Evil for Evil Page 32

Hepburn interrupted. ‘We have information that she has made a statement claiming you were sleeping together last night. Are you saying she’s lying?’

  Lovatt’s dismay was evident. He gave a great groan, then said, ‘Of course she’s lying. Stupid little fool – she must be trying to protect me, I suppose. I wasn’t even in the Smugglers last night. I went along to spend the night at the farmhouse after she and Georgia went to sleep.’

  ‘Time?’ Campbell asked.

  ‘I couldn’t be exact – around eleven, maybe? It wasn’t late – we were all tired.’

  ‘So you didn’t get into your cosy bed at the Smugglers, but decided to go along and sleep in a house that was still dangerously contaminated by smoke?’ Hepburn wasn’t cut out for nice cop.

  ‘I was … finding it claustrophobic, I suppose. The rooms are small, I had a lot on my mind, I couldn’t move about without disturbing the others …’

  ‘Very thoughtful, I’m sure. So from, say, half past eleven you were on your own at the farmhouse – except for the dog, of course.’

  Hepburn saw Lovatt flinch, as she had intended, but before she could follow up with more pressure, Campbell said, ‘The afternoon.’

  ‘The afternoon? What do you mean?’ Lovatt asked.

  ‘Dropped your wife at the caravan. Anyone see you? Or her?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then?’

  Lovatt shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘I … I took Mika for a run.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just up the hill with the deer. I wanted to check on them anyway – I’ve got a farm to manage, you know, despite people trying to stop me. I don’t suppose anyone saw me there either.’ There was a hard, defensive edge to his voice now.

  ‘Not on the island? You might have wanted to check the deer there.’ Hepburn had realised Campbell’s line: that Lissa Lovatt was unlikely to have been wandering round the island in the middle of the night.

  ‘Might have. I didn’t. I put Mika back in his kennel, then went to the Smugglers Inn.’

  ‘You didn’t see a boat going over to the island? Or notice that one had gone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But Mrs Lovatt must have got across somehow. You didn’t take her over?’ Lovatt shook his head. ‘Or give her a key for a boat?’

  ‘No, but there’s a causeway – I didn’t notice whether it was uncovered. You’d have to check the tides. At low tide she or anyone else could have got across.’

  Hepburn glanced at Campbell, but he didn’t say anything, and she went on, ‘So – to sum up. You say that you dropped your wife at the caravan, but you’ve no proof. You say you walked the dog, but no one saw you. You say you didn’t go to the island. Do you also say you didn’t use your dog to murder your wife?’

  Lovatt stared at her in total horror. ‘Use my dog! For God’s sake, will one of you tell me exactly what happened?’

  Sparing no detail, Hepburn told him.

  It was as if somehow, under the attack of their questioning, he had shut out the knowledge that his wife was dead. This struck him like a physical blow: he rocked in his chair, then collapsed forward on to the table. ‘Oh no! Oh no! It can’t be – how – how vile! Poor, poor Lissa!’ He began to cry, great, shuddering, painful sobs.

  Either Lovatt was a great actor, or that news had come as a shock. Hepburn glanced uneasily at Campbell, whose face gave nothing away, but she was prepared to bet that both of them were thinking the same thing – which wasn’t that Lovatt was a great actor.

  The boatman who took Fleming across to Lovatt Island was surly, but that suited her very well. It had been bad enough fending off Tony Drummond, hopping from foot to foot with anxiety to get out the story before the big boys got here.

  ‘Come on, Marjory, give me a break!’

  ‘Like the break you gave Tam MacNee? No comment.’ It might not be considered wise to make an enemy in the local press but considering what he did when he was meant to be a friend, it probably wouldn’t make much difference.

  The journey across was less than five minutes. Fleming shaded her eyes against the sun, as they powered across the calm blue water. It was a perfect morning and it looked idyllic: the neat little island, crowned with a picturesque ruin, the trees flaunting their autumn colours and the lush green grass with a couple of pretty fallow deer browsing on some low vegetation, a distance away from the activity up the hill. Ah yes, the activity.

  She climbed ashore with the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that this duty always gave her – and this one was likely to be more stomach-churning than most. She gave her name to the constable on duty, and plodded up the hill.

  The pathologist came to meet her. ‘Glad to see you. I’ve just finished all I can do here and I’d like to get back to the lab. I’ve a lot on my plate at the moment.’

  Fleming was surprised. Usually it took longer; it must have been very straightforward. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any hint you can give us about the dog until you get to the lab – size, say?’

  ‘Dog?’ he said. ‘What on earth has a dog got to do with it?’

  ‘We–we thought … Tam thought …’ she stammered, trying to collect her thoughts. ‘He reported that the body had its throat ripped out in a dog attack.’

  ‘He did?’ The pathologist glanced back. ‘Hadn’t thought of that – I see exactly what he means. How very odd! It almost looks as if that’s what it was meant to suggest. I’d been going to say to you that it was a highly unusual example of an injury of this kind. Usually it happens in a drunken fight, and it’s the face takes the brunt – though of course she was knocked out first—’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, what happened, then?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh, you’d think a Weegie would recognise it when he saw it. Plenty of that in the Glasgow pubs when Rangers have lost a home game. Someone just broke a bottle, probably over her head, then set about her.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Out in the bay, Cal Findlay was inspecting lobster pots, theoretically at least. He had pulled up a pot and landed the lobster inside it, but then he’d put down anchor just behind the island, making a show of working on the pot as he watched the comings and goings on the shore. He couldn’t see what was going on at the other side, though; the hill was in the way.

  There was nothing to stop him sailing round into the bay, except that everyone in Innellan knew he had no business there. He’d kept under the radar so far, and he meant to keep it that way.

  Not knowing was just about killing him, though.

  No answer. DS Macdonald knocked on the door again, but not hopefully. As he came up the path to the Findlays’ door he could see Mrs Findlay in the front room of the croft house, asleep in her chair with her mouth open. There was a trickle of dribble coming from the corner and he suppressed a shudder. Her son must be out again, and the carer would probably only appear to give her lunch.

  He’d had a note from Big Marge last night, pointing out that she’d noticed from the list of Innellan residents that there was a Calum Findlay who had not been interviewed, though the house had been ticked on the basis of an interview with Aileen Findlay.

  He’d winced at that. He and Campbell had been so spooked by the nightmare Aileen that somehow her son had been forgotten – not good, when he was in the boss’s bad books already.

  Campbell and sodding Hepburn would be interviewing Lovatt right now, while here he was knocking on doors. Maybe the boss’s decision was fair enough; even he wasn’t sure about his self-control, when it came to the man who had seduced Christie then murdered his wife. In such an obscene way too – though how he’d hoped to get away with it was hard to imagine. Unless he was just going to sacrifice the dog, poor beast. Lovatt might even be reckoning that with luck, and a good advocate, he could get away with a dangerous dog charge.

  Macdonald turned away from the door. He knew nothing about Findlay, what he did or where he might be found. Talking to him would probably be just as pointless
as all the dozens of other interviews had been, but if he didn’t do it he’d have Big Marge on his case.

  The Findlays’ house was high above the bay here, isolated, and perhaps quarter of a mile from the nearest house. No direct neighbours, then, but in Innellan you could be quite sure everyone knew everyone else’s business. If they were prepared to tell you.

  More knocking on doors. Macdonald got back into the car and drove down into the village. The Smugglers Inn was the obvious place to go for information, but if Fleming discovered he’d gone anywhere near Christie, his career would be toast. He wasn’t planning to, anyway; she was hardly going to be in a receptive mood towards policemen just now, so he drove past the pub to park in the main street.

  There were uniforms working the houses along at the further end, but he’d stopped outside a cottage that looked more welcoming than the others, whitewashed and smartly painted, with window boxes full of geraniums; mostly Innellan didn’t believe in frivolities like that. He decided to try there first.

  The woman who came to the door was young and heavily pregnant, and either suspicious or frightened, Macdonald wasn’t sure which. She opened it no more than a crack; a toddler peered round her legs, looking at the caller with large, solemn eyes.

  Macdonald introduced himself, and she looked at him without enthusiasm. ‘I’ve just told the police I don’t know anything about all this,’ she said, making to shut the door.

  They obviously trained them young in this place – omertà, Scottish style. There was probably a word for it in the Gaelic.

  ‘I was just wanting to ask if you knew where I would find Calum Findlay?’

  ‘What are you wanting him for?’

  ‘Just routine,’ Macdonald said, with an ingratiating smile.

  ‘Out in his boat, likely,’ she said. ‘All right?’

  ‘Thanks so much for your help,’ he said, laying it on thick. ‘Is he a fisherman?’

  ‘Yes. Prawns, lobsters, that kind of thing. Goes out from Kirkcudbright.’

  She’d volunteered that, and she hadn’t actually closed the door. Maybe she was starting to appreciate his elusive charm. Pushing his luck, he asked, ‘Is that a family business?’

  ‘No. Went away down to Barrow-in-Furness – got into fishing there then came back and got his own boat.’

  ‘So his father wasn’t a fisherman.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then she shrugged. ‘Och, everyone knows anyway. Doesn’t have a father.’

  ‘So Mrs Findlay …?’

  ‘Miss.’

  The toddler was getting impatient, and started tugging at her. Before Macdonald could say anything else, she said, ‘Sorry, got to go,’ and shut the door.

  Macdonald turned away, not quite sure what that told him, except that he’d probably have to leave the late shift to contact Findlay, which was annoying. He’d noticed a small boat out in the bay, but there was nothing to say that it was his.

  And now …?

  His next task was to check out the caravan Lissa Lovatt had apparently been staying in. It seemed unlikely that there would be anything to see – it was just another boring box-ticking exercise, but it had to be done and he seemed to be on the naughty step at the moment. He glanced at the directions he’d been given and took the familiar track up behind the village, past the big caravan he’d spent so many summers in himself, now shut up for the winter.

  The one he was looking for was towards the end of the track. He’d wondered if it would be locked, but when he tried the door it opened. Even on this bright morning, the light was dim inside, with curtains closed on all the windows except the one looking out to the bay. It was a squalid little box, and clearly the owner’s generous impulse had consisted only of handing over the key. Even the water container stood empty.

  There was no sign of a suitcase or clothes: Lissa probably literally only had what she stood up in, after the fire. There was a bag of groceries dumped on the floor but she hadn’t unpacked it, so it looked as if she had spent very little time here before going to her horrible death, destitute and alone.

  Macdonald grimaced as he went out again, and fetched police tape to seal the door. He was driving back down to the village when he noticed Natalie Thomson walking briskly up the hill towards him. She looked as if she had been out for a walk and her cheeks were pink with the cold air.

  He stopped the car. ‘Hello! I thought you’d have left yesterday with the Saturday exodus.’

  She was a little out of breath. ‘I’m staying on for a few more days. Has something else happened? There seem to be an awful lot of police around. Is it to do with the fire?’

  ‘Not exactly. There’s – there’s been another … incident.’

  ‘Incident?’

  Macdonald hesitated. It would be on the midday TV news; he might as well give her the official version. ‘A woman was attacked on the island last night, by a dog, we understand. I’m afraid it was fatal.’

  ‘By a dog?’ She looked shocked. ‘How dreadful! Oh – not that dog that lives on the farm down there? It did look very dangerous. Has it been destroyed? It’s not still running loose?’

  ‘No, no,’ he reassured her. ‘They took it away first thing this morning.’

  ‘That’s good, I suppose – though the farmer will be very upset. I saw them out walking a couple of times and he was clearly devoted to it.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Macdonald said. He decided against telling her that Lovatt had been arrested; she’d find that out in due course. He told her, too, that the victim hadn’t been formally identified, and moved on to ask about her own movements.

  She had, she said, been away doing some sightseeing and then had supper in a pub afterwards. ‘You know – the one overlooking the harbour in Kirkcudbright. I can’t remember its name.’

  ‘The Moorings?’

  ‘That’s right. Then I came home.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anything unusual?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I turned in straight away and went out like a light. All this fresh air! I’ve never been so healthy.’

  Certainly, Macdonald thought, she was looking pretty good. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Let us know if anything occurs to you. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.’

  She smiled, then looking out towards the island, hesitated. ‘I … I suppose it depends,’ she said slowly. ‘You are sure the dog will be destroyed?’

  It was, he thought, the first sign of nervousness Natalie had shown, and he hurried to reassure her. ‘It’s not for me to say, of course. But it certainly won’t be running around again.’

  She nodded and turned away, while he set off back down the track.

  Fleming was thinking furiously as she was taken back to the mainland in sullen silence. MacNee had jumped to the wrong conclusion, but in the circumstances she would have done the same. She’d seen far too many sheep savaged by dogs out of control, and that was exactly how they attacked.

  The pathologist’s conclusion changed everything. They were looking now for someone who had gone for Lissa Lovatt with a bottle. It could be anyone, and the preliminary time-of-death assessment was mid afternoon to early evening.

  It was something of a problem that the person who sprang to mind was the girl Andy Macdonald had set his heart on. Lissa Lovatt had insisted that Christie Jack had set the house on fire to try to kill her. If so, when that failed, would she have taken it to the next stage – a direct attack? And, now Fleming thought about it, who was in a better position to let the stag out too? It was hard to see what the motivation for that could be, but the girl was by her own admission still suffering from war trauma. Her thinking processes might well not be what anyone else would see as normal.

  Getting back promptly to HQ was a priority. But if she stopped off at the Smugglers Inn she could have a word with the girl, get some impression of the situation.

  They reached the jetty and she stepped out. ‘I’m obliged, Mr …?’ she said.

  ‘Rafferty,’ the man replied ungraciously. ‘If it’s
any of your business.’

  Fleming gave a puzzled glance back at him as she walked off.

  ‘It’s horrifying,’ Elena Tindall said into the phone. ‘I just keep thinking, that could have been me. They don’t seem to be very good at keeping their dangerous animals under control around here. I’m only thankful it was the stag that went after me, not the dog.’

  She listened for a moment, then trilled a laugh. ‘Don’t be silly, Cal. Of course not.’

  He spoke again.

  ‘No, I’m not going to be chased away. I’ll go when I’m good and ready, OK?’

  Elena’s slate-blue eyes were cold as she switched off the mobile. Cal was beginning to get tiresome. She was tired of Eddie too. He’d called four times yesterday, but she hadn’t answered.

  It was irritating, really. Just when she was feeling so much better herself.

  Eddie Tindall looked round the motor showroom, frowning. He wasn’t happy with this, wasn’t happy at all, and it showed. Sunday was one of the busiest days in the motor trade and he’d better things to do than chase up details his manager should have noticed. Studying the deep-set lines on his boss’s expressive face, the man swallowed nervously.

  Tindall went over to the low table in the waiting area, and picked up a heavily thumbed, coffee-stained magazine. ‘We’re not selling old bangers and cut-and-shuts. This is a high-quality used-car showroom and our customers expect high-quality service. If you think you’re going to get away with out-of-date, grubby magazines, you and me are going to be parting company, sonny boy.’

  ‘One of the girls is meant to see to that,’ the man bleated, and Tindall rounded on him.

  ‘It’s your job to check on her, just like it’s my job to check on you. And look at that!’ He gestured towards the TV in the corner. ‘Who’s wanting to watch 24-hour news? You’ve a sports channel, haven’t you?’

  ‘I can change it now,’ the man said eagerly, going towards it. He had picked up the remote when there was a bark of, ‘Leave it!’ He turned, surprised.