Dead in the Water Page 8

  ‘But do come and meet Marcus first – he’ll be so tickled to meet you!’

  ‘Yes, it was him we were hoping to speak to,’ Fleming said.

  ‘My goodness, fans – in the Force! I’m thrilled skinny!’

  MacNee opened his mouth but at a look from Fleming shut it again, and they followed Craig through an airy hallway floored with black and white marble tiles and with a curved wrought-iron staircase sweeping up in front of a long arched window. From an open door came the sound of animated conversation.

  There were five people sitting around, but Fleming’s eyes went immediately to the woman in the wheelchair, pulled up close to the log fire. She wasn’t speaking, just watching with a slight smile on her face, but even in her silence her presence dominated the room. There was a much younger woman, whom Fleming recognized from the series, perched on the arm of a sofa talking to a man with a clipboard. Beside him was another man with a bag full of technical-looking stuff at his feet. There was some sort of argument going on.

  ‘OK, I can do that,’ Jaki was saying, ‘but you really can’t expect—’

  Craig bustled in. ‘Marcus! Someone you simply have to meet!’

  Fleming hadn’t noticed him initially. He was behind the woman in the chair, a little in shadow. She recognized him too, naturally, but he was much less striking in real life – a quiet, attractive-looking man with none of the swagger of his TV persona. Then he smiled and stepped forward, and it was as if he had suddenly taken the spotlight. Out of the wings, on to the stage, Fleming found herself thinking.

  ‘Superintendent Playfair, meet DI Fleming!’ Craig declaimed. ‘And – er – and her sergeant.’

  As Fleming moved forward to shake his hand, she realized MacNee hadn’t moved. He was staring at the woman in the wheelchair, who had noticed this, and as Lindsay disclaimed entitlement to such an introduction, directed a smile at MacNee which had him moving forward with a silly smile on his own face.

  ‘Miss – Miss Lascelles!’ he stammered, taking the hand she held out to him and holding on as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it now.

  Sylvia Lascelles detached herself with the grace of experience. ‘Goodness, you are clever to recognize me! I must have changed a bit since last you saw me.’

  ‘Couldn’t forget,’ MacNee said, a little hoarsely. ‘For Ever – my – my wife’s favourite film.’

  It wasn’t kind of Fleming to say, ‘Oh come, Sergeant MacNee, I’m sure you enjoyed it too,’ but she did enjoy the unusual spectacle of Tam MacNee blushing. She went on, ‘We really wanted to have a word with you, Mr Lindsay, if you don’t mind.’

  Barrie Craig interrupted. ‘He doesn’t know a thing about it. The person you want is Tony here, our First AD.’ He indicated the man with the clipboard. ‘Show the officers the arrangements, Tony.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Fleming said quickly. ‘There may be questions from the local uniformed branch, but it’s not really our business.’ She turned, making a gesture towards the door. ‘If there’s somewhere we could talk, Mr Lindsay . . .?’

  He was looking politely puzzled. ‘Yes, of course – this way.’

  ‘Oooh, they’ve caught up with you, Marcus!’ the irrepressible Craig was saying as they left, and Fleming heard Sylvia’s voice asking, ‘What on earth was that about?’

  The room he took them into was a book-lined study. It had an air of decay; motes of dust danced in the sunlight and the backs of the old volumes, untouched for centuries, were dry and faded. There were leather chairs and a chesterfield, cracked and splitting; the tapestry curtains were heavy with the grime of ages and at one end had fallen off the curtain rail. Above the mantelpiece was a striking portrait sketch of a very good-looking man in the traditional pilot’s pose – flying jacket, white silk scarf. Laddie Lazansky, presumably: he was clearly still a presence in the house.

  The room was very cold. Apologizing, Lindsay switched on a small electric fire, incongruous in the impressive fireplace. ‘Sorry – I’m afraid I don’t use much of the house. Things got neglected latterly and I’m hardly here myself. Now, what can I do for you?’

  He took the chair nearest the inadequate fire and MacNee, in a swift outflanking move, secured the one on the other side, leaving the chesterfield and the draught from the window for Fleming.

  ‘This is going back a long way, Mr Lindsay,’ she began. ‘You may remember that in October 1985 a young woman was found dead in the sea at the Mull of Galloway – Ailsa Grant.’

  ‘Ailsa Grant!’ he said slowly. ‘Yes – yes, of course I remember. A tragedy – I used to know her when we were young.’

  Was that a guarded reply? ‘A murder enquiry followed, but no one was ever charged. It is policy to review cases of this sort, and I am in charge of a fresh investigation.’

  MacNee, too, was watching the man closely. He leaned forward. ‘You see, however long ago it was, it’s still our job to see she gets justice.’

  Lindsay seemed quite relaxed – but then, Fleming reminded herself, he was an actor. ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said gravely. ‘If there’s anything I can tell you, I’m happy to do it.’

  A wholly appropriate response – almost too perfect, as if someone had given him his lines. Fleming went on, ‘Did you have a relationship with Ailsa Grant?’

  ‘Relationship? Oh – I don’t know that I’d call it that. I took her out a few times when we were – what, seventeen, eighteen? It didn’t amount to anything except a few kisses in the back of my mother’s car.’

  She pressed him. ‘No more than that?’

  ‘Yes, inspector, no more than that.’ Lindsay was firm. ‘Teenagers weren’t always shagging the way they do nowadays and down here we’ve always been behind the times anyway. And, as I said, it didn’t last long.’

  ‘And afterwards, when you were in Glasgow? She was working there too.’

  ‘I heard she was in Glasgow, but I never saw her. She didn’t follow me there, if that’s what you’re suggesting. It was a couple of years later, I think, and I’d started acting by then – bit parts, with bar work to pay the rent – so I hadn’t the time to chase up old acquaintances.’

  ‘So the relationship had finished? Was she unhappy about that?’

  Fleming thought she sensed tension, but he said easily enough, ‘Perhaps, but we all move on. I got caught up with the theatre crowd and didn’t come home much. No doubt she had her own friends.’

  That sounded defensive. Good. You always got more out of people who felt defensive. Fleming went on, ‘Her friends – who would they have been?’

  ‘Don’t know, really. As teenagers we hung out in cafés mostly – the pubs were a bit strict round here. The café in Sandhead was popular, I remember. But there were kids I didn’t know.’

  ‘I’d be grateful for any names – addresses would be helpful too, if you have them.’

  ‘The only two I can produce are Gavin and Diane Hodge – their house is Miramar, in Sandhead. They stayed around here longer than I did, then went to Glasgow – her father had a building company there – so they could probably tell you more. I’ll warn them to expect you.’ Lindsay sat forward in his chair, assuming this was the end of the interview. ‘Anything else?’

  With a glance at Fleming, MacNee took over. ‘When Ailsa died, your parents claimed you were in America.’

  Lindsay bristled. ‘Claimed, sergeant? I was in America.’

  ‘You see,’ MacNee went on, ‘no one checked. Maybe you were, but even in those days there were such things as planes. And it could have been worth a trip over if, let’s say, you found you’d got a girl pregnant—’

  Lindsay stared at him, astonished. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this! Is this some sort of accusation of murder? I thought the series had some improbable plot lines, but this is something else.’

  Fleming said soothingly, ‘No, no, sir, it’s not an accusation. Sergeant MacNee was just thinking aloud.’

  Lindsay’s smile was unamused. ‘I’d really rather he didn’t
.’

  ‘The thing is, Mr Lindsay, at the time you were actually accused of murder. Did you know that?’

  ‘Accused of murder?’ His shock was clearly genuine. ‘But – who by?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to tell you. But it would be a great help if we knew your movements at that time, say between March and November 1985.’ She nodded to MacNee, who got out his notebook.

  Lindsay seemed more irritated than uneasy at the questioning. ‘At this distance in time? I was in New York, I suppose – waiting and bar work again. I’d blagged a green card – my father had contacts from the war – and the actors’ unions weren’t as tough then as they are now, so I got some off-Broadway stuff, doubling as stage manager – that sort of thing. Then I was lucky enough to get a season in Connecticut doing summer stock. Great experience – got me touring dates afterwards and then TV work when I came home.’

  ‘So you were out of the country all that time? No visits back?’

  ‘Couldn’t have afforded it. Starvation wages, they paid.’

  He had relaxed again, and indeed the flat statement left nothing to follow up. Yet Fleming couldn’t quite let it go.

  ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but it would be most helpful to get corroboration – friends and colleagues at the time, for instance—’

  Lindsay was shaking his head. ‘I haven’t really kept in touch. I was more or less nomadic for years and there wasn’t text or email, of course. But hey – hang on! I think I can do better than that.’

  He got up with a triumphant air, went to the back of the room and stooped to lift a big album from the bottom shelf. He brought it over carefully and laid it on a round rosewood table in the window, blew dust off it, then opened it as Fleming and MacNee came to join him.

  It was a scrapbook, crammed with yellowing cuttings and photographs. ‘My pa kept this, bless him,’ he said. ‘Right from when I was in school plays. I’d to send everything to him, though he censored the bad reviews.’

  Lindsay pointed to one faded cutting. ‘This one was borderline. “Lindsay took on the role of the young Englishman and beat it into submission.” ’ He laughed, and turned the page.

  ‘Here we are!’ he said triumphantly. ‘The programmes. This one’s February – that run didn’t last long. Then March – The Importance. I was the butler with the cucumber sandwiches, look. We’d a good long run, right to the end of April, as far as I remember. Oh yes, here’s the closing notice – May 2. And here are the programmes for the summer stock, half a dozen plays, going into rehearsal at the end of May. Here’s The Chalk Garden – that transferred to Boston in September and we toured after that. Chicago, Indiana, even Illinois, for God’s sake!’

  It was a convincing record. Lindsay was enjoying himself, talking about old times. It was quite hard for the officers, assuring him they were satisfied, to get away.

  ‘Thank God! They didn’t arrest you!’ Barrie Craig greeted Lindsay with a dramatic clutch at his heart. ‘Tony was having kittens.’

  Tony Laidlaw, a thin, dark man with the expression of one who has heard everything and believed very little of it, said acidly that he had managed somehow to contain his panic.

  ‘What did they want, Marcus?’ Jaki asked. ‘CID – has there been a burglary?’

  ‘Probably, but they don’t bother to investigate unless they think the householder’s duffed up the burglar,’ he said with uncharacteristic bitterness. The others exchanged surprised glances.

  ‘That’s not like you, darling,’ Sylvia said. ‘You usually have a rather romantic view of our boys in blue.’

  ‘Black,’ Craig corrected automatically. Playfair’s Patch prided itself on accuracy.

  ‘Let me guess – they’ve caught up with your unpaid parking fines,’ Laidlaw suggested.

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. They’re reopening a cold case from twenty years ago – wanted to know if I was here then, but I was in the States so I wasn’t much help.’

  ‘Lucky, that! Could have been expensive if you were dragged off in irons,’ Craig giggled. ‘Might have done wonders for the show’s publicity, though.’

  ‘Without Marcus there wouldn’t be any show,’ Jaki said with asperity. ‘You’re not as funny as you think you are, Barrie.’

  Sylvia directed an anxious glance at Marcus before saying brightly, ‘Tony, have you tomorrow’s call sheet for me? I like to know where I’m going to have to be when, well in advance.’

  He found the sheet on his clipboard. ‘Nine a.m. Just some shots of you in your car. We’ve found a wonderful old banger, falling apart. Then it’s the neds sequence, with them throwing stones as you drive past in the village, only of course you won’t be in it. Dave here’s going to run the gauntlet, wearing an old straw hat Frocks has found for you.

  ‘Hope the school sends us some decently scruffy kids. Say ten of them – OK, Barrie?’

  The professional talk started again, but Marcus Lindsay didn’t join in. He stood looking out through the French windows to the neglected garden beyond. He didn’t look as if his thoughts were happy ones.

  Back at the main road again, Fleming checked her watch. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Is that the time? I don’t know what’s happened to today – an hour seems to go past every five minutes.

  ‘I don’t think we can go on down to the Mull. It’ll take half an hour to get there, then interviews with the three Grants, the best part of an hour back to Kirkluce – could be eight o’clock by then, and I should touch base with the Super before he goes home. I’m supposed to phone the Fiscal as well.’

  ‘Sounds like fun.’

  ‘Yes, if your idea of fun is taking a sharp stick and repeatedly poking yourself in the eye. But the Grants can wait. Won’t be pleasant for them anyway, stirring it all up again.’

  Fleming gave a slight shiver as she spoke and MacNee looked at her. ‘Are you cold? Why don’t you put up the heater?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Just a goose walking over my grave.’

  ‘This is a late call, inspector. I had expected to hear from you sooner.’ The acting Procurator Fiscal’s voice was chilly.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you before you left,’ Fleming said. ‘There have been a lot of demands on my time today.’

  ‘And on mine, which is why I’m still here. So – what is the situation?’

  ‘There’s very little to report as yet. I’m mainly familiarizing myself with the facts, but I did interview one of the people named, Marcus Lazansky – now known as Marcus Lindsay.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone, then an indrawn breath. ‘Marcus Lindsay – the actor?’

  Fleming was surprised. ‘Yes – do you know him?’

  ‘He’s very well known, isn’t he?’ Milne didn’t answer the question. ‘What had he to do with it, anyway?’

  ‘The girl’s mother accused him of her murder. They’d had some sort of relationship two or three years before, and Jean Grant seems just to have assumed that Lindsay was the father of the baby. Lindsay was actually in the US at the relevant time – showed us theatre programmes corroborating his story.’

  ‘So he’s eliminated from enquiries?’

  Milne couldn’t be sounding relieved, could she? ‘Not quite,’ Fleming said perversely. ‘It’s always possible he might have flown home in between plays, though unlikely.’

  ‘Inspector, you must have more to do than entertain unlikely scenarios. For a start, I need a clear summary of the facts of the case and such concrete evidence as you do have, so that we can shape your investigation in the most effective way.’

  ‘I’ll have that for you tomorrow,’ Fleming said, putting the phone down before she could say something she would most definitely regret.

  Her other phone call, to Donald Bailey, wasn’t easy either. He too expected a report, but she couldn’t let herself be drawn. In the case she was reviewing, he was suspected of running an ineffective investigation and no more entitled to know what she was doing than any other suspect wo
uld be.

  She stalled him politely, but in a way which made it clear what the position was. It was obvious he was upset, and even a little alarmed.

  ‘I see. Doing it by the book, Marjory? Well, I suppose that’s fair enough.’ Then he said, ‘Just like your father – except that one time. You’ll have seen what happened by now.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about that, but for the moment I’m only clearing the ground. Oh, and don’t worry about my paperwork. I’ve got it under control and I hate to think what Tam MacNee might do if he was let loose on it.’

  ‘Fine, Marjory, if you’re sure. The thing is, I just think it’s absolutely essential that this thing doesn’t hang on too long.’

  His voice sounded as if he felt the thing hanging might easily be the sword of Damocles.

  Jaki Johnston tiptoed up the stairs. She’d gone out with the team to the local pub – not strong on atmosphere, but the beer wasn’t bad, the company was good and she’d had a great laugh. Maybe the jokes weren’t as funny as all that, but when you’d spent two days hearing amusing tales of old Hollywood, you really appreciated them.

  Marcus and Barrie had stayed with Sylvia, but they obviously hadn’t gone on late into the night. As she came in the only sound she could hear was – well, probably Hollywood legends didn’t snore, but certainly heavy breathing, from behind the door of Sylvia’s downstairs bedroom.

  In her own room, she switched on the light beside the bed, then went to close the curtains before undressing. Light was spilling out from the guest room next door; Marcus must still be awake, but if he’d heard her come in he had obviously not wanted to see her any more than she wanted to see him.

  As the light from both windows lit up the garden below, Jaki suddenly remembered what she’d seen the night before. She could settle the mystery now.

  It had been raining all evening, quite heavily, and she peered through the gloom to where she had seen the shadowy shape. It was still there – a bush, just as she had told herself it must be. Was she ever glad she hadn’t rushed off to Marcus with her tale of alarm!