Lamb to the Slaughter Page 7

  Gloag was going out to give his car its Sunday wash when he saw it. There, right across the whole of the driver’s side of the BMW, scratched in the gleaming metallic blue paintwork, was – well, an obscenity. Directed at him. By name.

  For a moment, he couldn’t move. Then he stormed back into the house and went to the kitchen. He wasn’t talking to Maureen, of course, but you couldn’t launch into a furious tirade when you were alone.

  She was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and another fag in her mouth, wearing an air of indifference, but when he at last ran out of steam with an announcement that he was just going to phone the police, she did speak. ‘It was probably Gordon and his pals. Won’t do your public image any good if your son’s arrested for doing that to his dad, will it?’

  Tam MacNee drove up the pot-holed track which led to Christina Munro’s farmhouse with mixed feelings about his mission. He knew perfectly well that it was pointless, but on the other hand it was getting him out of the house when Bunty’s sister, her that was married to the bank manager, was bringing her husband to tea, and the pair of them always got his dander up. Last time she’d said, with ill-concealed satisfaction, ‘You’ll just have to face it, Tam – you’ll never be the same again.’

  So having to go to Wester Seton and listen to the old biddy rabbiting on about the wickedness of the younger generation, then make meaningless soothing noises, was a small price to pay, especially since it would give him a chance on the way home to pop into the Salutation Bar, frequented by officers from the Kirkluce HQ.

  Anyway, Bunty had insisted that he went. She and Christina both belonged to the bunny-huggers sisterhood, always taking on animal down-and-outs that no one with any sense would allow over the threshold.

  The whole place was neglected. The farm was situated on rising ground, quite exposed and bare, and it could never have been really prosperous. The farmhouse was no more than a run-down cottage, and as Tam parked in the yard he noted there were slates missing from the roof and weeds growing up between the cobbles. There was some elderly farm equipment rusting away in long grass and the house itself, with its weathered paintwork and all the downstairs shutters closed even on this bright afternoon, looked abandoned. As he got out, three donkeys, browsing an adjacent field, looked up, and one came towards him, exposing pale gums and large yellow teeth in a series of brays.

  A shutter opened cautiously and MacNee caught a glimpse of a face behind it. Then it closed again and a moment later he heard the rattle of bolts and Christina Munro opened the door, a tiny, stooped figure in a crocheted hat, wearing a blue jersey with pulled threads and grey trousers which were much too big for her.

  ‘Bunty said you’d be, so you better come in. Not that there’s any point.’

  It wasn’t what you’d call a gracious welcome, even if she was right. Tam followed her in, feeling aggrieved. It was very dark, coming in from the sunshine, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted. There were a couple of low-wattage lamps on, and a fire was burning in the meagre grate of a black-leaded kitchen range. He hadn’t seen one of those for years.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a cuppa, I suppose. You can sit down there.’

  She indicated a chair opposite the one she obviously sat in herself, which had cushions, a multi-coloured crochet rug and a tortoiseshell cat sitting on the arm. Tam obediently took his place while she went to push a kettle by the side of the range on to a hotplate where it at once began singing. The cat jumped down with a glare of indignation and took up a position under the kitchen table, its tail twitching.

  There were a couple of other cats around and a greyhound, too, a pretty creature, which stood watchfully beside its mistress, but after a moment, when Tam held out his hand, it came over to lay a trusting head on his knee.

  Christina cackled. ‘Oh, they know a soft tumphy when they see one!’

  Affronted at the suggestion, Tam stopped stroking and the dog, with a reproachful look, went to lie down in front of the fire.

  The kitchen, he thought, looking about, could have gone straight on the telly for one of these dreary Scottish kailyard dramas he never watched: chipped stone sink, a meat safe instead of a fridge, an opening on to a pantry with thick slate slabs for shelves, a rough wooden table covered with a green checked oilcloth. The flowered linoleum on the floor looked like the most recent addition to the decor and he reckoned that had probably been laid in the Fifties.

  Christina was producing some tired-looking biscuits from a faded tin marked ‘Peek Frean’s Fancy Selection’.

  ‘No, no, nothing for me,’ Tam said hastily. ‘A cup of tea’ll do fine – milk and three sugars. I’ve just had one of Bunty’s Sunday lunches and you know her – not happy till you can barely stand.’

  She didn’t respond to the pleasantry, scooping tea from a caddy with a Coronation picture of the Queen on it into a brown pot which had been warming by the range. Well, be like that, he thought, irritated, but then, as she started pouring on the boiling water, some of it missed the pot and splashed, hissing, on to the range. Suddenly he realised that her hands were shaking badly – in fact, her whole body was shaking.

  He didn’t think it was a physical disability. The woman was in a highly nervous state. As Tam got up to take the thick china mug she had filled, he said gently, ‘Tell me what’s been happening.’

  When Bunty had told him what she knew, he’d pointed out it was just the usual stuff – neds mucking about. Difficult to handle, when there wasn’t real damage done, but usually you could reckon they’d get tired of it and move on. Apart from a slap on the wrist and a word with the parents, there wasn’t a lot the police could do, except threaten an ASBO – for what that was worth.

  But as Christina talked, he began to be alarmed. This was nasty stuff, calculated to intimidate, and it was having a dangerous effect. As the old woman talked on, in her quavering voice, of her fears for her animals more than herself, he found himself unable to reassure her. Certainly he didn’t think she was in physical danger personally – the police knew who they were and they would know that they’d be picked up immediately if she came to any harm. But the donkeys, for instance—

  And she was talking wildly. How could she let the poor beasts be persecuted? She was their protector, she had a duty. Suddenly, Tam noticed the shotgun propped on the wall beside the door, and he broke into what she was saying.

  ‘Here, have you a licence for that thing?’

  Christina followed his eyes. ‘’Course I do. I’ve aye had a licence.’

  ‘It should be locked up,’ he said firmly. ‘Have you a secure cupboard?’

  She jerked her head. ‘There’s one through the house there.’

  ‘That’s where it should be, then.’ He went over and picked it up, noting with some alarm that it was loaded. He broke the gun and shook out the cartridges into his hand. ‘Through here?’

  With a bad grace, Christina led the way and opened the door to show him into another darkened room. Flicking on the light switch, Tam saw a dingy farm office, a desk piled with yellowing paperwork and shelves stacked with drums and packets of farm supplies, thick with dust. A sack of animal feed was open in one corner and the air was heavy with its fusty smell.

  The built-in cupboard looked secure enough, fitted with steel-lever locks – about the most modern things in the house, Tam reckoned. There was a small, ancient safe under the desk and Christina, bending with difficulty, turned the dial on the outside, opened it and took out keys. He could see there were cartridges stocked there as well.

  ‘That’s good security,’ he approved. ‘Excellent, in fact. But not if the gun’s standing in your front room.’

  The door to the cupboard wasn’t locked and she looked at him expressionlessly as he opened it. The cupboard was empty. ‘This is the only gun you have?’

  ‘Only need one. I go out shooting rabbits for the cats’ supper.’

  It was a reasonable enough thing to say, but somehow he didn’t find it reassuring. Tam set the gun inside,
locked the door again and handed the keys to Christina, but she made no move to return them to the safe. ‘Shall I put them back for you?’ he offered.

  ‘I’ll put them back after. Once you’ve gone. I’m not telling anyone the combination.’

  He could hardly insist. They went back into the kitchen, but she didn’t ask him to sit down to finish his tea. She stood pointedly near the door, not actually holding it open but making it perfectly plain that she expected him to go.

  ‘Look, Christina,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I know you’re having a hard time. It’s not fair, and there’s nothing I’d like better than to give those wee toerags a lesson they’d never forget. But it’s not like that nowadays. I can’t act outside the law, and neither can you.’

  ‘So you can’t do anything either. Never thought you could.’ Her stance was defiant, but she was still shaking. The dog, which had silently appeared again at her side, gave a little whine and nudged her; her hand went down automatically to fondle its head.

  ‘I’ll get the police to go and lean on them a bit heavier this time,’ he promised.

  She laughed at that. ‘Oh, that’ll sort it, right enough. And next time they’re going to be worse.’

  The terrible thing was, Tam couldn’t deny it. She was holding open the door now and he had no choice but to leave. On the threshold he turned.

  ‘Christina, what I’m saying is, don’t take matters into your own hands. There was a farmer in the south who tried that and it ended in a tragedy and him in jail.’

  She was silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘Aye. Well, I expect he thought it was worth it. They wouldn’t go back there in a hurry, would they?

  ‘Oh, I know the law, Tam MacNee. In my day we were brought up to respect it. Just a pity we’re the only ones that do and folks like me are left sick with terror – sick to my stomach – the whole time.’

  She shut the door on him, but not before he had seen the tears in the fierce old eyes.

  Tam drove back to Kirkluce in a very thoughtful mood. It was an alarming situation, and perhaps he ought to report it and have Christina’s gun licence revoked. But in truth, while he thought she might fire the gun as a warning – which would, of course, cause trouble enough since neds always knew their rights and wouldn’t hesitate to report it – he didn’t believe for a moment that she would deliberately injure anyone, except perhaps herself. And it probably gave her some feeling of security. If she felt totally helpless she might, at her age, simply die of fear, and how would he feel then?

  No, he wasn’t going to mention taking the licence. But he would pop into HQ and have a word with the desk sergeant, say they needed to send someone round again to those little sods to spell out that if it happened again it would be more than just a warning. Threaten to pursue the case and ask for confiscation of the motorbikes – that might do it.

  And if he was in the station anyway, surely someone would tell him what was going on.

  ‘And then she just walks straight past me, into her bedroom, like she was a zombie or something. I go, “What’s wrong, then?” but she didn’t say anything. Ossian Forbes-Graham and Romy were there, down in the courtyard, so I went down and they told me what had happened.’

  The roar and whine of Formula One engines were almost drowning out Dylan’s agitated recital. Johnny Black, just back from organising a motocross event at the Forbes-Graham estate, was lounging with a beer on the sofa in the front room of the flat which occupied the space above the showroom on the High Street and the repair workshop and yard at the back, watching TV. He picked up the remote control and killed the sound.

  ‘Carmichael’s been shot? Do they know who did it?’

  Dylan shrugged. ‘Don’t think so. There’s police cars and all sorts at the house now.

  ‘Listen, do you want to come round and talk to my mum? It’s really, like, weird the way she’s acting. Ossian was wanting to come in and speak to her but when I go to ask, she’s just sitting on the bed and doesn’t say anything. And when I say would I just bring him up, then, she starts shaking her head and going, “No, no, no, no,” on and on. It’s like I said – weird.’

  ‘Don’t blame her,’ Johnny said. ‘I’d go, “No, no, no,” too, if you were going to land Ossian on me.’

  His reaction was in itself calming, and Dylan’s laugh was one of relief. ‘Yeah, you could be right. He’s a real tosser. So – what about Mum?’

  Johnny paused for a moment. ‘Look – she’s had bad news, poor girl. The old guy was good to her, wasn’t he? She’ll be upset, need time to get over the shock.

  ‘Tell you what. You make her a cup of tea and take it in to her – women like that. You can do sympathetic, can’t you? Oh no, I forgot – you’re a teenager.’

  Dylan grinned. ‘I can fake it.’

  ‘Then say, would she like me to come round. I don’t want to push in where I’m not wanted, but if she says yes, give me a bell and I’ll be there.’

  ‘Thanks, Johnny. That’s cool.’

  Feeling a burden lifted, Dylan went back along the High Street to the Craft Centre.

  Kirkluce was a typical Scottish market town, with shops, pubs and a couple of take-aways lining the main street and one or two side streets as well; the slate-roofed houses were grey stone or white harling, though occasionally a more ­adventurous householder challenged the monochromatic townscape with a daringly pink, green or even, unwisely, purple paint job. On Sunday, though, the town was dead. There was a local saying that if you’d become a nudist and wanted to keep it quiet, walk down Kirkluce High Street on a Sunday afternoon.

  But a group of people had gathered outside Fauldburn House, just beyond the door to the Craft Centre, and Dylan walked on to join them. There wasn’t anything to see, except some blue-and-white tape and a bored-looking constable at the entrance to the drive. After a moment, when nothing happened, he went back into the courtyard.

  There was no sign of Ossian now, though he could see Romy working in her studio. He went upstairs and let himself into the flat.

  ‘Mum!’ he called, but there was no answer. Following Johnny’s advice, he put on the kettle, fetched a mug and raked around for a herbal tea-bag. She liked those; it would show he was being sympathetic and understanding.

  He didn’t get it, really, though. So the old bloke had been good to her, OK, but he’d have been popping his clogs soon anyway, wouldn’t he? Dylan could go along with her being stressed out about maybe losing the shop and the flat now the Colonel wasn’t there to stop it being sold – he felt a bit edgy about that himself – but even so ... Still, if Johnny thought a cup of tea was the answer, he’d give it a go.

  With the mug in his hand, he went along to his mother’s bedroom and tapped on the door. There was no answer, and when he went in it was like she hadn’t moved at all. Her face was blank and she was staring out of the window, but he reckoned she wasn’t looking at anything.

  ‘Here, Mum,’ he said awkwardly, ‘brought you some tea. Peppermint. You like that.’

  She turned her head and for a moment there was a flicker of animation. ‘Thanks, that’s kind. You’re a good boy.’

  She took a sip and he went on, ‘I saw Johnny. He said, would you like him to come round? It’d be good for you to talk to him, Mum—’

  The blank look came back to her face. ‘No,’ she said. She jumped up, letting go of the mug as if she were unaware it was in her hand, and it fell to the floor, spreading a pool of the hot, pale liquid on the carpet. ‘Leave me alone! Leave me alone!’

  Baffled and scared, Dylan retreated.

  5

  Marjory Fleming was less than pleased, when she came back to the station after seeing the pathologist, to find Tam MacNee at the desk, talking to Jock Naismith.

  She did not try to hide her irritation. ‘Tam! What are you doing, back here again?’

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Naismith suppressing a smile. MacNee turned an innocent face to her and put his hand to his heart.

 
‘Mine,’ he declared, ‘is “an honest heart, that’s free frae a’ intended fraud or guile”. How could you think I’d try and get in on the case, with you telling me I was banned?’

  ‘Can’t imagine,’ Fleming said crisply. ‘So – what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m a concerned member of the public, come to share information useful to the police, just like I’m supposed to.’ He spoke with some dignity. ‘And I’m entitled to be treated with due respect and maybe even given a wee cuppie tea.’

  Exasperated, she turned to Naismith. ‘What’s all this about?’

  It was MacNee who replied, more soberly. ‘It’s not really a joking matter. I was away seeing Christina Munro today – her that’s being hit on by those neds on motorbikes – and if you ask me it’s a nasty situation.’

  Fleming’s annoyance evaporated. ‘Burnett and Kyle?’

  MacNee looked surprised at her tone. ‘That’s right. And Councillor Gloag’s son too, Jock tells me. Och, they’re just doing the intermittent harassment bit – we know all about that. But she’s an old woman all by herself and they’re leaning on her. She’s reached the dangerous end of scared. She could take a heart attack and drop dead – either that or she’ll take the gun she’s got for potting rabbits and use it.’

  ‘And these are Cat’s latest school chums!’ Fleming said hollowly. ‘No chance we can arrange for them to be committed for detention, preferably tomorrow?’

  ‘Yesterday would be better,’ MacNee said.

  ‘Jock, we’ll have to get on to that, come down heavy. But frankly, we can’t spare the manpower right now. All this today has left us seriously overstretched and everything else has to take second place.’

  ‘Any leads on that?’ MacNee’s question was elaborately casual, fooling no one.

  ‘Mr MacNee,’ Fleming said formally, ‘thank you so much for your public-spirited action in reporting to Sergeant Naismith a matter of legitimate concern. Your cooperation is much appreciated. There is the door. Goodbye.