Evil for Evil Page 35

  The sense of urgency possessed her, making it hard for her to sit still – or perhaps that was just lack of sleep. She got up and walked over to the window that looked out to the plane trees and down to the humdrum normality of the Kirkluce street below, but she wasn’t seeing it.

  They needed to establish how the recent events were related. From the time of the discovery of the body, these had escalated in seriousness from what could be described as petty vandalism to murder – and murder so cold-blooded that it looked as if it might have been staged so that a dog would be destroyed to punish its owner.

  Was there someone who cared about Andrew Smith – someone, perhaps, who had not known he was dead until the body was discovered? Someone who knew, or thought, that Matt Lovatt had killed him and was taking appropriate revenge?

  Perhaps he had, but Fleming was convinced that when it came to his wife’s death, at least, Lovatt was blameless. And the more she thought about it, the surer she was that the cold brutality of the two deaths was the sort of signature murderers left on their crimes, as distinctive as the scribble of an artist at the foot of a painting.

  That felt right. She let her mind run on those lines. Why, if you had killed Andrew Smith, would you choose the discovery of his body to embark on a high-profile series of crimes which would focus police attention on the present day rather than the past?

  She had no immediate answer. She could get the team thinking about that, see if anything emerged. And they’d all need to focus too on which of the lines of enquiry this had opened up should take priority.

  And if they got that wrong? Though the sun was streaming through the window on this sunny autumn afternoon, Fleming felt suddenly cold.

  Bill Fleming checked his phone, just in case he’d missed a call, and sighed. Oh well, he knew what was going on at the moment, and he should be used to it by now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There was a car outside the Findlays’ house when DS Macdonald went back at four o’clock. This was putting him under time pressure, but he’d been on his way to Innellan again when he got MacNee’s call about the meeting, briefing him on the most recent developments which included Hepburn being added to the team.

  It had been hard not to let his private fury show. The woman was a total bitch, but now, with a lucky guess, she’d got promoted to being Big Marge’s new best friend. So Macdonald had a choice – he could sulk in the corner of the playground, or try to play himself back into the game. Checking out Findlay meant that at least he would get first crack at putting the Andrew Smith/Lovatt question, and maybe that would bust the whole case wide open and he’d be flavour of the month. A man can dream.

  He rang the bell but there was no answer. Macdonald swore. There was the car, so had the man seen him arrive and taken cover? Possible, certainly, but he’d no proof. Findlay could just have come home from work, then gone out for a wee walk, or to see someone. Kicking in doors without solid reason could seriously damage your professional health.

  He looked nervously at his watch. He couldn’t afford to be late with Fleming already set, in her much-mocked phrase, to have his guts for garters. In some frustration, he walked to the fence by the edge of the bluff and peered over without much hope.

  It was high tide and the causeway was submerged, but there was a man on the promontory leading to it, a hunched figure sitting on the rocks, staring out across the bay towards the island. Findlay? Not necessarily, but it was worth a shot.

  There was a sort of rough path further along and Macdonald scrambled down it to the foreshore. He could see there was activity on the island, where a line of stooped uniforms seemed to be doing a back-breaking fingertip search. There were definite advantages to being CID.

  There was no reaction from the man, though he thought it unlikely that he hadn’t heard him coming up. Certainly, he wasn’t startled when Macdonald said, ‘Calum Findlay?’

  He turned his head, and Macdonald scented blood. This wasn’t someone who had gone out on a sunny afternoon to admire the undoubted beauty of the seascape. This man looked numb with misery, hollow-cheeked, and with black rings under his eyes. At the sight of the warrant card he visibly quivered.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just a wee chat,’ Macdonald said. He sat down on the rocks just slightly too close and noticed with sardonic amusement the other man’s instinctive recoil.

  ‘What … what can I do for you?’ Findlay said, with a pathetic attempt at jauntiness, while his hand went to his mouth and he began gnawing at a nail which was bitten to the quick already.

  ‘Andrew Lovatt.’

  The shock registered. Findlay’s mouth fell open as he gasped. ‘Wh–what about him?’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Yeah, well, yeah, of course.’ He was stuttering, looking out to sea to avoid his questioner’s eyes. ‘He … he grew up here – old Mrs Lovatt’s son. Drew Lovatt. Course I knew him. Everyone did.’

  ‘Did you know him as Andrew Smith?’

  There was a chill breeze, but Macdonald could see Findlay had started to sweat. He could smell the fear as the pause lengthened. Weighing up the odds, Macdonald reckoned. What did the police know? If he denied it, would he be caught out?

  A verbal nudge might help things along. ‘You knew him as Andrew Smith, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, well, yes, I suppose so,’ Findlay muttered at last.

  Macdonald didn’t say anything, only raised his eyebrows.

  At last, Findlay went on, ‘You see, there was a big bust-up with him and his mum, and his granddad had a trawler down in Barrow. His dad was dead so he went to take it on. I wanted to be a fisherman so I got a job off him, worked down there to get a bit of money then came back here. That’s all.’ His story had the ring of truth, and he was clinging to it like a lifeline.

  Macdonald moved on. ‘So he called himself Smith down there?’ Findlay nodded, and he went on, ‘And when it was announced it was his body in the cave, you didn’t tell us you knew him?’

  ‘You never asked me. Common enough name.’

  Damn! That was true enough, and he could hear himself blustering as he said, ‘And you didn’t think, since we’d been interviewing everyone in the village, you might have come to speak to us?’

  ‘I don’t listen to local gossip.’

  Again, Macdonald was baulked. He tried another tack. ‘So – when did you decide to come back here, then?’

  ‘Didn’t decide, really. He had to give up the boat.’

  ‘Give it up?’

  There was another long, long pause. Macdonald knew enough not to break it; he could almost hear the words whirling round in the man’s head as he made his calculations. What have they found out already? If I tell them, will it be better or worse?

  Findlay said, ‘He was a gambler, Drew. He’d a good business, could have done really well. Couldn’t stop himself, though. That’s how he fell out with his mother. She wouldn’t pay any more.’

  ‘So he left, changed his name …?’

  ‘Then threw away his grandfather’s business too.’

  There was useful bitterness there. Macdonald homed in on it.

  ‘You didn’t get what he’d offered you when you followed him down to Barrow?’

  ‘You could say. Came home, took a mortgage on a boat, thought I could make it on my own, but you know what they’ve done to the fishing. And now I’m stuck with her.’ He jerked his head up, towards the house. ‘Can’t afford to get out.’

  Poor bastard, Macdonald thought, but poor woman, too. Those cries of ‘Help me! Help me!’ had totally spooked Campbell, and he’d thought of them since himself, too. Even so, poor bastard. Still, he had a job to do.

  ‘So you came back here, when?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight years ago. Something like that.’

  Findlay had regained quite a lot of control as he related what Macdonald was prepared to believe was the truth. He needed shaking out of it.

  ‘So you wer
e here when it happened?’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’ Findlay’s face had gone blank, but one hand crept towards his mouth again and he bit at his thumbnail.

  ‘When Andrew Smith, Lovatt, whatever you like, was murdered? Ten, twelve years ago, or thereabouts, the labs are telling us.’

  Findlay took his hand down from his mouth, then grasped it with the other hand as if to restrict it from the telltale activity. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Whoever killed him was probably some big guy he owed money to.’

  ‘That’ll be right,’ Macdonald said, taking no trouble to hide the sneer in his voice. ‘Criminal gangs, they operate all the time here in Innellan.’

  It was a mistake. Findlay’s face set. He shrugged. ‘Believe what you like. I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘What about the murder last night, then?’

  ‘Don’t know anything about that either,’ Findlay said, but he started to shiver, his teeth chattering together. Before Macdonald could say anything, he got up. ‘It’s getting cold. If you want to ask me anything more, you can come back to the house.’

  Macdonald took another look at his watch. There were more big questions – a lot more – he planned to ask, but given what Findlay had said already, he’d be wise to have the next interview properly recorded. He didn’t want to piss Big Marge off by being late either.

  He climbed back up the path behind Findlay. When he said, ‘I think that’s all. Thanks for your help,’ Findlay gave him a look of incredulous relief and retreated inside like a rabbit into its burrow.

  Back in his car, Macdonald was grinning as he set off down to the village. Oh, he was looking forward to squeezing that one till the pips squeaked.

  As he passed the end of the track to the chalets, he saw Natalie Thomson’s car turning on to it. She was a strange one, that. Who, coming on holiday and finding the sort of mayhem that was going on here, the place infested by police officers and a murderer on the loose, not only carries on regardless, but extends the let?

  A little niggle edged at his mind. In any case like this, you were always alert for the things, and the people, that somehow didn’t fit. But then he reached the main street and glancing left saw the Smugglers Inn, which reminded him of Christie, Christie who, whatever troubles she had caused him – like, plenty – still had a grip on him. He couldn’t understand it. He’d always seen himself as pretty grounded, and this certainly wasn’t rational. In trying to work it out, without success, the little niggle disappeared from his mind.

  Eddie Tindall had been trying to keep a car or two between him and his quarry but, as Elena turned on to smaller and smaller roads, that became more and more difficult. He was overtaken once by a police car, but then it overtook Elena as well so it hadn’t helped. How long would it be before she glanced in the mirror and recognised him? He didn’t even have a hat or sunglasses in the car.

  He drew into the side and dug out a map. With some relief he realised it was a dead-end road she’d taken; she had to be heading for the place where that woman had been killed. He’d always reckoned only sick people did that. Surely she wasn’t going to gawp, his elegant, fastidious wife? Perhaps the retreat she had talked about just happened to be down here.

  Anyway, he could relax now so he waited for a minute or two, to be on the safe side, before heading down the road after her. When he reached the village by the side of the bay, there was no sign of her but there were plenty of police cars about the place, and he could see officers going from door to door. There seemed to be photographers and even someone filming with a camera labelled BBC, too.

  You wouldn’t think a dog attack would generate that kind of interest. Eddie drove on through to where the road ended, down by the shore, frowning. Unless, it suddenly struck him, the killer dog was still on the loose? He had a sudden lurch of fear at the thought of the danger to Elena – would she be wise enough not to go wandering about?

  Where was she, anyway? Her car was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps the retreat wasn’t actually here; perhaps it was beside the road somewhere and he hadn’t noticed it. He’d certainly passed one or two big houses.

  There was quite a bit of coming and going at the local pub, he noticed. He could always ask there, and just as he reached it someone drove out of the small, crowded car park. He tucked the car into the free space and went inside.

  The bar was busy, and the woman serving was looking flustered. Some of her clients had cameras round their necks, and it looked as if most of the others were media too. Eddie headed for the far end of the room, where there were two or three men sitting together who looked as if they might be more likely to have local knowledge.

  ‘Busy today,’ he said cheerfully.

  The only response to his greeting was a brief nod, and the man nearest to him half-turned his shoulder. Not what you’d call a chatty lot.

  It was a few minutes before the woman came to take his order, and she didn’t look inclined to chat either – understandable with someone else calling another order to her already. However, as he fumbled deliberately with change he said, ‘I was wondering if you’d seen a friend of mine that’s holidaying around here – Elena Tindall.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, sorry.’

  Eddie looked at the change in his hand then said, ‘Oh, dear, I’ll have to give you a note.’ He dug in his hip pocket. ‘She’s very slim, pretty, blonde …’

  The woman frowned. ‘Sounds like the lady that got chased by a stag. She was staying up in the chalets there but the papers said her name was Natalie Thomson. Thank you, sir.’

  She took the note he held out, then turned to fetch change. He didn’t wait to get it, or to finish the whisky in front of him.

  ‘I’ve come to confess,’ Derek Sorley said.

  The young constable, detailed to deal with this random punter who had wandered in off the street and demanded to speak to DI Fleming, stared at him. She’d taken his full name and address and now the word ‘Innellan’ on the form in front of her seemed to stand out in huge letters. ‘Con–confess?’ she squeaked.

  ‘Yes. So I need to speak to a senior officer.’ Sorley withered her with a look. ‘Find one, will you? Preferably Inspector Fleming.’

  ‘Wait here,’ she said and hurried out as he gave her a patronising smirk.

  When she returned, along with a uniformed sergeant, his face fell. ‘What’s this? A senior officer, I said.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ he said stolidly. ‘I’m a senior officer. I understand you wish to confess to murder, and I’m here to escort you to an interview room.’

  ‘Murder? I’m not here to confess to murder!’ Sorley’s face, crumpling into dismay, was comical. ‘I’m here to explain to DI Fleming that though my friends and I were responsible for releasing a stag from its pen last week – just a foolish prank, you understand – we had absolutely nothing to do with any subsequent event. I felt it was my duty as a citizen to make this clear, since it may be confusing the investigation into these dreadful crimes.’

  ‘I see, sir. Well, I’m sure DI Fleming will be very grateful, but she’s a bit tied up at the moment. However, I’m fully competent to take your statement confessing to the deliberate release of a dangerous animal – look, my constable’s been writing it down already. And I’m sure you’re wise, sir. An early confession plays very well in the courts. Now, let’s take it right from the start.’

  ‘Nice work, Andy.’ Fleming had listened to Macdonald’s report with considerable interest, not only for the quality of the information. He seemed fully engaged now, not obsessing over Christie Jack; with Hepburn on the team, he’d clearly reckoned he had something to prove. She’d always believed in teamwork, but a spot of rivalry might be just the kick up the backside Macdonald needed.

  He’d always been hard-working, extremely competent, completely reliable. Not imaginative, though, not a risk-taker. Yet today he’d taken a punt on an idea and chanced annoying the hell out of her by being late. Fleming couldn’t remember the last time
he’d been late for a team meeting.

  He’d burst in, full of apologies, and he’d had to sit on the table at the back since she only kept three chairs in her office. When there were four in the team, it was instructive to see who chose to perch on the table; it was usually a signal of disengagement.

  Macdonald, though, dominated the meeting from his perch. He was possibly unconscious of the triumphant glance he had shot at Hepburn as he finished his report. Fortunately, Hepburn didn’t seem to have noticed it either.

  ‘It’s beginning to come together,’ Fleming said. ‘Get off a request to Cumbria Police Authority for anything they can dig up on Andrew Smith, Andy. We need an immediate follow-up on Calum Findlay – you and Ewan can get yourselves down there after we finish. Door to doors are going to bring in a lot more stuff, now we know who we’re talking about. And I’ve been passed a note through saying that Derek Sorley has confessed that he and his nasty little pals let the stag out but denies with some passion that he’d anything to do with the rest. Where do we start?’

  ‘It’s an embarras de richesses,’ MacNee said with a sly grin at Hepburn. Everyone looked taken aback, including Hepburn; the accent really was atrocious.

  ‘We still have to start somewhere,’ Fleming said hastily. ‘Drew Lovatt’s bust-up with his mother over the gambling debts; let’s take it from there. What happened in the years between leaving here and being returned to die?’

  ‘Went on gambling,’ MacNee said. ‘Got himself arrested in bad company. Debts got worse. They always do.’

  ‘We’re coming round to organised crime again, aren’t we?’ Fleming said. ‘And you could make a case – he’d talked about where he came from, they thought it would be a good place to leave him undiscovered.’