The Darkness and the Deep Page 6

  Fleming came round the desk to shake his hand. He was fractionally shorter than she was.

  ‘DC Kingsley. Good to have you join us. I hope you’re not going to find it too quiet here in the sticks, after the big city.’

  Damn, why had she said that? It sounded touchy, defensive.

  He had a pleasant smile which gave absolutely nothing away. ‘Not at all. I like the area – I’ve sailed a bit down here.’

  At least he spoke the flat, Estuary English standard with the young and not with a ‘plum-in-the-mouth’ accent, but even so Fleming groaned inwardly. A yachtie as well as a graduate and an Englishman who looked as if he’d be as much use as a schoolkid if things turned nasty – how was that going to play with the lads downstairs?

  She made the usual perfunctory enquiries about accommodation and other practicalities, then moved on to his experience of the Edinburgh drugs scene and found herself, like the ACC, impressed. He knew his stuff. She’d read endless papers and reports on the subject, of course, with increasing concentration lately as drug-taking, once seen as an urban blight, had taken deep and deadly root in her own patch. She’d even attended a course on the problem, but that was no substitute for hands-on experience. Kingsley’s scientific background, too, was clearly an advantage; he was outlining some of the lab procedures now.

  ‘You mean,’ she asked, ‘that given two samples of a drug it would be possible to state categorically that they came from the same source?’

  ‘Pretty much. Under analysis there would be features – a comparable level of adulteration, for instance – which would indicate they were at least from the same batch.’

  ‘Right. So say we had three drugs finds in different places in the district, we could expect the labs to tell us whether they all came from the same supplier or from three different ones? Establish a sort of tracking pattern?’

  ‘It could do. You just need to get your hands on the stuff.’

  ‘Which was presumably where your undercover work in Edinburgh came in? Unfortunately, you’d find that a bit tricky here.’

  He looked a surprised enquiry.

  ‘In a rural community, where everyone knows everyone, you tend to be a marked man. The criminal fraternity will make it their business to clock you as soon as possible, though you’ve probably got a few weeks’ grace. But then of course the other thing – I hate to be personal, but it’s your accent. It’s not like Edinburgh where they’ve almost as many English students as Scots ones – you’d stick out like a sore thumb if you started hanging about in the bars here.’

  Kingsley smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t have to talk like this. I’ve been assured that my Scots accent is pretty convincing.’

  Fleming tried not to wince noticeably. She’d heard too many Englishmen smugly doing a ‘see-you-Jimmie’ and never would be too soon to hear another one. ‘I’m sure it is,’ she said hastily, ‘but I think we’ll pass on that one.’

  He gave a shrug. ‘Suit yoursel’. It’s no’ a problem.’

  She stared at him. He’d got it absolutely right: not implausibly broad, the merest hint of a sing-song intonation and those lazily dropped final letters. ‘You’re good,’ she admitted.

  ‘Self-protection. It saved a lot of hassle in the Edinburgh pubs on an International Saturday when England had won, kept me out of quite a few fights, I reckon, and then of course it came in handy professionally as well. I was always a good mimic – got into a lot of trouble that way when I was at school.’

  ‘Did you, indeed?’ Fleming said dryly. ‘I can imagine a “Big Marge” impression going down very well here. Did you know they call me Big Marge?’

  For the first time he showed signs of being rattled. ‘Er – er,’ he stammered.

  She enjoyed that. ‘I like to tell myself it’s affectionate. That’s affectionate as in, “She’s OK unless you screw up when there was an alternative.” All right?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Message understood.’

  ‘Thanks, Jonathan. Now, can you find your way back to the CID room? Good. I’ve had them sort out some files for you to read to bring you up to speed. Oh, and by the way – I wouldn’t go displaying your linguistic skills until they know you a bit better. They might think you were taking the mickey.’

  And was she entirely sure that he wouldn’t be? When he left, Fleming got up from her desk and walked over to the window of her office. It was on the fourth floor; she had a view out over the roofs of the market town of Kirkluce and down into the main street. The sun was still shining, but now it was a troubled sky with gold-tinged, purplish clouds massing over to the west, and a blustering wind was stripping the dying leaves from the branches of the trees lining the pavement below. In farming, you lived close to the weather; Fleming could see now all the signs of a gathering storm. She tried to resist the temptation to see it as symbolic.

  It wasn’t easy to know what to make of the new officer. He was highly intelligent, that was for sure, and he’d come from a specialist drugs unit, something they didn’t have the manpower to run here. He might bring a more cutting edge to the drugs operation which was presently at the head of her agenda, and he was undoubtedly a very cool customer, not the sort to allow himself to be riled by the more abrasive members of the team. Like Tam.

  Tam was still standing on his dignity. She’d tried to frame a suitable apology but it was difficult; it wasn’t the words she had used which had caused the trouble, it was Tam’s inferring from them that she was accusing him of being unprofessional. She’d told him she hadn’t meant that and received only an uncompromising ‘No, likely not,’ in response, but she couldn’t say she’d been wrong to think his treatment of an English colleague might be insensitive. She knew damn well it would have been, and so did he; he would see an apology of that nature as despicably insincere. And he’d be right. Stalemate.

  The ringing of the phone on her desk made her jump and look at her watch. Was that really ten o’clock already? She hadn’t time to waste worrying about Tam’s wounded feelings. She’d just go on treating him as she always did and sooner or later he’d unbend. Surely.

  Jon Kingsley settled down in a corner of the CID room, an untidy pile of files beside him. He’d taken off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair with his tie in the pocket, then unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. The natives seemed relatively friendly: Tansy Kerr had brought him a cup of coffee, looking a bit more cheerful now than she had immediately after her mauling from Big Marge.

  Big Marge. It was the first time he’d had a woman boss and he wasn’t sure what that was going to be like. She had a formidable presence: that was partly her height – he had felt dwarfed beside her, though he was around average height for a man – but there was something about those shrewd hazel eyes too which made you feel as if she could look further into you than you would choose to have anyone do. Tough-minded and down-to-earth as well, he reckoned, unlike his previous DI, who prided himself on being a hard man who never missed a trick, but fell like timber for a well-chosen line. From what he had already gathered, playing games with DI Fleming would be a high-risk occupation, but there would be ways to handle her too, of course, once he’d sussed out what they were.

  If he wanted to get off to a good start, he’d better get on with reading through this lot. He took a swig of coffee, then had a preliminary sift through the contents of the folders, most of which seemed to relate to the on-going drugs investigation, code-named Operation Songbird. His lips twitched appreciatively at the name; in this line of work the breakthrough seldom came if you couldn’t find a canary who was prepared to sing.

  He picked up the most recent file of reports first. They seemed to be going on a theory that the stuff was coming in through fishing ports in the south of the area – presumably he’d find the evidence this was based on as he worked back through. The name Knockhaven featured, and one of the most recent additions was from DS Tam MacNee who’d been pursuing one Willie Duncan these last couple of days.

  Tam MacNee – he
’d met him. Short, stocky chap, thick Glasgow accent, pitted skin and a gap between his front teeth when he smiled, which he hadn’t, much, and certainly not at his new colleague. The perfectly balanced Scotsman, no doubt, with a chip on both shoulders where the English were concerned. The other detectives had been severally pleasant, inquisitive, offhand or preoccupied, with only MacNee giving off vibes of controlled hostility. He clearly carried a lot of clout round here too, more than the other DS he’d met, Greig Allan who seemed a rather colourless individual.

  Well, usual new boy’s rules: keep your head below the parapet, speak when you’re spoken to and get on with your work. He addressed himself to the job, speed-reading the history of the investigation, until Tansy Kerr took pity on him and offered to take him down to the canteen for lunch.

  Ashley Randall unwrapped the sandwiches it had been her turn to collect from the ‘8 ’til Late’, to be consumed at home during their usually brief lunch-hour. Lewis was back ahead of her and had already laid out the plates on the glass table in their sleek, minimalist kitchen with its state-of-the-art cooking appliances, though the only one which showed much evidence of use was the microwave.

  He was pouring Badoit into two glasses. ‘I’m going to have to eat and run today. I’ve promised Martin a consultation before afternoon surgery.’

  ‘What is it this time – heart disease or cancer?’ Ashley had very little sympathy with Martin Matthews, their hypochondriac partner. ‘You should refer him to me. I’d prescribe a low-fat, no-alcohol, strict-exercise regime and he’d make a miraculous overnight recovery.’

  Lewis glanced at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. ‘Oh, you’re probably right. On the other hand, you have to remember that he’s very popular with the patients and he’s a good colleague. You know how often he’s been happy to cover for you when you have lifeboat duty.’

  Ashley was setting out the sandwiches; her hand hovered for a fraction of a second before she completed the action. Then, ‘That reminds me,’ she said, her voice casual, ‘I’ve got an extra meeting tonight. Willie phoned – some new regulations have come through and he wants to discuss them. To tell you the truth, I think what he means is he can’t understand them. He’s fine when he’s at the helm but his lips tend to move when he’s reading.’

  Under her thick gold lashes she watched him narrowly. With his usual deliberateness he was addressing himself to a prawn sandwich with reduced-fat mayonnaise; he said only, ‘Really? We’d better have an early supper then.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll pick something up,’ she offered quickly. ‘I was planning to go for a run before my two-thirty clinic, but not in this weather.’ She glanced through the French windows which gave on to wooden decking, sheltered by the leg of their L-shaped ranch-style house, but even so being blasted by the gale. It was pouring now, great billowing squalls of rain which rattled on the windowpanes like hailstones.

  ‘You’d better hope it’s just a meeting tonight and not a call-out,’ Lewis observed. ‘I certainly wouldn’t fancy going out in that.’

  His wife shuddered. ‘I’ve told you before – don’t say it! You only need to let the thought enter your mind and it prompts some dangerous lunatic somewhere to head for the rocks.’

  ‘Such superstition – and you a rational scientist!’ he mocked her, then added seriously, ‘But tell me about Willie – is he all right? I’d Jackie in today, complaining about headaches, and then it was the usual “By the way, doctor,” just as she was leaving. She’s very worried about him.’

  Ashley’s smooth brow furrowed. ‘Yes, I’m worried too. It’s nothing stronger than cannabis, as far as I can tell, but I’ve a nasty feeling his usage has increased. I sense he’s under a lot of strain, for some reason, and I tried tackling him head on – he simply lied about it, of course. But I’m keeping a very watchful eye and so far he’s been OK when he’s been on call. Trust me – I wouldn’t go out with a hopped-up cox.’

  ‘I should hope not.’ Lewis, still with the last bit of his sandwich in his hand, stood up. ‘I’d better go. Supper at – what, half-past six?’

  As the door shut behind him, Ashley sank back in her chair and closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. It was a nervous business, this lying. Lewis always seemed oblivious – but could she be sure? He was, as Ritchie had reminded her, no fool, and he had always been so self-contained that she had long ago given up the struggle to work out what he was thinking. She suspected that most of the time it wasn’t very interesting, at least to her. But what she didn’t want was the embarrassment of accidental discovery, and there was always the chance that Lewis might be talking to Willie, or Jackie even, and happen to mention a meeting which, of course, wasn’t taking place. They’d been careful up to now; she was pretty sure no one else knew, since if there was gossip in the village Jocasta would be the first to find out through Gossip Queen Muriel at the reception desk or her other little favourite, the mouse-like Enid, who had a crush on Lewis that was positively comical.

  Still, there shouldn’t be too many more of these uncomfortable occasions. The showhouse had opened to the public now and there wasn’t even a corner of the site where she and Ritchie could meet safely, with buyers trampling round the finished houses – which had, gratifyingly, made Ritchie keener than ever.

  Originally it had been the old ‘my-wife-doesn’t-understand-me’ line, but now it had reached the ‘if-I-have-to-watch-her-doing-that-once-more-I-shan’t-be-responsible-for-my-actions’ stage. A marriage was over in all but name by the time the husband could spend ten minutes describing the irritating way his wife brushed her teeth.

  She’d begun the affair as – what? A hobby? A secret revenge on Lewis for bringing her to Knockhaven where, without the distraction of friends and city life, she had found herself living with a reserved, bloodless stranger in a claustrophobic society? Certainly, there had been nothing to stop her refusing to come with him, or even fleeing back to Edinburgh – nothing except the humiliation of admitting that her marriage had failed and suffering the sympathy of ‘friends’ who had envied her the charming, clever, good-looking doctor husband.

  It was all so ragingly, hog-whimperingly dull! She wasn’t in love with Ritchie – but then, had she ever been in love with Lewis? She had never been convinced that love was anything more than a fig leaf to cover up some pretty basic human instincts – and certainly Ritchie satisfied most of those, where she was concerned.

  Tonight they were actually risking meeting for a drink in a pub about three miles away; he was, she could tell, going to ask her point-blank if she would leave Lewis. She’d be interested, in an abstract sort of way, to see if he would be offering marriage. Probably, since he had a penchant for respectability and one’s place in the community.

  So what was she going to say? Even if this was where he’d grown up, he’d have to agree to find another community to be respectable in, since Ashley could hardly go on working afterwards in the Knockhaven practice where Lewis had more or less created his own personal fiefdom. Ritchie had said to her there wasn’t the demand for more than another one or at most two developments in this area anyway; he’d started checking out the coast of Ireland, only an hour from Stranraer, where he had contacts and there were good prospects. So he could run his business just as easily from Glasgow where Ashley could get a hospital job again and where there were theatres and galleries and shops and easy access to airports for the sort of exotic holidays Lewis had never found time for them to take. She’d always appreciated the good things of life and having serious wealth would be a delicious new experience.

  She would miss the lifeboat, of course: there was something in her that responded viscerally to the raw, elemental struggle between feeble man and the unbounded force of the sea, where it was only the skill to keep a cockleshell above the waves instead of below, the mastery of amazing technology and the courage to defy the terrifying gods of wind and water that could work, in combination, to snatch from them the victims of their anger. Oh God, yes, sh
e would miss that.

  Still, there would be many compensations. Apart from anything else, Ritchie’s mother was dead. She’d checked.

  There really wasn’t any doubt. Her answer had to be yes.

  Luke Smith, his head pounding, his heart racing, dived into the staffroom and shut the door. It was mercifully empty, non-pupil-contact-modules (free periods, as they used to be called) having all but disappeared from teachers’ timetables.

  He collapsed into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He felt as if he had been flayed, very slowly, strip by strip, until he was standing in front of the class containing Nat Rettie and his friends not merely naked but without any skin to cover his shrinking, bleeding flesh.

  What on earth had possessed him to confront them? He should know his place by now, know that the titular authority being a teacher gave him carried no clout in the bear-pit of the Year 12 classroom. You could only govern by consent unless you could dominate by the force of your personality, which he couldn’t – oh God, he couldn’t even begin! And what they had all consented to today was Nat’s flouting of Luke’s every instruction, baying him on, bolstering his defiance with their raucous laughter. Until the end.

  That was when Nat, taking advantage of a break in the laughter, flung at Luke the word ‘paedophile’.

  There was immediate, stunned silence. Among all the obscenities, all the crude, offensive language which was their daily currency, this was the one word left with the power to shock. The air became electric with tension.

  Luke’s mouth went dry so that he had to lick his lips before he could speak. ‘What – what did you say?’ he stammered foolishly, as if he hadn’t heard the word which was now branded into his mind for ever.