Dead in the Water Read online

‘Oh yes,’ Marcus said. ‘Still in bed, is my guess – hasn’t emerged yet. Great to be young – I’ve somehow lost the talent for sleeping in.’

  Sylvia saw the director give him a curious look. She was interested, too, in what this revealed about the Marcus–Jaki situation, but neither of them said anything. In their world you learned that happy coexistence depended on bland acceptance when it came to relationships.

  ‘I’ll get Mrs Boyter to bring some coffee. I’ve managed to lure her away from her usual clients to look after us this week,’ Marcus said, with some pride. ‘I hooked her with the promise of meeting Sylvia – she’s always been one of her biggest fans. Of course Sylvia was wonderful and Mrs B’s purring like a kitten – can’t do enough!’

  ‘Darling, I’d have done anything to avoid more of your suppers – I didn’t know it was possible to ruin a ready meal just by putting it in the oven! Barrie, you wouldn’t believe!’

  She turned to the director, her intimate smile inviting him to join in the teasing, and pink with pleasure, he laughed.

  ‘Shocking!’ he agreed, as Marcus, hurling, ‘Ungrateful woman!’ over his shoulder, left in search of coffee.

  In the kitchen he found not just Mrs Boyter, resplendent in a bright pink pinny purchased specially for the occasion, but Jaki at the kitchen table eating toast. She smiled at him a little uncertainly.

  ‘Morning, darling!’ Marcus said brightly, kissing her on the forehead. ‘How’s the headache?’

  She took her tone from him. ‘Oh, much better. I slept really well. It’s so quiet, and the light didn’t wake me so I didn’t stir until after half past ten.’

  ‘It’s very dark with the curtains drawn,’ he agreed. ‘Mrs B, Miss Lascelles would love some coffee. There will probably be five or six of us, if you could bring through a pot.’

  Mrs Boyter’s face positively shone. ‘Of course, Marcus. I’ve made some of my wee biscuits as well – she’ll like those.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m sure we all will.’ He turned to Jaki. ‘Are you finished? Or are you on a toast jag?’

  ‘I’ve been on a toast jag.’ She got up. ‘I’ve bribed Mrs Boyter not to tell anyone how many pieces I had.’ She grinned impishly at the older woman, who shook her head at her.

  ‘Oh, you’re a wee terror for toast, right enough,’ she said indulgently.

  As Marcus shut the kitchen door, he said teasingly, ‘Mrs B has clearly decided TV stars are almost as good as film stars. I, of course, don’t count because she knew me as a wee boy scrumping apples.’

  They were in the long below-stairs passage leading to the front hall. Jaki stopped. ‘Marcus, I don’t know quite how to say this, but I don’t think—’

  He turned, reading what she was going to say in her face. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t think, either. I’m sorry.’

  Jaki’s relief was obvious. ‘I’m sorry too. We had fun, didn’t we?’

  Marcus stooped to kiss her cheek. ‘Oh, we had fun. You’re a terrific girl, love. It’s just—’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Hold it right there – I’m not into angst and analysis. No agonizing, no regrets. I’ll get them to find somewhere for me to doss down and move my gear.’

  He didn’t reply immediately. Then he said, ‘Would you mind very much staying on here? There’ll be so much gossip and whispering – better if we could drift apart discreetly back in Glasgow.’

  She didn’t want to do that. She was open by nature and she didn’t fancy having to act off-stage as well as on – and she was desperate to get out of this place too. But he was right enough about the gossip.

  After a moment she said, unconvincingly, ‘No, of course I don’t mind. I see where you’re coming from – the conversations that stop just as you come into the room, the fake sympathy . . .’

  ‘And the “never thought it would last” remarks. Well, I don’t suppose we did either, really. But we’ve been good friends as well as lovers, haven’t we, and I’d like to think I wouldn’t lose the friendship part.’

  ‘I’d like that too. You could come out clubbing sometimes.’

  She was very attractive, smiling up at him like that, and for a second he felt a pang. But he only winced elaborately and, hearing Mrs Boyter opening the kitchen door, they went to join the others.

  At half past two, DI Fleming straightened her aching back, thoughtlessly rubbing her hand down her face. She put the papers back carefully in order so that she could find them next time.

  She’d had only the most cursory run through to familiarize herself with the background. The hard part would come with the analysis of procedures followed and actions taken, and interviewing Donald about the gaps.

  She could pinpoint some already. Despite there being no suicide note and no direct evidence that the woman had thrown herself into the sea, the assumption of suicide had bedevilled the early investigation. There had been no proper search for signs of a struggle on the headland from which, given its proximity and the currents, the body had been pushed into the sea. No casts had been taken of tyre marks, to check against cars known to be in use by the keepers. The questioning of the lighthouse residents had been perfunctory, and she could find no record of interviews with people Ailsa might have talked to when she had been at home in the two months before her death, and only brief and unilluminating statements from colleagues she had worked with as a secretary to a firm of exporters in Glasgow. Worst of all, despite Jean Grant’s accusation, Marcus Lazansky/Lindsay had never been directly interviewed.

  The investigation was riddled with flaws. She certainly was not going to be able to pat Bailey on the head and tell him it was fine.

  Lacking evidence of anyone else’s involvement, apart from the phone call Ailsa had allegedly received, there had been follow-up only on Robert Grant, though with his alibi from his wife and son, there wasn’t much they could do. Experts nowadays compare the friction burns with the rope found around the farm – and track phone calls – but at that time they had nothing to go on.

  Fleming couldn’t discover any details about that phone call. Of course, you didn’t record every informal conversation unless something useful emerged from it, which might well explain it.

  Her notebook was full of queries and follow-ups to be done, many of them awkward and time-consuming. Of the four officers most directly involved, only Bailey was readily available: one was dead; one had retired and, she thought she remembered, gone to live in Spain; the other had left the Force and could be anywhere. The lighthouse keepers would be hard to trace too, with the lighthouse having been automated in 1988, and Ailsa’s secretarial colleagues of twenty years ago were unlikely still to be there – even if the firm of exporters was – and more than likely would have married and changed their names.

  That would all take time, possibly a lot of time, and Fleming wanted to move quickly. When you lifted a stone, dark creatures, safely hidden before, panicked in the light of day: when the investigation became common knowledge, someone out there would become desperate to stop her finding out the truth, and desperation breeds danger. She had to move fast.

  Where to start? If the Grants were farmers, they’d probably still be at Balnakenny – farms rarely changed hands. Marcus Lindsay was definitely around. They might find some locals, too, who had been friends with Ailsa; the pull of Galloway was strong and even if young folks left, a surprising number came back later. It would also be interesting to find out what local wisdom had made of the case. Fleming had a profound respect for the intelligence system which operated in rural areas.

  She needed to get to the Mull of Galloway this afternoon, and if Tam MacNee was in the building, she’d take him along, though she’d better wash her face and hands first.

  DS MacNee was indeed in the building. He too had been at a desk all day, complaining to anyone who would stand still long enough that this wasn’t what he’d signed up for.

  When the phone rang and DI Fleming’s voice said, ‘Tam? Oh good. I’ve been working on this cold case all mornin
g—’ it rekindled his grievance.

  ‘Aye, I know that. I’ve been at my desk all morning too, doing what you’d have been doing if you weren’t. The Super said it was all to be diverted to me to keep your desk clear and give you time to do it.’

  Fleming’s voice sharpened. ‘He can’t do that! What are you working on, Tam? Not budgets, or manpower requirements or—’

  ‘I wish! I could’ve put in for another couple of lads for the CID and a raise for overtime.’

  ‘At least I’ve been spared that! The Super must be mad – I’ll have a word with him. There’s nothing that can’t wait.’

  ‘You know your problem?’ he began.

  ‘Yes. I’m a control freak. I like it that way. Now, stop playing with my reports. I want you to come out to the Mull of Galloway with me, to do some interviews. I’ll fill you in on the details on the way down.’

  MacNee rose with alacrity. ‘This stuff’s all yours. I’m sending it on to you now – or at least, I will be when I find someone to tell me what button to press.’

  ‘Just one other thing – a report’s come in about an assault with a knife. Can you get the background from Jock Naismith? That sort of thing’s contagious – we need to get on top of that before it spreads and we’ve a serious problem on our hands.’

  ‘How’s it going, boys?’ Diane Hodge, wearing a DKNY tracksuit in a challenging shade of yellow, with wet hair and a white towel round her neck, jogged across from the swimming pool. It was under a glass dome, covering a tropical jungle of green plants which struck a bizarrely exotic note on this bright, cold spring day.

  The four men plastering the walls of a brick construction on one side of the sprawling house glanced up, but only one stopped work. He was much older than the others, with longish greying hair, and a weather-beaten face – a bit rough, admittedly, but the lean, mean type who might be quite good-looking if he wasn’t always so gloomy.

  ‘Hey, Stefan! Cracking the whip, then?’ Diane always tried to raise a smile; she hadn’t managed yet, but she wasn’t a quitter.

  ‘We are on schedule to meet your target next week.’

  ‘That’s brilliant!’

  Still he didn’t smile. Looking for a new audience, Diane walked over to admire the work, and noticed that one of them, Kasper, was sporting a bandage on his left arm.

  ‘Hey, what happened?’

  Kasper was a serious hunk, with those dark, smouldering looks. Occasionally he smiled at her in a way that made her feel quite kittenish, but today he only directed a look towards Stefan, who said, ‘He had an accident with a tool, Mrs Hodge.’

  She wagged a playful finger at Kasper. ‘Need to be a lot more careful in future, won’t you? But anyway, you’re all doing a terrific job – keep up the good work!’

  Kasper went back to his plastering and the others hadn’t looked up.

  Defeated, Diane turned away. She crossed the extensive garden, landscaped into total submission, and entered the house through the large conservatory, where her husband, in one of the rattan peacock chairs, was leafing through a yachting magazine.

  Gavin Hodge did not look up. Relations had been strained since their row in the car coming back from Tulach.

  Diane gave him a wary glance. She was by nature unreflective, but the atmosphere was beginning to get her down. Trying to ignore it, she said, ‘I try really hard to be friendly to these men, just to show I don’t mind them being immigrants, but Stefan just won’t lighten up. And how the others manage here I don’t know – they don’t understand a word I say.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it – I reckon it suits them to play dumb. They’ve work to do, so leave them alone. And Stefan probably thinks you’re coming on to him and he’s terrified.’

  Diane gave Gavin a look of dislike. ‘You really do have a nasty tongue. For God’s sake, just because last night I mentioned something that happened years ago, you don’t have to act like this.’

  ‘You deliberately humiliated me. And you exaggerated and made out that little prick Lazansky was some sort of hero.’

  Diane sighed. ‘I didn’t humiliate you deliberately, and I didn’t exaggerate. If anything, I underplayed it. It was funny, that’s all, and after all these years you might have a sense of humour about it.

  ‘And if we’re talking about how people behave, slavering over a girl in her twenties is pretty disgusting. She thought you were a dirty old man, quite obviously.’

  Gavin Hodge’s face turned an alarming shade of puce. He dropped the magazine and stood up.

  ‘Women have been hit for less than that. I’m leaving before you’re one of them. And I’m going out. Don’t wait lunch.’

  Diane looked after him as he stormed out. She bit her lip, then, with a shrug and a small, angry laugh, went off to have a shower.

  In the car, Fleming briefed MacNee, with professional succinctness, on the facts of the case. Wanting to see what he would make of it, she tried not to give it a subjective slant.

  ‘Reaction, Tam? Take your time – it’s a long, long drive down the Mull.’

  MacNee glanced about him. ‘It’s a rare day for it, anyway.’

  They had turned off the A75 and were driving now past Sandhead, looking out to Luce Bay. It was, indeed, a fine day for early April, clear and windy, the sea a dark blue flecked with white caps. The tide was out: miles of wave-scoured sand fringed the bay, punctuated by long lines of black rocks, draped in bladderwrack. To the landward side, great clumps of gorse were just coming into flower and behind these stunted trees leaned away from the prevailing wind.

  ‘I like the countryside fine,’ MacNee observed, ‘but just to look at, mind, not live in. Too quiet.’

  Fleming smiled. MacNee was still a townie at heart, even if he had compromised on the douce charms of Kirkluce to keep his adored wife Bunty happy. Somewhere inside, though, he was still hungering for the raucous, edgy atmosphere of his native Glasgow.

  He began thinking aloud. ‘The father – I’d be taking a good shufti at him. He’d got motive, means, opportunity – and what have we got instead? Someone phoning her up to arrange to kill her? Sounds kind of far-fetched to me. What does he do – rolls up to collect her, ties her wrists, bangs her on the head then tips her off the cliff, all within half a mile of her home? Surely there’d be better ways.’

  Fleming agreed. ‘It was the risk that struck me. He couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t tell someone who she was meeting.’

  ‘She didn’t tell anyone who the father was. But even so . . .’

  ‘I want to see what the parents and the brother have to say now. It’ll be useful to compare with the original statements.’

  ‘Have to consider the brother as well, of course. You never know what goes on in these country places,’ MacNee said darkly.

  ‘Not, of course, in Glasgow? But I agree, that needs consideration – which it certainly didn’t get last time round.

  ‘The other visit this afternoon is to Marcus Lazansky – or Lindsay, I suppose he likes being called now. Based in Glasgow, but he’s here filming Playfair’s Patch this week, Cat tells me. She has dreams of stardom once she’s spotted during her twenty seconds of glory as an extra.

  ‘It sounds as if he’d a solid alibi not only for the murder but also the time of the child’s conception, but as far as I can tell he’s never been questioned. If we do that now, pushing a bit to see if it checks out, we can maybe eliminate him. I thought we’d go there first and hope to catch him at Tulach House.’

  MacNee grunted. ‘You don’t watch that rubbish, do you?’

  ‘Never managed to watch an episode right through. The kids and Bill like it and they send me out of the room because I keep groaning. I can see why he’s popular, though.’

  ‘Oho – fancy him, do you?’

  ‘Tam, don’t leer. It’s not a pretty sight. No, not really. I prefer the rugged type that make me feel small and feminine.’ She gave him a warning glance. ‘And snorts of derision constitute insubordination.

  ‘An
d by the way, what did Jock have to say about the knifing?’

  MacNee pulled a face. ‘Not a lot. Bad feeling between the Poles and the neds, he reckons, and I’d put good money on it that our old friend Kevin Docherty’s at the bottom of it. But they stonewalled the nurse at the medical centre when she asked.’

  ‘I’m edgy about this. They all begin carrying knives for protection and that’s a recipe for disaster. I’ll get someone out there tomorrow to see what we can do. Getting Docherty back behind bars would be a good start.

  ‘Oh, that’s the turn for Ardhill. Not far now.’

  The wind took them as they climbed out of the car outside Tulach House. MacNee staggered and swore.

  ‘What a godforsaken place! If you’d money to build a big grand house like this, what would you put it here for?’

  ‘Look at the view, Tam!’ Fleming gestured towards the Irish Sea on one side, Luce Bay on the other. ‘It’s amazing!’

  ‘Oh, it’s that, right enough.’ Muttering something only marginally appropriate about ‘chill November’s icy blast’, MacNee gave a disparaging look round, pulling up the zip on his black leather jacket and heading for the shelter of the pillared porch.

  A thick shrubbery encroached on the side of the house, and what had once been a lawn looked more like a hayfield. The flowerbeds were overgrown, and the paintwork of the house too showed the signs of neglect. It was sad, Fleming thought, given the elegance of the original building – like a grand lady reduced by circumstances to a down-and-out.

  There were several cars parked on the weedy gravel in front of the house. As MacNee rang the bell, Fleming glanced at them, noticing that one had a disabled sticker.

  It wasn’t Marcus Lindsay who opened the door. This was a short, plump little man who greeted them cheerfully when they explained who they were.

  It wasn’t often their unexpected arrival met with such enthusiasm. ‘Oooh, how splendid! I’m Barrie Craig, but I expect you really want our First AD – Assistant Director. He takes care of liaison with the police – actually, if I’m honest, takes care of just about everything. I promise you, he’ll see that none of the locals are upset.