Lamb to the Slaughter Page 8

  ‘And Jock, may I remind you that Mr MacNee is, as he explained, a member of the public and as such not party to the internal details of a police investigation.’

  As she headed for the stairs, Naismith shook his head. ‘Aye, she’s a hard woman, Big Marge.’

  ‘She is that,’ MacNee agreed solemnly. ‘Lucky you told me all that before she told you not to.’

  With a wink, he sauntered out, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, whistling ‘Will Ye No’ Come Back Again?’ which, even if it hadn’t been penned by the Great Man himself, seemed suited to the occasion.

  It wasn’t often that Pete Spencer could be found in the bedroom he shared with Romy, working at the table which served as a desk, on a Sunday afternoon. In fact, even on weekdays he spent as little time there as he could. His skills were people skills and you couldn’t exert them alone, pushing paper. Figures resolutely refused to be charmed.

  And however you looked at these, they came out the same way. He put his head in his hands and groaned.

  Finding Dan Simpson, a local lad, but one with a background as a broker on the London Stock Exchange, had seemed an amazing piece of luck. It had given credibility to his own idea of setting up an Investment Club, and there had been no need to say, in the glossy prospectus they produced, that Dan had come back home under a cloud, any more than to mention Pete’s own chequered past. It didn’t do to dwell on unfortunate misunderstandings and it wasn’t as if they hadn’t both suffered for them. Dan had a boring job on the Forbes-Graham estate, and Pete himself hadn’t enjoyed the success a man of his talents deserved.

  They’d worked out the investor profile they wanted with great care. The younger female pensioner, sixties and early seventies, preferably widowed: everyone knew that, whatever the bleeding hearts said, pensioners were the ones with money. And greedy with it; they got a taste for exotic holidays and cruising and it didn’t come cheap.

  They weren’t the internet generation, and in any case, as Dan pointed out, the fraud squad had officers whose job it was to trawl the sites, and if there was one thing that mattered to Pete more than money, it was not going back inside. It was still a vivid and terrifying memory; sometimes he woke at night sweating and crying out.

  Pete was good at chatting up the ladies in that age group. They liked his cheeky charm, and he had an instinctive ­understanding of the buttons to press. They were familiar with women’s book groups, so a Ladies’ Investment Club was a reassuring idea. Explaining to them that insiders in the business world, like Dan, all knew how to get a proper return on their money at the expense of ordinary folk, played neatly to an existing prejudice. He cautioned them that, though of course they were welcome to get their friends to join (a natural female instinct), he couldn’t pay them commission since it would be illegal – a masterstroke, that, suggesting strict attention to the law – but as founder members they would be in Tier One, entitled to a yearly bonus once there were enough members to form a larger Tier Two, which converted them into supremely effective recruiting agents. Then, of course, he had taken care to give the usual caveats about the stock market going down as well as up, but not until he had seen the pound signs flashing in their eyes and knew they wouldn’t listen.

  One day it would unravel, without a doubt. Dan had an exit plan: if they were lucky, the market would have one of its periodic crashes, and the alarmist stories in the newspapers would mean that the failure of the Ladies’ Investment Club was explicable, if unfortunate. And if it got awkward, by then Dan and Pete would have the money in the offshore account to allow them to disappear quietly to some pleasant haven, preferably one with no extradition treaties.

  Pete looked grimly at the figures in front of him. There certainly wasn’t enough for that yet. Not by a long way.

  It was his own fault. He had made a stupid misjudgement, one he should have been able to foresee. He’d said nothing to Dan about it, though. He hoped he’d done enough to stop it all coming out in the most disastrous way, but he couldn’t be sure: if they came after you, it would be every man for himself, and Pete didn’t plan to be the one left holding the baby.

  Recently he’d been seriously contemplating leaving Romy anyway. In his indolent, easy-going way he’d been happy enough; her support meant he could dabble in this and that, always hoping for the big break, rather than getting a steady job. But recently, as her son had grown older, his comfort had been eroded.

  He’d more or less been able to ignore Barney when he was young, but increasingly the boy was intruding on his personal space, sneering and making veiled comments about Pete’s past. He was nosy, too; Pete had recently caught him going through the papers on his desk. Then there was his constant rowing with his mother – Pete hated arguments, especially when Romy kept trying to draw him in. And to add to all that, Barney was getting very expensive.

  The motorbike was a case in point. Romy had ignored Pete’s objections: she felt guilty about walking out on her marriage and Barney was skilled at rubbing her nose in it. Pete could almost admire his talent for manipulation, but not when it impacted on his own lifestyle.

  He’d tried to persuade Romy to talk to Gloag about compensation from ALCO but, pig-headed as usual, she wouldn’t listen. A few thousand in their joint account might have given him the escape route he was beginning to think might be necessary. At the moment, if he needed to get out quick, all he had was a credit card, and that wasn’t very far off its limit.

  Pete was trapped here, just waiting to see what would happen. He felt sick at the thought of all that might go wrong.

  ‘Right. The information we have so far: I’ll summarise.’

  Macdonald, Kerr and now Will Wilson too, with his face still glowing from the salt sea air, had gathered in Fleming’s office. She had switched the phone to voicemail; it had been ringing constantly and, after three interruptions in the five minutes since the meeting started, it was all she could do, though it would mean a lot of time working through the messages later.

  Fleming glanced down at her notes. ‘Carmichael was shot with a shotgun at fairly close range, less than ten feet, they think. If it was closer than that, there may be powder residue on the clothes, but there’ll be the usual long wait for lab tests. The wad of the cartridge went straight to the heart and there was also a peppering of pellets. At that distance the shot would have needed no particular skill.

  ‘He died instantly. The estimated time of death is between five, when Annie Brown saw him, and eight last night when the rain started. It looks as if he was dead by then since the ground underneath the body was dry.

  ‘That’s supported by the lack of footprint evidence, which is unfortunate, but there’s apparently visible disturbance of the soil and broken twigs in the bushes to the left of the front door, so it looks as if someone rang the bell and hid, then when Carmichael came out to see if anyone was there, stepped out in front of him and shot him. If we have a suspect they’ll be able to do analysis of the shoes, of course, to match up with the samples they’ve taken of soil and gravel.

  ‘Annie Brown claimed that he’d been planning to attend the superstore meeting in St Cerf’s Hall, and what he was wearing – blazer and regimental tie – supports that. There was also food untouched in the fridge which looked as if it was meant for his supper. The meeting started at six-thirty so we’re focusing on the earlier time, at least initially.

  ‘That’s about it. What have you got for me?’

  Kerr picked up the notebook she had laid on the desk and flipped it open. ‘Andy and I split up. Seemed better use of manpower at this stage.

  ‘I went to see Annie. She’s in quite a state, but dead keen to get whoever did this to “the Colonel” locked up. She’d reckoned he’d be at the meeting, but she didn’t fall over backwards when he never appeared. He’d been under a lot of pressure because if he refused to sell the Craft Centre, the deal wouldn’t go through.

  ‘He’d been worried about the effect on the community – a laird complex, if you ask me –�
� Kerr sniffed, ‘and he’d been subsidising the Craft Centre too. Patron of the Arts – saw himself as Kirkluce’s answer to the Medici family, no doubt.’

  Wilson was grinning, but Macdonald protested, ‘Come on! My auntie says he was a nice man – old school, but always ready to help if you’d a problem. Too soft for his own good, she reckoned.’

  Kerr was unabashed. ‘That’s class guilt. And people like your auntie and Annie still have the servant mentality – my granny was in service when she was a girl and she still goes on about “the Family” – Miss Mary this and Master Charlie that.’

  ‘Come on, Tansy, we’re not here to discuss your social hang-ups,’ Fleming said firmly. ‘Save it for the pub and stick to the point. Anything else?’

  ‘Sorry, boss. That sort of thing just gets right up my nose.’ She turned over a page. ‘Anyway, Annie thought he was ace. His wife died recently, an invalid for a good while and a cantankerous old besom, as far as I could make out, but the sainted Colonel was wonderful with her.

  ‘And he’d no children so now the whole thing will go to the nephew, Annie says, Giles Farquharson – daft name – and she’s no time for him. He and his wife Fiona – what else? – have been round every ten minutes, trying to push him into selling up to ALCO. Out for the pickings, jackals round a lion, according to her. Been watching too many David Attenborough programmes.

  ‘I think that’s about it.’ She shut the notebook.

  ‘Why did Annie go round to see him this morning?’ Macdonald asked. He’d been scribbling notes and frowning in concentration, Fleming was pleased to see – shaping up quite well, was DS Macdonald. She wasn’t so sure about Wilson; he was sitting back in his chair, as if not having been involved at the start meant that this wasn’t much to do with him.

  ‘Carmichael hadn’t turned up to read the lessons at church,’ Kerr said, ‘so the alarm bells rang. Oh, and she’d been taking church flowers to give to someone housebound – dropped them on the gravel, she said.’

  ‘I was wondering about that!’ Fleming exclaimed. ‘Thought it might have been some sort of kinky tribute left by the killer. Good to have it cleared up. Thanks, Tansy. Any questions? Will? You’ve got a lot to catch up with.’

  It was a pointed remark, but it didn’t lodge in its target. Wilson shook his head. ‘Nothing too complicated there. I reckon I’m up to speed.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Fleming let a pause develop, then when he didn’t speak nodded to Andy.

  ‘There seem to be two opposite theories going the rounds – he was killed because he wouldn’t sell the Craft Centre, or else he was killed because he would. I thought getting my aunt to explain the set-up there was a useful starting-point. Do you know the layout?’

  ‘Looked in years ago, when it opened,’ Fleming said. ‘I’m not really in the market for the stuff they sell and I never have time for coffee.’

  ‘Ellie Burnett seems to be the most favoured tenant. She’s got a nice wee flat as well as the shop and the rumour is she doesn’t pay much for it. The Colonel, my auntie says, has a soft spot for her.’ He paused. ‘Well, I’ve seen her singing down the pub, and you would, wouldn’t you?

  ‘Romy Kyle’s been the one leading the opposition to selling. He did up the workshop for her, no expense spared, so she’s a lot to lose – quite a temper too, by all accounts. Then there’s Ossian Forbes-Graham – successful painter, has indulgent parents with an estate a few miles away. It’s a second marriage; there’s a stepsister who runs a riding school somewhere, but Ossian’s the apple of their eye.

  ‘Seemingly he’s besotted about Ellie. Saw her performing so took the unit when it came up for rent last year – there was a bookbinder before who moved out. The only other one is Alanna Paterson, who makes pottery, but she’s not young and seemingly isn’t too bothered about losing the shop. The other three are desperate it shouldn’t be sold, for one reason and another.’

  ‘And what about your auntie? She’ll have a problem too, won’t she?’ It was the first question Will Wilson had asked. There was an edge to it, and Fleming looked at him sharply.

  ‘Not really.’ Macdonald’s voice was determinedly level. ‘She’s sixty in a couple of months and she’s giving up. Booked a world cruise already. And just to make sure, I checked where she was last night, and she and my uncle were on a theatre trip to Glasgow with the Rotary Club. Left at four, got back after midnight. All right?’

  ‘Hey, hey!’ Wilson said, putting his hands up. ‘It was a reasonable question.’

  ‘Sure it was,’ Macdonald said. ‘And you got a reasonable answer.’

  Fleming looked from one to the other. She said nothing, at the top of her voice, and it was Wilson who began to shift in his seat first.

  ‘Sorry. I was out of order.’

  ‘Let’s put that to one side – for the time being.’ It wouldn’t do him any harm to sweat. ‘So, Andy – anything else?’

  ‘She said that Romy was absolutely convinced that Carmichael would refuse to sell, but she wasn’t so sure herself. There was a stack of money involved, and there was a lot of people leaning on him. Councillor Gloag, for one, who seems to have his fingers in the pie right up to the elbow.’

  ‘Annie mentioned him too,’ Kerr added. She had been, Fleming thought, uncharacteristically silent during the exchanges between Wilson and Macdonald. ‘And I’m not sure she was totally convinced about him saying no either.’

  ‘That’s what my aunt said. Hated upsetting people. Liked a quiet life.’

  ‘So to sum up: what emerges is two distinct camps, one of which has a motive if he’d decided to sell, and the other if he decided not to sell. Well, it leaves the field wide open, anyway.

  ‘Does that cover it, then? There’s door-to-door stuff going on, and I’ve asked for a printout of all the shotgun licence holders in the area. I’ll be drawing up an action plan for the briefing tomorrow – eight-thirty sharp.’

  Fleming looked after them thoughtfully as they went out. Why was it that, no sooner had one personnel problem resolved itself, another appeared?

  Wilson and Macdonald had seemed to be on good enough terms, until Macdonald’s promotion. Will had always been a bit of a golden boy, good-looking with his blond curly hair and ready smile, and a competent officer. Andy had fewer years of service, but Will had been slower to take his sergeant’s exams – a home which had three kids under six wasn’t the ideal place for studying – and he couldn’t expect to achieve seniority without the necessary piece of paper.

  Tansy and Tam had usually worked together, a good team which formed a solid heart to any enquiry. Now Tansy worked mainly with Will, she seemed to have changed, somehow – a bit more chip-on-the-shoulder, a bit less supportive. Or was Fleming only imagining that?

  She had rather more pressing worries than Tansy’s attitude problem or Will Wilson’s nose being out of joint. Fleming looked hopelessly at the flashing light on her phone, the papers on her desk and, when she opened her email, the messages clicking up one after another. She’d be lucky to get home before midnight, at this rate.

  Like a spider sitting watchfully in a corner of its web, waiting for an unsuspecting fly, Tam MacNee sat at one end of the bar counter in the Salutation. It was a less civilised pub than the Cutty Sark, with the sort of wooden floors that weren’t a design statement and a thickened atmosphere from the fire that burned in a central grate open to the two long rooms on either side, but it was the nearest port of call for officers going off duty and desperate for a drink after a trying day.

  There was no sign of any of them yet, though, and it was well past five o’clock. MacNee was on to his second pint, and his afternoon pass from Bunty would be running out soon. The pub was quiet anyway, and though the drinkers had been blethering on about the murder, no one had anything new to say and now the conversation was being recycled for the third time. MacNee looked at his watch again gloomily.

  When the door swung open and PC Sandy Langlands appeared, MacNee brightened immediately. If he
could have chosen someone for his purposes, it would have been Sandy: cheerful, open, trusting, like a Labrador puppy. He particularly liked the ‘trusting’ bit. It would never occur to Sandy that Tam MacNee should be denied information, just because he was away from his work for a wee while. And surely Big Marge couldn’t yet have got round absolutely everyone with her directive?

  ‘Sandy! Good to see you, man!’ Tam greeted him, smiling broadly. ‘What’ll it be?’

  The smile, the enthusiasm and the unaccustomed generosity all combined to alarm his victim. ‘What are you after, Tam?’ Sandy asked suspiciously.

  It was sad to see such an innocent nature corrupted by cynicism. ‘Just your company, that’s all. Sit down and give us your craik.’

  Gingerly, Langlands took a stool at the bar and accepted his offer.

  ‘Pint of Special here, Donnie,’ MacNee called to the barman. ‘Now, what’s been going on today? Bit of a shock, something like this within spitting distance of the station, eh?’

  ‘Right enough. Not what you expect in a douce place like Kirkluce.’ Langlands’s pint arrived and he raised it. ‘Cheers, Tam! I’m needing this – thirsty work, asking people questions.’

  ‘Been out on the knocker, have you?’ Tam could sympathise. ‘Tough to go on looking interested when they’ve nothing to tell you.’

  ‘At length,’ Langlands said with feeling. ‘I was working the houses opposite Fauldburn House and not one of them had actually seen anything, but they were all wanting to tell me why it had happened.’

  This was a distinctly poor return on MacNee’s investment. ‘And what did they reckon the motive was?’

  Langlands took a reflective pull at his pint. ‘You could say there were three categories. One lot think it’s because he was going to block the supermarket. There’s the ones that think it was because he was going to sell to the supermarket, and then there’s the idea that it’s nothing to do with the supermarket, that it’s a crazed gunman with no reason at all, and we’re all going to die.’