The Third Sin Page 7

  DC Weston put up a hand. ‘The banks of the Solway – does she want us to go on down into Galloway?’

  Harris knew the answer to that one – yes. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of detectives in Galloway suited to doing the brain-dead stuff. Lucky we’ve got a couple here too, eh lads?’

  As he walked out smirking, DC Weston said crisply, ‘Prat!’ Harris heard her but chose to ignore it, filing it under ‘Insults to be avenged’.

  There was a warm fragrance coming from the kitchen as Jen Wilson came home late after a parents’ meeting – definitely onions, possibly tomatoes too, she thought happily.

  ‘Something smells wonderful,’ she called as she dumped her bags in the hall.

  Skye Falconer appeared from the kitchen. ‘Tuna casserole,’ she said. ‘It’s just from tins. If you’ve had time to shop today I’ll do something a bit more substantial for you tomorrow.’

  Jen stifled a sigh, then turned back to the bags she had put down. ‘I did a trolley dash round Spar in my lunch hour. We’d better get the milk into the fridge but then I could murder a glass of wine. I’m shattered. You wouldn’t believe the illusions some people have about their little darlings and my brain hurts from trying to find a tactful way to tell them that wee Damien isn’t dyslexic, just thick, which is hardly surprising given his genetic inheritance.’

  Skye took the bag from her. ‘Looks like putting a glass in your hand would be an act of mercy. You go and put your feet up.’

  ‘You’re a star.’

  Jen went through to the little sitting room, where there was a fire burning in the old-fashioned grate. It wasn’t a cold day but it was drizzling and grey outside and with its small cottage windows the room was dark. Before, when she had come back to an empty house and a grate full of dead ashes it had often seemed so unwelcoming that Jen would settle in the kitchen, which was in a bright modern extension at the back. Now she settled cosily by the fire in her favourite armchair – second-if not third-hand but plumply cushioned – with a pleasurable groan.

  Skye was working hard at anticipating her every want. It was like having a very superior housekeeper, but Jen was troubled. She’d thought once the bruising had gone and she’d seen her father, Skye would stop hiding. But this morning, when Jen suggested she should go to the shop, Skye had shrunk back.

  ‘No, no, I can’t! No one must know I’m here! You haven’t told anyone, have you?’

  Jen hadn’t, in fact. It had been a busy time at school; no one there knew Skye and in any case she made a point of never talking about anything related to the tragedy.

  ‘No,’ she assured her. ‘But Skye, you can’t live indoors for the rest of your life. Have you some sort of plan?’

  Skye ignored the question. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone I’m here! Just till I decide what I’m going to do. Promise!’

  ‘Well, of course, if you insist—’

  ‘Thanks, Jen. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Do you want an egg – scrambled?’

  ‘Scrambled would be lovely,’ she had said. It wasn’t the time to tackle Skye, when she was so fragile.

  The trouble was, Jen couldn’t see that she was getting any less fragile – she’d heard her sobbing in her room again last night. Skye tried to cover it up but she was showing all the signs of depression; her hair was stringy and though Jen had offered to lend her clothes since she had only brought a small rucksack with her, she’d refused, alternating two sweaters and jeans. As a loyal friend, all Jen could do was to wait in patience until Skye felt better or was ready to explain.

  And now there was something she had to mention to her – something that had niggled at her all day. She didn’t know how Skye would take it – or even whether it would come as news to her or not.

  When Skye came in, she brought a plate as well as the wine and the glasses and offered it to Jen, looking at the little pies on it slightly dubiously. ‘I hope these are all right. I’m getting quite into cooking now and I just wanted to try making them.’

  Jen bit into one and pronounced it delicious. There were definite compensations for being patient.

  Skye took her glass and sat down. ‘Tell me about your bad day,’ she said, just as if she’d found a handbook on how to be the perfect wife.

  Jen seized the moment. ‘Oh, too boring to talk about,’ she said. ‘But I’ll tell you who I bumped into in the shop – Will! I didn’t realise he was back from Canada.’

  The colour drained from Skye’s face. ‘W-Will?’ she said, and her glass dropped through her fingers and spilt on the rug.

  ‘Oh – oh, sorry, h-how clumsy!’ she stammered, jumping to her feet. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’

  Jen stared after her blankly. When Skye returned with the cloth, she had regained control of herself. ‘Here we are,’ she said, dabbing at the rug. ‘Glass must have been slippery with condensation.

  ‘I didn’t realise Will was here – he must have decided to come back for the Homecoming party. That’s good.’ She straightened up. ‘The casserole’s ready, so we’d better eat before it spoils.’

  Picking up her glass and the rest of the nibbles Jen followed her friend through to the kitchen, feeling a bit dazed. It didn’t look as if Skye was going to be any more forthcoming about this than she had been about anything else.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DI Fleming drove back frowning after her meeting with DSI Taylor in Dumfries. It had been very unsatisfactory – in fact, when she thought about it, the man himself was pretty unsatisfactory, clearly desperate for her to rescue an investigation from disaster but too feeble to stand up to the pressure from Len Harris.

  He’d shown the whites of his eyes when she’d suggested that she should have a briefing session with his detectives.

  ‘Oh no, Marjory, that wouldn’t be wise. The lads just wouldn’t wear it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t wear it?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do they have a choice?’

  ‘Well, of course not, not exactly, but you have to understand the problem. Morale is very low just at the moment and I can’t risk undermining it any further.’

  Suppressing her impatience, Fleming said, ‘Don’t you think their morale would improve once they felt the investigation was getting somewhere?’

  He seized on that. ‘Absolutely. I couldn’t agree with you more. So if you can show them some progress first, they’ll feel quite different and then, of course, you’ll have them in the palm of your hand. Right?’

  Kicking herself for not seeing that one coming, she had to acquiesce, though she couldn’t bring herself to say ‘yes’. ‘Mmm. As long as DI Harris understands the position. I’m hoping he will be starting on the Solway search tomorrow. The more manpower we can assign to that the better – perhaps uniforms could be drafted in as well?’

  Taylor was on more comfortable ground. ‘I’ve emphasised that is priority, I assure you. And I’m sure Len has it well in hand – he’s very efficient, you know.’

  Efficient and obstructive – not a reassuring combination. Still, once she got her own team reporting they might come up with something that would give her ammunition against him – she was starting to see this investigation as a war zone – since at the moment it was plain there was little point in arguing.

  Fleming moved on to the next item on her list. ‘I was just wondering, Tom, when you were giving your next press conference. Once we get Kane’s name out there, along with a mugshot, we can enlist the public as our eyes and ears.’

  It was such an obvious step to take that she couldn’t think why he hadn’t done it before, but he took on the look of a hunted rabbit.

  ‘Oh dear, yes. I suppose I have to. But it’ll bring the press down on us like an avalanche. I can hardly bear the thought.’

  She remembered suddenly that he’d been given a rough time over a badly managed operation that had led to a bank robbery case collapsing. Well, they’d all had their moment in the Sun, as the saying went. She said briskly, ‘Better give it to them before they come
and get it. First rule is to control the information out there.’

  He was huddling miserably in his chair. ‘Oh, I know I’ll have to—’

  ‘When? Tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh – oh yes, I suppose putting it off won’t make things any better. Unless,’ he sat up, ‘we wait until you come up with something to offer them, Marjory—’

  ‘Won’t do. I have people going out tomorrow asking questions about Connell Kane and the press could be round baying for blood by tomorrow afternoon.’

  Taylor sank back down in his seat. ‘I take your point,’ he said wearily. ‘All right, tomorrow morning.’

  She had left him plunged in gloom and no doubt wishing he’d never thought of drawing her in and taking on Len Harris – whose voice Fleming had recognised in Taylor’s replies – or even, probably, of applying to be a detective superintendent in the first place.

  She didn’t stop in at the station in Kirkluce and after five miles had reached the turn off for Mains of Craigie, the hill farm that her husband Bill, following his father and grandfather, had farmed all their married life. It was sheep mainly, with young beef cattle bought in for fattening and a couple of the lower fields laid down to winter feedstuff.

  Their son Cameron was all set to continue the line into the next generation, though at the moment his career as a Scottish international rugby player and a professional with the Glasgow Warriors took precedence.

  After Bill’s heart attack last year they had all walked around on eggshells, though the doctors had assured him he’d made an excellent recovery. Cammie had talked about giving up rugby to take on his share of the farm work but Bill had threatened to have another heart attack if he did any such thing. Cammie would be near enough to give a hand at the busiest times and Bill had Rafael Cisek, his right-hand man, the rest of the time.

  Marjory blessed the day Rafael had come, especially since he had brought his wife Karolina with him from Poland. She kept the farmhouse in perfect order and provided delicious meals that made up for Marjory’s notorious skills’ deficiency in the kitchen. The meals were low-fat now and aggressively healthy; she gave a small, wistful sigh as she remembered Karolina’s belly of pork and the dumplings whose light-as-a-feather innocence belied the wickedness of their ingredients.

  Still, keeping Bill fit was considerably more important than her own decadent tastes. After the shock of his illness he had become less confident, more inclined to fuss about minor problems; he never said anything but she knew he hated it when she came home late and tired. He did seem to be improving, though, and with Cammie at home so much there was lots of light-hearted banter at the supper table.

  Their daughter Catriona had said she would be home from Glasgow University this weekend too – that was good. She had also said she was bringing a friend, a young man who was studying social sciences with her. That was …

  Perhaps ‘interesting’ was the best word Something about the way Cat had mentioned it had made Marjory suspect this wasn’t just a random friend, and she thought she had sensed a faintly defensive note in her daughter’s voice.

  Their relationship had been uneasy for a long time. Bill’s illness had brought them closer together but Cat’s placements alongside social workers dealing with ‘problem families’ had fostered her distrust of the police force, which put a number of topics off limits if they weren’t going to descend into the sort of arguments that upset Bill. Marjory had a sinking feeling that the weekend guest wouldn’t be sympathetic to her views on dealing with crime either.

  Bill, though, would be looking forward to seeing his daughter so he’d be in a cheerful mood tonight. Summer was on its way too, and it was the off season for Cammie so he came home from his Glasgow flat quite regularly. She wouldn’t spoil things just yet by telling Bill that she was taking on another investigation which would, no doubt, result in her coming home late and tired even more often.

  As Marjory turned off up to the farm she suddenly realised she was very hungry – it had been a long time since lunch. It had been dreary all day, with grey light under an overcast sky, and now a drizzling rain was falling, so she did hope it wouldn’t be salad tonight. Karolina’s salads were a long way from the limp lettuce, sliced cucumber and hard-boiled egg of the station canteen but however imaginative and interesting they might be, when it came right down to it they were still, well, just salad.

  ‘Louise!’

  Louise Hepburn turned from the bar where she was waiting to get in the next round of drinks. The girl whose birthday they were celebrating was holding up the mobile Louise had left on the table and now she could hear the police siren ringtone she’d thought was funny when she installed it, though she was beginning to get tired of people turning round and staring.

  ‘Thanks, Chrissie.’ She came back to the table to take it, glanced at the unfamiliar number then answered, walking with her finger in her other ear as she went to a quieter part of the bar.

  ‘Sorry, who did you say?’

  ‘Randall. You know – Randall Lindsay.’ He sounded impatient.

  Groaning inwardly, Louise said coolly, ‘Good gracious, Randall! Are you phoning from France?’

  ‘No, of course not. I told you I’d be coming home – remember?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Well, I’m home now, in Ballinbreck. God, what a dump this place is! I can’t imagine why anyone lives here.’

  Louise could feel her hackles rising. ‘Quite a nice little place, as far as I remember. Look, Randall, I can’t chat just now. I’m out with friends. What did you want?’

  ‘Oh, all right then,’ he said petulantly. ‘I told you my ma was organising this Homecoming party. It’s on Saturday and I wondered if you would like to come? Give me a bit of moral support and someone to talk to apart from the peasants.’

  It would be childish to say that she’d rather have her fingernails pulled out one by one. ‘Sorry, Randall,’ Louise said. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy. Got to go – bye!’

  She changed her mind about the glass of white wine she’d been going to order and made it a vodka shot instead. She needed something with a kick to stop her shuddering and get the taste of the conversation out of her mouth.

  The pub restaurant at The Albatross was busy tonight. Kendra Stewart, managing front of house, was doing what she did best – chatting up the punters.

  Her brother-in-law watched her from across the room where he was grudgingly acting as waiter. Logie had made it clear that while he was staying with them it would be a working holiday but Will resented the overtones of servitude that went with the job – and it showed. He wouldn’t have minded so much if the clientele hadn’t been, almost without exception, middle-aged, overweight and dowdy.

  You’d never think to look at Kendra now, making great play with her velvet-brown eyes and fluttering her eyelashes at a well-upholstered gentleman, that she had a tongue like a whiplash when she chose to use it and that the staff were terrified of her.

  She was clever, too: now she was drawing the man’s wife into a female conspiracy of amusement at his susceptibility. She left them laughing and moved to another table, casting a practised eye round the restaurant as she did so and nodding a waitress towards a table where a guest was looking round for attention. The waitress jumped and hurried to respond. Oh, Kendra was quite something.

  Will was a little afraid of her. It had been different before, when sleeping together had just been part of the free-love philosophy, and ignoring Logie’s bourgeois objection to it was a private joke. He’d never thought of it as an affair; now he was realising that she had.

  Perhaps she’d been possessive about him even then but with so many other distractions he hadn’t noticed. Now he was feeling stifled.

  There was a table waiting to be cleared and he moved to do it before he too earned a dagger-look for inattention. The woman at the table was, for once, pretty and he favoured her with a charming smile when she complimented him on his efficiency and made a joking response.

  Sudd
enly Kendra was at his elbow, hissing in his ear, ‘Can you get that cleared as quickly as possible, Will? The table over there hasn’t had their order taken.’

  Surely she hadn’t taken exception to him laughing and joking with an attractive woman? Oh yes she had. She was still watching him covertly as she chatted to the guests at another table. He felt a surge of alarm.

  God knew, he hadn’t wanted to come back. When he left he’d vowed never to set foot in Scotland again, let alone Ballinbreck. He’d never thought he’d have to. But with the long shadow of the past threatening to engulf him, what else could he do?

  As he took the plates through to the kitchen Logie, sweating at the range, snarled, ‘For God’s sake, pull your finger out, Will! There’s plates waiting at the pass.’

  A feeling of claustrophobic panic threatened to choke him. ‘Need a breath of air,’ he muttered, blundering out of the back door.

  He had an open ticket to Canada in his wallet. He could walk out right now – but he couldn’t. Not yet.

  It was quite a way down to Ballinbreck on the Solway coast so MacNee had suggested an early start, keen to get out the house before Bunty’s auntie came down to breakfast. Her habit of issuing too much information about the workings of her interior during the night was enough to put a man off his porridge.

  Hepburn had been happy to agree. She was living now in a pleasant rented flat in the centre of Kirkluce, which meant that MacNee’s ‘early start’ was about half an hour later than her usual when she lived with her mother in Stranraer and had to commute.

  She was looking a bit pale this morning, though, and she polished off a bottle of water in the first five minutes in the car.

  ‘Heavy night?’ MacNee said without sympathy.

  She pulled a face at him. ‘Nothing I can’t handle. I’m young, you see, and we can take it. You probably could – once upon a time.’

  And fair enough, she might be hung-over but she was still fizzing with fresh thoughts on the theory she and Macdonald had discussed at the briefing.