Evil for Evil Page 27

  ‘I’m just going,’ Hepburn said hastily. ‘I’m sorry to have upset you, Christie.’ Georgia was looking at her in no very friendly way and she didn’t linger.

  As she had thought, right at the start – a textbook profile. On the other hand, if Christie was guilty, her naivety had been extraordinary. It was never straightforward. That was what she loved about police work.

  Hugh Donaldson, DS Macdonald thought, was a peculiarly repellent person: watery fish-eyes, a loose mouth and false teeth that clicked sometimes when he spoke.

  He hadn’t been rattled by the formal surroundings of the interview room, or by the aggressive tone of Macdonald’s questions. Yes, he had been in the village but only long after the fire engines had arrived at Lovatt’s farmhouse. He had been asleep in his bed until then. No, he hadn’t any idea if anyone had seen him leave his house. Yes, he had gone to Sorley’s house afterwards. Yes, they had been drinking and laughing.

  ‘Celebrating?’ DC Campbell suggested.

  Donaldson sucked his teeth. ‘Call it what you like. I’ve no love for Matt Lovatt – served him right. He did the dirty on us over the lease for the farm and there’s probably others he’s cheated as well.’

  Macdonald’s frustration was beginning to show. ‘Not clever, Donaldson. That’s an admission that puts you right up there on the list of suspects.’

  The man’s glassy eyes met his, unblinking. ‘You lot have me there anyway. You thought we let the stag out too.’

  ‘And you deny it?’

  ‘What’s the point?’ He gave a contemptuous snort. ‘You won’t believe me, but yes, if you like.’

  ‘You’re lying!’ Macdonald raised his voice.

  A sneering smile came over Donaldson’s face and he said nothing.

  The detective’s lips tightened. They were getting nowhere; they might as well terminate the interview. ‘One more thing. Andrew Smith – does the name mean anything to you?’

  For the first time since he had walked in, Hugh Donaldson’s reaction seemed genuine. He frowned, puzzled. ‘You mean the butcher in Kirkcudbright? What’s he got to do with this?’

  They let him go. Macdonald leant back in his seat taking a deep breath. ‘I’d better get my blood pressure down before we call in Donaldson Junior. If he’s anything like his old man, I might have a seizure.’

  Steve Donaldson wasn’t. He was, Macdonald noted with pleasure, sweating when he came in, though the room wasn’t warm. Fear was always a useful weapon in interrogation.

  Steve came in blustering. ‘You’ve no right to call me in like this. Intimidation, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Seems to be working,’ Campbell said acidly.

  ‘Surely you’re not reluctant to assist the police?’ Macdonald sounded sweetly reasonable. ‘We tried to get hold of you yesterday. Sudden decision, was it – to go to the stock sales?’

  Looking hunted, Steve mumbled, ‘Aye, well – maybe it was. So?’

  ‘And what were you looking for?’

  Steve gaped, then mumbled, ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting, because your father said it had all been planned, last week, to look for some blackface tups. For your croft.’

  ‘Well … could have been.’

  ‘Just that you didn’t notice?’ Macdonald was enjoying this interview much more than the last. His voice hardened. ‘Come on, Steve, I get angry when people treat me like a fool. You thought it would be better to lie low for a bit, didn’t you?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  Steve jumped at the raised voice. ‘I-I …’

  ‘Spit it out,’ Campbell said helpfully.

  ‘Oh – all right, maybe we did. But you can’t blame us,’ he whined. ‘We knew you’d go picking on us. Folk like Lovatt always get the law on their side against poor buggers like us.’

  ‘Now, that’s where you’re wrong,’ Macdonald said. ‘We’re just on the side of the people who tell us the truth, and so far you haven’t. Bad start. Bad, bad start. Did you set the fire the night before last?’

  ‘No!’ It was a howl of protest.

  ‘Did your father? Did Derek Sorley?’

  ‘No! No!’

  ‘Don’t believe you.’ That was Campbell.

  ‘He’s not very good at this lying business, is he?’ Macdonald agreed. ‘You’d be better to tell the truth, Steve. Let’s go back to the start. What did you do that night?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Steve wiped sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand. ‘I didn’t do anything! I was in my bed till the stushie started.’

  ‘And your wife will confirm that?’

  ‘Aye, she will.’

  He seemed to be on firmer ground there, and since Mrs Donaldson had treated the police like a bad smell yesterday it was unlikely that she would have anything approaching scruples about lying to them.

  ‘And if someone says they saw you around the farmhouse earlier?’

  Panic showed on Steve’s face. ‘They didn’t! They’re – they’re lying! They’re just saying that to get us in trouble. Lovatt – was it him said that?’

  ‘We’re not able to disclose any source of information.’ Macdonald’s reply was disingenuous. ‘And what about letting the stag loose?’

  ‘We never – we never,’ Steve stumbled over the words. ‘That’s – that’s another lie.’

  It wasn’t what you could call a convincing denial. Changing his tactics, Macdonald said kindly, ‘Look, Steve, your dad’s a powerful kind of guy, isn’t he?’

  ‘Aye.’ That was heartfelt.

  ‘And it would be pretty hard to stand out against him, wouldn’t it?’

  Steve began to look wary. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You could end up taking the rap for him, you know. And you don’t need to. If it was his idea, or Sorley’s, you could get clear of all this just by telling us the truth.’ Macdonald held his breath.

  But he was disappointed. ‘He said you’d do that,’ Steve said. ‘Try to set us against each other. Well, you won’t.’

  Swearing inwardly, Macdonald tried a bit more pressure, but Steve remained stubbornly unhelpful. At last, having checked that he too knew nothing of Andrew Smith, they dismissed him.

  ‘What did you make of that?’ Macdonald asked. ‘Guilt, sure, but guilt about what?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  Macdonald gave Campbell an exasperated look, then went on, ‘The old man obviously primed him, and probably Sorley too.’ He sighed. ‘Well – better get the next one in, I suppose.’

  He immediately took against Derek Sorley, with his ratty face, his greasy ponytail, his belligerent swagger.

  ‘I can’t imagine what this is about,’ Sorley got his word in first. ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t manage to contact you yesterday and as you can imagine we are under a lot of time pressure. It’s just a chat – we’re not recording this. Thank you for cooperating.’

  ‘As long as it is clearly understood that I am here by invitation and can leave at a time of my choosing.’ Sorley sat down at the table.

  ‘You’re not under arrest,’ Macdonald confirmed.

  ‘I should hope not! I am cooperating as a concerned citizen and I wish I could give you information that would lead to the person who did this, though sadly I have none to give. It was absolutely shocking! They could have been murdered in their beds.’

  ‘Indeed. If you could just give us an account of your movements—’

  ‘I can do better than that. For the sake of efficiency, I have written out a detailed timetable.’

  He handed it over and Macdonald glanced at it. It was a simple list of times and places, entirely innocuous. ‘Very useful. However, there are a few questions I need to ask you—’

  Sorley held up his hand. ‘I wish further to state that I saw nothing suspicious that night, and to formally deny that I had any part in any wrongdoing. I have nothing to add to that statement.’ He got up.

  ‘Sit d
own,’ Macdonald said sharply. ‘I’ve a lot more to ask you—’

  ‘But I don’t have a lot more to say. Oh, I’m quite aware of the attitude the police have taken towards myself and the Donaldsons.’ He sounded bitter. ‘Your colleagues who interviewed us before made their position quite plain. I have no intention of playing along with your power games, Sergeant, and unless you’re going to produce evidence rather than speculation, I’m leaving now.’

  He walked to the door, still with that cocky swagger, but Macdonald noticed that his hands were shaking. For all his infuriating bravado, Sorley was scared.

  Marjory Fleming was at a loose end. She had cleaned out the hens and had tried to find some housework to do, but she couldn’t improve on Karolina’s standards.

  For something to do, she made herself another mug of coffee and perched herself on the end of the kitchen table, too restless to sit down. She looked at her watch, as she had done every five minutes since she got up this morning. Half past eleven. She’d called to say she’d be late in today.

  Marjory was feeling dreadful: light-headed and gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, and her stomach churning with anxiety. She’d checked on the sleeping Cat a couple of times, of course, and she knew Bill had done the same when he came in for his break. He looked as if he’d aged ten years overnight – and probably she did too.

  They’d left a note for Cammie last night in case he woke and found them gone, but he hadn’t, and they’d had to tell him this morning; he’d gone off to school for a rugby match looking shell-shocked. Marjory hadn’t told her mother. She couldn’t bear the thought of Janet’s distress – not yet, at least. Once they had things sorted out, she would need to know, of course, but perhaps they could just say that Cat hadn’t liked the course and had decided to take a gap year while she sorted herself out.

  She and Bill hadn’t talked about it today. There was nothing to say that wasn’t just hand-wringing, and there would be time for that later when there wasn’t the risk that Cat might open the kitchen door on to a sudden silence and know they’d been discussing her. So they made banal small talk about the shopping list, the blocked drain in the yard, and Meg the collie’s recent encounter with a hedgehog, specifically the likelihood that she had picked up fleas – anything, really, except that their hearts were breaking.

  God forgive them, she and Bill had felt quite smug about the way their children were turning out: Cat with the place at vet school she had worked so hard for, with her nice boyfriend; Cammie at last doing the work necessary to get into a degree course in agriculture. Now their plans for Cat were in ruins.

  ‘I blame myself,’ Marjory had said to Bill when they had got Cat to bed last night. He’d told her brusquely not to agonise, that Cat was quite old enough to be responsible, but if she’d been Bill she’d have been wondering if a less career-orientated mother might have produced a more secure child. Blame, fault, guilt – the words repeated themselves, one after another, in her tired mind.

  Perhaps she had to rethink. Cat was going to need her. She had to be there, ready to listen and support. Her salary was what kept the farm going in these difficult times, but perhaps she could request a transfer to a less demanding job. It gave her a pang even to think of it, but if that was what Cat needed, she’d have to do it.

  Marjory looked at her watch again. It was torment, sitting here with nothing to do, and her mind slid back to all that was waiting in her office. She might need to apply for compassionate leave, however little she relished explaining to Bailey what had happened.

  It was almost quarter to twelve now, but at last there was the sound of shuffling feet in the corridor and Cat came in, wearing a pair of ancient panda slippers and a dressing gown that was too short for her, the despised remnants of her childhood which were all she had left at home. Her eyelids were swollen and her usually fresh complexion was muddy.

  Marjory sprang to her feet. ‘Cat! How are you feeling?’ She moved towards her daughter but Cat did a neat sidestep.

  ‘Fine. Is the kettle on?’ Her tone was bright and brittle and Marjory’s heart sank.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll make you some breakfast. What do you want? There’s bacon, and eggs, of course.’

  Suddenly nervous, Marjory had said that without thinking, and clearly it wasn’t tactful. Cat went paler than ever. ‘Just coffee’ll do. I’ll make it myself.’

  Rebuffed again, Marjory went back to her perch and picked up her mug.

  ‘Anyway, what are you doing here at this time of day?’ Cat demanded.

  Playing games had never appealed to Marjory. ‘Cat, you nearly died last night. I’m here because I think you need looking after and cherishing.’

  Cat turned and looked at her with a cruel little laugh. ‘Oh, really? It’s a bit late for that now, don’t you think? Haven’t you a crisis at work you could put ahead of me in the queue?’

  Marjory opened her mouth to protest, but she couldn’t quite think what she was going to say in her own defence.

  Cat was merciless. ‘If you thought we were going to have a nice little mother-and-daughter heart-to-heart, forget it. I’m going to take my coffee back to bed. I’m a bit tired, for some reason. So you might as well go back to work instead of hanging around here.’

  ‘You know how much that hurts, don’t you?’ Marjory said quietly.

  ‘Then perhaps you understand how we’ve felt every time you rejected us in favour of the sodding job. Fine – that’s what you wanted, that’s what you’ve got. I expect the place is falling apart without you right now. You’d better go. They probably need you. I don’t.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The stags were bellowing in fine style this morning, but DC Hepburn had almost stopped hearing them after wandering to and fro for twenty minutes, looking for Matt Lovatt. She was on the point of giving up her quest when she at last spotted him, walking down a sloping field towards the coastal path. A small herd of deer was grazing there, untroubled by his presence and also, more remarkably, by the presence of the huge dog that was roaming around nearby. It was ignoring them, but from the look of the beast Hepburn thought that in their position she would be feeling edgy, at the very least.

  She saw Lovatt register her own waiting presence and at a sharp word from his master the dog came to heel. As the pair came nearer, Hepburn noticed first the man’s disfigurement and then the exhaustion and drawn misery in his face. Poor bugger! Some people had it tough.

  ‘Are you looking for me?’ Lovatt called as he approached, and Hepburn produced her warrant card.

  ‘DC Hepburn. Just wanted a word, if you’ve got a moment.’

  Reaching her, Lovatt sighed. ‘Yes, I thought someone might.’ He looked around, a little uncertainly. ‘I don’t know where I can take you. The house is still too smoky to stay in for any length of time. I managed to get in to pick up some clothes, but that was all I could manage – and I apologise for the stink.’ He was wearing an old army jersey and combat trousers, and there was indeed a strong smell of smoke.

  Hepburn glanced around her. It was wet underfoot, but the early rain had cleared and a silver patch in the clouds showed where the sun was trying to break through. ‘Why don’t we just talk as we walk?’ she suggested. ‘Your dog looks as if it needs a lot of exercise.’ She clicked her fingers encouragingly, but the dog paid no attention, keeping its cold amber gaze fixed steadily on this stranger.

  ‘What kind is it?’ she asked, feeling faintly unnerved by the unblinking stare. ‘Beautiful animal.’

  ‘Hard to say, really.’ Lovatt fell into step beside her as they headed out along the path, with a gesture which allowed the dog to bound ahead. ‘I got him as a pup when I was out in Bosnia.’

  ‘Oh yes, you were with the army, of course. What regiment?’ Hepburn said with the easy friendliness which usually encouraged people to talk.

  It didn’t work this time. ‘KOSB,’ Lovatt said, then lapsed into silence.

  To business, then. ‘The fire – have you a theory about wh
o may be behind it?’

  Just as she spoke, Lovatt’s mobile rang, and miming apology he answered it, made a brief, brusque reply to the caller, then rang off.

  ‘Sorry, what were you saying? Oh yes – the fire. Unfortunately, Constable, I have enemies in the village. I’ve said all this to your people already. There’s a farmer, whose son wanted a new lease to farm my property, and another man who fancied digging up the Norse graves on Lovatt Island without permission. Ever since we arrived there’s been harassment. It started with graffiti and vandalism, then they released one of my stags, and now this. I’m just very afraid of what they may try next, if your lot can’t stop them.’

  ‘Mmm. So you don’t subscribe to your wife’s opinion that the person who started the fire was Christie Jack? And that her plan was to murder your wife and leave the field clear for her with you?’

  Visibly taken aback by the sudden ruthlessness of the question, Lovatt protested. ‘For God’s sake! That’s absolute bollocks. Lissa – well, she’s obviously still very upset. She had a terrible experience. She’s not thinking clearly.’

  ‘You mean, she’s unreliable? Or maybe simply jealous, if you and Christie have a thing going?’

  Lovatt stopped and turned to confront Hepburn. ‘I swear to you, there’s nothing between me and Christie. She’s a child – and a damaged child at that, after her experiences in Afghanistan.’

  Hepburn was relentless. ‘And you don’t think, perhaps, that those experiences might have, let’s say, destabilised her? That she might not see things in quite the same light as normal people such as you or I might?’

  Lovatt gave a snort of mirthless laughter. ‘Who are you calling normal? With the life I’m having to lead at the moment I’m feeling anything but. Maybe I should give up, pack it all in and move away, let Steve Donaldson have the lease …’

  He moved off, still talking, and picked up a stick to throw for the dog. Hepburn listened with interest. She had caught the flicker of unease on the man’s face at her suggestion, and had no hesitation in attributing this sudden volubility to an attempt to dodge the question.