Evil for Evil Page 5

But there was that niggle at the back of his mind: the way she had looked last night. He could always tell when she was stressing, even when he’d no idea why, and where Elena was concerned anything out of the ordinary set his nerves on edge.

  ‘Where?’ DS MacNee said. ‘Never heard of it.’

  He jotted down location and details from the officer in Kirkcudbright, put down the phone with a groan then checked on the huge Ordnance Survey map on one wall.

  He was alone in the CID room. He’d managed to farm out interviews arising from last night’s fracas and after an extended shift yesterday felt smugly entitled to a quiet morning with a wee bit of gentle catching-up and maybe a chat to Sergeant Jock Naismith, always abreast of the station gossip. Now with Andy Macdonald off on leave and Ewan Campbell out doing interviews, he’d have to take this one himself – at least an hour’s journey with a boat trip at the end. MacNee could feel sick going ‘doon the watter’ on a Clyde ferry, and that was before they left the pier. He set off thinking bitterly of Campbell, out on what now looked like a real doss, just standing listening to folk for a while before he came back for his pie and beans.

  The sunshine and the scenery didn’t cheer him. MacNee had a townie’s distaste for anything involving fresh air and mud, and the tractor drawing a horsebox which kept his speed to nineteen miles an hour on a narrow road bounded by stone walls for a quarter of an hour didn’t improve his temper.

  The local constable was obviously getting his knickers in a right twist. A couple of messages had come through from HQ asking for an ETA, and MacNee’s responses had got sharper and sharper. With the time the victim had waited already, another half-hour wasn’t going to make a whole lot of difference. Anyway, a historian was likely to be more interested than the police.

  But here at last was the small village he was looking for – just a wee street of houses straggling along the edge of the bay. Bonny enough, MacNee admitted grudgingly, with the islands out there and the sun shining.

  The Smugglers Inn was halfway down the street. There was a badged car in its small car park with a young constable beside it, looking spare. As MacNee drove in, he turned, a hopeful expression on his round pink face.

  It wasn’t easy to get space to park, with three other cars and too many people around, and MacNee noted darkly that one had a professional-looking camera. He slotted the car in beside a shrub with small pink flowers, swarming with wasps. He batted at them irritably as he got out.

  The constable hurried across. ‘DS MacNee? PC Hendry, sir. Glad to see you. It’s been a wee thing tricky—’

  He was immediately joined by the man with the camera, holding up a card. ‘Tony Drummond. Press. You took your time!’

  MacNee assessed him sourly: mid-forties, balding a bit, paunch, but with sharp brown eyes. Not with a national; he recognised the name from his byline in the local paper and he probably acted for a news agency too. That explained Hendry’s anxiety – he’d be pressured by the man trying to protect his scoop.

  ‘Well, Mr Drummond,’ he drawled, ‘I can’t tell you anything till I’ve had a word with the officer here. So perhaps you’d let me do that, while you wait, say – over there?’ He gestured towards the wasp-infested bush. Seemed appropriate.

  Drummond laughed. ‘Ah, Sergeant, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m the one you want to talk to, not Doug here.’

  The look MacNee gave Hendry at this evidence of fraternising with the enemy reduced him to stammering. ‘Mr Drummond – it was him found the body – well, the bones.’

  ‘I see,’ MacNee said stiffly. ‘Better give me the facts, then, sir. Constable, have you arranged a boat?’

  ‘No need,’ Drummond said promptly. ‘I’ll take you out myself.’

  ‘Good of you,’ MacNee said, with an ill grace. It was entirely unsatisfactory, but what else could he do? And those others – interested locals, no doubt, half a dozen men and one woman with blonded hair who was giving him a friendly smile.

  MacNee didn’t return it. He went to speak to them. ‘Right, lady and gents. Any useful information, speak to PC Hendry here. Otherwise, you may as well go home. There’ll be nothing happening for a good wee while.’

  There was some disgruntled muttering, mainly from a big man wearing farmer’s dungarees and a surly expression, but they moved off to stand in a huddle at the other end. The woman hesitated.

  ‘I’m Georgia Stanley, the licensee. I’ll be opening at twelve. If you want a cuppa before then, just come round the other side and knock on the door.’

  MacNee produced a grin. ‘Thanks. I might take you up on that.’

  Georgia looked a little doubtful but MacNee was used by now to that reaction to his gap-toothed smile. He turned to Drummond.

  ‘Right. Let’s get on with it. Not far, is it?’

  Elena Tindall left without acknowledging her husband’s secretary. She never did, if she could help it – impertinent old bag! She’d hinted to Eddie about getting rid of her but for once he’d been adamant: business was business and Marianne was the best you could get. Elena had backed off. She didn’t care that much, anyway.

  Outside, she hailed a taxi. ‘Primark,’ she said.

  The driver looked at her with some surprise. She looked more the Selfridges type, but he reckoned keeping his mouth shut was the way to a decent tip. The iceberg type seldom appreciated a bit of banter.

  It paid off: she tipped him a fiver. He watched as she disappeared inside, shrugged, then drove on.

  Half an hour later Elena came out carrying several large bags, hailed another cab and gave her home address.

  When she got out of the lift into the elegant lobby on the penthouse level, she held her breath as she opened the front door. If Lola was polishing the hall floor …

  She wasn’t. The parquet was gleaming, the huge, shaggy, white chrysanthemums in the Chinese vases were fresh that morning, the mirrored console table sparkled, but there was no sign of her housekeeper. She wasn’t in the master bedroom either, and Elena could get the bags through to her walk-in closet unnoticed. She touched a wardrobe door; it swung open and she tucked them out of sight.

  It wasn’t that Lola spied on her, or anything. Lola was just very chatty and when Eddie came home he’d pump her for every detail of Elena’s departure. Oh, Elena knew he kept tabs on her, but it didn’t bother her. She didn’t have a lover; she’d had more than enough of men. She just needed breaks when Eddie’s obsessional devotion began to stifle her, and with nothing to hide she’d made it easy for him to check. Not this time.

  ‘Morning, Lola,’ she said, walking into the Philippe Starck kitchen where Lola was wiping the polished marble worktop. ‘Could I ask you to do something for me just now?’

  Lola, a bright-faced Spanish woman in a neat pink overall with a navy butcher’s apron on top, turned immediately. ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Tindall.’

  Elena found Lola very restful. She was suitably aware of having a good job and a generous employer, and she did what she was asked without discussion or fuss.

  ‘Could you please run round with this to the cleaners?’ Elena was holding one of Eddie’s suits. ‘I think he might want it tomorrow, so if you could get them to do the express service then pop it back in his closet …’

  Lola agreed with alacrity, removing her apron and taking the suit from her employer. As she went, Elena called after her, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m going to be away for a little while. Look after Eddie for me, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure, madame! I get something good for his dinner tonight – you know how not happy he is when you go away.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks, Lola.’ A moment later she heard the front door shut and smiled again. Lola wouldn’t hurry back: a friend of hers had a coffee shop nearby, and Lola always enjoyed an excuse.

  Elena returned to her bedroom. She glanced at the huge bed, with its Egyptian cotton sheets and soft down pillows, with a wry twist of her mouth. It wouldn’t be like that tonight. What care I for a goose-feather bed …

  She did
care a bit, actually. She gave a little shiver.

  As she took the bags out of her closet and pulled out her purchases, she glanced at her watch; the agency would be open now.

  She had no difficulty booking a chalet, and she could pay in cash when she reached Kirkcudbright. She’d reserved a hire car, using the credit card Eddie didn’t know she had and a pay-as-you-go phone. She’d a secret bank account too; it wasn’t difficult to build it up when you regularly withdrew money but paid for everything on a credit card, and she’d a useful arrangement with a dress agency for her last season’s clothes. Eddie was never interested in what she spent. He was buying her presence, and he was a generous man.

  Elena had no idea how long she would be away this time. He’d be terrified she’d left him and keeping him happy would be hard work. She’d have to be meticulous about keeping in touch or he’d start calling in private dicks, the police – the army, if he could swing it.

  Unclasping the costume jewellery, Elena put it in a velvet-lined drawer in her dressing table. She folded the cashmere sweater and laid it on a shelf with others in a dozen colours and styles. The linen dress went into the laundry basket, but she didn’t take off the Elle Macpherson underwear. There were limits.

  Cheap jeans – she’d forgotten how uncomfortable they were. And the T-shirt wasn’t sewn quite square – dreadful fabric, too. She hesitated; surely one T-shirt was much like another except to the person wearing it and she had a drawerful – but no. She must play the part to the point where she wasn’t playing a part any more, where she was the girl she’d been before Elena was born, when new clothes of any sort had been a treat.

  She stuffed the rest of her purchases into a holdall and gathered up the bags they’d come in. There were bins in the garage basement and if she took the lift down there the concierge wouldn’t see her leaving and wonder. Eddie would talk to him as well.

  At the door, she hesitated. She was afraid, for all sorts of reasons. Even now, she could cancel, head for a spa hotel instead … Luxury had always been her drug of choice.

  Like any other addiction, it solved nothing. The gnawing inside was only briefly assuaged and its destructive effect was increasing. Elena was struggling, and here at last was her chance of closure. Just a chance – but nothing else seemed to give her peace of mind. Peace of mind – how beautiful that sounded! All she needed was courage, and a bit of luck. Perhaps she’d just had the luck and she’d proved long ago she had courage.

  Yet still she hesitated. Then, very slowly, as if it were almost against her will, Elena went back to the velvet-lined drawer. Right at the back there was a dainty Victorian penknife, silver and mother-of-pearl; she looked at it for a moment before picking it up. She opened it, checked the razor edge of the slim, shiny steel blade and clicking it shut again put it in a pocket of her jeans. As an afterthought, she picked up two wide cuff bangles of engraved silver, tucked them into the holdall and left.

  There was no one in the lift, or in the basement garage. With the bags safely disposed of, she loaded her luggage into her silver Mercedes coupé, then drove up the ramp and out of the building.

  MacNee noticed with relief that the island indicated, Lovatt, was only a few hundred yards offshore – only to have his hopes dashed as Drummond headed the boat towards the farther end.

  ‘The cave’s round the other side. There’s a ridge of rocks between the island and the shore at this end, a sort of causeway – you can walk across it at low tide.’

  MacNee nodded. Speaking didn’t appeal at the moment. The sea, which had looked billiard-table flat from the shore, seemed to have nasty little bumpy bits when you were speeding across it.

  Drummond was clueing him in and it helped if MacNee concentrated on that. It was a straightforward enough story; nasty shock for the poor kids, though. He was even preening himself on getting his sea legs when Drummond said, ‘There it is,’ and headed for a hollow in the cliffs. Surely in there, sheltered from the waves, it would be better too.

  It wasn’t, of course. In the confined space the waves bounced off the walls, swirled and jostled, slapping playfully at the sides of the boat. MacNee turned green just as Drummond said, ‘There’s one little detail I didn’t mention to the constable.’ He picked up the torch and shone it up.

  The skull grinned down. Drummond moved the beam to the wall behind, focusing it on a limb pinned to the wall, caught by the iron staple. The hand bones had fallen and only an arm bone was left, and round it, also resting on the metal, was an unmistakably modern man’s wristwatch.

  At which point MacNee, to his utter humiliation, vomited.

  ‘Cat, if you’re taking anything more, it won’t fit into the car,’ Bill said. ‘You’ll be home again in a week or two. You’re not needing everything you’re going to want for the next five years.’

  ‘I’m not!’ Cat said defensively. ‘I just don’t know exactly what I’ll want yet and if it’s too much I can always bring it home again. Anyway, this is the last.’

  She held out a cardboard box. Bill looked doubtfully at it, then at the boot.

  ‘It’ll have to go inside between the two of you.’ Cat, shrugging, put it into the car where Cammie was already sitting waiting.

  ‘Go up and take another look round, why don’t you?’ he suggested. ‘I bet there’s like another trunk or two of clothes you really really need. And of course this is a mega-cool way of spending a morning – sitting in the car.’

  Cat pulled a face at him. ‘I’m ready now, anyway. Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Give her a shout,’ Bill said.

  Cat disappeared back into the house. ‘Mum! We’re ready!’ she shouted.

  Marjory called back, ‘I’m right there.’ Pressing the button to start the dishwasher, she headed out of the kitchen.

  Then the phone went.

  MacNee watched as Drummond, smirking, swung the boat round and headed back. He was standing on a ledge just to the side of the cave; above him a steep slope of rocks and rough grass, below him the sea.

  Drummond had been reluctant to leave him there, but anything was better than sailing right round the island again, no doubt giving Drummond even more humorous copy for his rag – though at least he’d directed the man to lose his camera before they’d set out. From the other side of the island, it really would only be five minutes back to Innellan, and he’d have time to recover while he waited for Fleming to be brought out and shown the site.

  He glanced up again. There were plenty of footholds, but they weren’t necessarily stable and he was no mountaineer. And the further he climbed, the greater the drop below.

  But it was dry land. MacNee comforted himself with that. He’d made his decision: Drummond mustn’t come back to find him still there, being feeble about climbing as well as sailing. Welcome what thou can’st not shun, he reminded himself, having his usual recourse to Scotland’s Bard. Reaching above his head, he tested a handhold and began the climb.

  The worst thing was the nausea and dizziness. It hadn’t stopped when the boat did, and soon he was having to cower into the slope, taking deep breaths before attempting the next step. It made MacNee careless; he put his foot on a tuft of grass which had grown on a loose stone. With a cry and another lurch of his suffering stomach he felt it give beneath his weight and bounce down, down into the waves below.

  His desperate grip on a more stable rock above saved him. He thought he might be sick again from sheer terror, but with an act of willpower controlled it and after a moment or two found a safer foothold. Doggedly, he began the climb once more. There wasn’t much else he could do.

  Don’t look down. Test. Don’t startle when you test and it breaks off. Don’t pass out. Look up. The top’s nearer now, nearer … With one last, frantic effort he heaved himself up on to the level ground beyond, digging his nails into the friendly turf as if to clamp himself on.

  At last MacNee sat up, feeling a bit better – experiencing a certain pride, even. It prompted him to crawl across to look back over the edge
, then he regretted it. Even from a safe position, the drop was stomach-churning.

  Enough! He’d a job to do. MacNee got to his feet and found his phone. He hated to do this to the boss; he knew what was at stake for her with Cat, who’d always been demanding. But with Drummond going to file his story anytime now, he could hardly tell him the Senior Investigating Officer would be along when she got back from taking her daughter to the uni.

  Fleming’s voice went absolutely flat as she agreed that yes, she would have to come. MacNee had just put his phone back in his pocket when he heard the shot.

  He took off, sprinting towards the sound, sending a couple of deer leaping away in fright. He reached the top of the hill and paused, breathing hard.

  Near the trees, a man with a rifle was standing over a fallen deer. Close by, two others were browsing in the undergrowth, apparently unmoved, until MacNee’s headlong arrival sent them, too, starting away.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted.

  The man turned, lowering the rifle. ‘I could say the same to you, Jimmy. This is private property.’

  It was a familiar accent. And now MacNee looked, he recognised the man too. And he’d have been glad never to see him again.

  ‘Well now, Brodie,’ he drawled with evident distaste, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure. Poaching now, is it?’

  Brodie looked more closely. ‘Oh God, MacNee! What did I do to deserve this?’

  – I did not scream. Today my hand’s painful, yes, but already it feels freer since I wrote the words – I did not scream. I’ve never been able to tell anyone that I could have screamed.

  When he left, I was shaking in terror. He had gone – I could call out now … But I was too afraid. My twin needed my help, but all I did was cry, burrowing my face in the pillow to stifle the dangerous sound.

  Then I don’t remember anything, until I woke next morning, thinking it was a dream. Even now, I wonder if my memory is totally clear – but what I do know is that when I sat up in our bedroom, with the pink gingham curtains blowing in the breeze from the sea outside, my sister’s toy elephant, Nellie, loved into formlessness, was lying on the floor by her bed. But she wasn’t there.