She found she was covering her head now, putting it down on her knees and wrapping her arms round herself as if huddling into a smaller space would make her safer. She was listening for the footsteps on the path but now all she could hear was the roar and crackle of the flames. The pungent smoke was getting heavier now, tainting the air; she had to cough, she had to, no matter how she tried to stifle the sound. Her eyes were starting to stream too. Soon she would be forced to leave her refuge or suffocate; he was smoking her out.