28

DS MacNee reached the Bailey bridge, then hesitated. He could drive up to Rosscarron House, US Cavalry to the rescue, guns blazing. Then what?

He knew fine what they were up against. Down here, when you were dealing with local crime, you could maybe forget that Glasgow, the murder capital of Europe, was just two or three hours away. But he’d lived long enough in the more squalid parts of that city to know that if one of the pros was on this patch, he’d have a gun and wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

Fleming, he believed, was in deadly and immediate danger, but getting himself shot in a full-on approach wouldn’t help her. MacNee knew precisely what the official position was: he would be guilty of misconduct if he did anything other than wait for the back-up he had summoned, and even then if there was reason to believe guns were involved, their instructions would be to wait for an armed-response unit.

And how long would that take? Long enough for the shooting and the escape – after which, of course, stable doors would be shut and bolted with a great stushie about lessons being learned and there’d be a fine funeral with all the top brass in their Sunday-best uniforms.

Or he could just take it quickly and quietly, get himself up there unnoticed, see what was going on and take his chances. MacNee might be too late already, but whatever happened to him, at least he’d know he’d tried.

With any luck, the lads from Kirkcudbright would be well on their way by now. He’d better keep their path clear; he drove further on, up round a corner. There, off the road on a piece of rough ground under some scrubby trees was a black Toyota. He parked his own car nearby and jumped out.

MacNee was rarely without his Swiss Army knife, and it was the work of a moment to slash all four tyres. If it turned out that he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, he’d pay the outraged owner out of his own pocket. Then he turned his car and drove back round the corner again.

He shrugged on his heavy waterproof jacket, took a telescopic baton from the glove compartment and stowed it away. He got out and took a deep breath. ‘May coward shame disdain his name, The wretch that dares not die!’

For speed, he’d have to take the metalled road up to the house until he reached the gate towards the top of it, which led into the camping field. That was the risky bit. After that he could get down to the house from behind, unseen.

It was uphill and MacNee maybe wasn’t quite as fit as he should be, but he could still cover the ground. He had already reached the field where the fog would conceal him when he heard the voices outside the house.

Declan Ryan was saying in a tone that suggested panic, ‘I don’t know! I came back to the house about half an hour ago and they were there then. They must have picked the lock. But they won’t have got far in this weather – they wouldn’t risk going down on the road.’

Another voice with a strong Glasgow accent gave him his character with an impressive flow of invective. ‘Get down and block the sodding bridge,’ it finished. ‘I’ll check around here.’

The car door slammed and a minute later the Discovery came barrelling past.

So Marjory was still alive, anyway. She’d got away from them, was out there, somewhere in the fog, alone and aware that she was being hunted. She must be scared, and wet, and very, very cold; MacNee, in his police-issue jacket, was cold enough. How could he find her?

He couldn’t. But at least he had found her pursuer. MacNee concealed himself behind the wide gatepost at the entrance to the field and waited.

It was two minutes later that he came past, only feet away on the road, looking round about him – the badger man MacNee had seen in the rear-view mirror. He was carrying a gun, a semi-automatic pistol from the look of it. MacNee held his breath; the effects of a fog blanket were strange, muffling some sounds and amplifying others. He could hear the man’s own laboured breathing, so he was stressed, then. Good! Stress led to error.

Not that MacNee was feeling calm himself, but his presence being unknown and unsuspected gave him a feeling of power that buoyed him up as he set off, walking silently on the grass verge trailing his quarry.

He was almost at the bottom when he too heard Fleming’s voice, and his heart gave a massive thunk! in his chest. Ahead of him, the footsteps had stopped: the other man was listening too.

MacNee could, of course, launch an attack now and hope with the element of surprise to seize the gun. But gunshots could go anywhere, and Fleming – and apparently Kershaw too, for God’s sake! – were nearby.

He looked at his watch. In another fifteen minutes back-up should be arriving, and he’d specified blues and twos. Hearing that approaching, any professional with half a brain would chuck it and run. Fleming only needed to evade him for ten minutes more.

He daren’t follow the man down the road. With deep distaste, MacNee scrambled up on to the moorland and began taking a downward path at breakneck speed. And he probably would break his neck, if he fell. Banks and bloody braes, eh? If he’d his way, he’d concrete over the countryside. All of it.

 

‘Have you seen Big Marge?’ DS Macdonald said, coming into the CID room. ‘It’s almost time for the briefing and there’s no sign of her and there’s been no message.’

Campbell, working at one of the desks, looked up. ‘Don’t know where she is, but MacNee’s just declared some sort of emergency at Rosscarron House.’

‘What’s he done now?’ Macdonald said acidly. ‘I understood he was off at the moment.’

‘The boss went out there this morning. With Kim.’

‘So she did.’ Macdonald frowned. ‘I’m edgy about this. I happen to know there’s been a tip-off that a professional from Glasgow’s in the area – you know, the guy we’ve been told to look out for but not to approach. There are some of the Glasgow bosses who might be taking an interest, pals of Crozier’s.’

‘Right.’ Campbell was frowning too. ‘So we think he took out Lisa Stewart? But why would they want Lisa Stewart killed?’

Macdonald absorbed that, then said slowly, ‘They wouldn’t, as far as I can see. If Ryan paid Williams to persecute the girl, he could have paid someone to rub her out, and the boss was last known to be going to see Cara Ryan. Has she walked into something?’ He was sounding alarmed. ‘What do we do?’

‘Sounds as if Tam’s doing it,’ Campbell pointed out.

‘If it’s what I think, it should be armed response. I’d better talk to Bailey.’ With considerable reluctance Macdonald went along to Superintendent Bailey’s office, with not much more than a gut feeling to back up his request.

Donald Bailey was inclined at first to be sceptical, but Macdonald found himself becoming more convinced as he argued the case and eventually had Bailey almost as concerned as he was himself. After a phone call to the assistant chief constable, the immediate mobilisation of armed response was authorised.

‘There may be no point,’ Bailey said heavily at the end of the interview. ‘If you’re right, she could be dead long before they get anywhere near her. We can only hope you’re entirely wrong – though of course that would make it a shocking waste of money, Macdonald.’ He shook his head.

With one more worry to add to his concerns about his colleagues, Macdonald went gloomily back to the CID room.

 

They were both limping badly – Fleming’s shoes were heelless and all but destroyed; Kershaw’s were little better – but they were reaching the houses now. There was no one working there today; JCBs and concrete mixers were still, shrouded shapes.

The worst of the mud had been removed and the houses nearest looked to have been cleared, with doors and windows repaired. As Fleming picked up a stone to break a pane in the back door of the first one they came to, she felt a pang of guilt, but she didn’t think she had the strength to go further to one still awaiting attention, and she was quite sure Kershaw didn’t. Slipping her hand through the hole, she found the key in the lock inside and opened the door.

By then Kim had slumped on the doorstep. Fleming hauled her in, locked it again on the inside and removed the key. No point in making it easier for anyone who might come looking, though she had no illusions about what would happen if Black worked out where they were.

It was a relief, though, to have shelter from the cold and penetrating wet, and wonderful to sink down on the stairs in the internal hall, which was lit only by a small staircase window; once she had shut all the doors, they would be invisible from outside. There was even a telephone there, though when she tried it, the line was dead. Well, she hadn’t expected anything else.

Kershaw seemed alarmingly cold. Might there still be furnishings, or even clothes, upstairs? Fleming didn’t know how she would find the energy to climb the stairs, but hauling on the banister, she made it and in the first room found blankets still on the bed, and some towels in the bathroom. She carried them to the stairs, though her feet were so numb she didn’t trust herself to walk down; she bumped and slid to the bottom, then swaddled Kim in blankets, pulled one round herself and started to rub Kim’s arms and legs with the towels.

Her own numb extremities began to thaw out painfully. Her feet, she noticed with a sort of abstract interest, were badly bruised and lacerated and blistered, and on the injured side of her face, the gash had stiffened and started to throb.

Kershaw was at least opening and closing her hands and moving her feet, and showing signs of being more aware of her surroundings. She looked sideways at Fleming. ‘Thanks. I’m sorry.’

‘No need. Just rest – we’re all right here for the moment.’

But were they? As the immediate physical problem receded, the other worries rushed in. The trouble was, she had no idea what was happening out there, and until she did it was difficult, if not impossible, to have any sort of coherent plan.

Just stay in here, perhaps. Sooner or later – indeed, round about now – they would start wondering at headquarters why she hadn’t returned for the briefing and wasn’t in contact. Macdonald certainly knew where she had been, and he knew enough to check up on the Ryans.

They should be safe enough meantime; Ryan would assume that they were out there somewhere in the mist, trying to work their way down to the road.

Anyway, she wasn’t at all sure if there was much else she could hope to do, in their present state. Kershaw, with her head on her knees, had actually fallen asleep.

It terrified her to be sitting blind in this shadowy hall. Suppose Black was even now prowling around outside? She itched to go to a window to look, but she had to fight the suicidal impulse, waiting with her skin crawling with nerves, listening for a sound that would announce his arrival.

But she mustn’t think like that. There was no reason why anyone would suspect they might be here. They just had to wait, and wait.

 

MacNee was on the slope just above the bridge. A faint breeze was stirring and in places the fog was starting to thin out; below him, he could see Ryan and badger man in conversation. At one point he could even hear the angry Glasgow voice, could even place the accent to within a few streets of his own birthplace. A bred-in-the-bone hard man.

He was turning away from Ryan now – leaving him to block the bridge, just in case, no doubt, while he headed down the short road to the houses, where, MacNee hoped to God, Marjory and Kim had concealed themselves effectively enough to be safe until the lads arrived – or even till they announced their arrival and the man scarpered. The fog could be slowing the cars, of course, but still, the women would be fine. Of course they would.

He’d have to tail badger man, though, just in case, and he drew out the telescopic baton, looped it over his wrist and extended it. He didn’t want to take on a professional with a gun – he wasn’t daft – but he’d been in plenty Glasgow street fights where there was some bam with a chib and he knew the principle: never mind the knife, play the moron. It was a bit different with guns, but here at least he’d the element of surprise.

As long as badger man didn’t decide to take a quick look back. The fog was thinning all the time. Reluctantly, MacNee climbed a little up the slope behind the houses, dodging from one clump of whin to another, ducking down as the misty veil lifted. He felt a right idiot, playing hide-and-seek. And where were those buggers from Kirkcudbright? Didn’t they know what that pedal on the right was for?

 

At first Fleming had thought the tiny sound she heard was imagined, born of her fears. But then there was another sound, and another: sinister, stealthy movements outside. Her eyes widened, following them along the side of the house as if she could see through the walls between them. They had been tracked down, then, after all. Black, the hired killer, arrived at last? Cold terror constricted her throat; she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, even.

Fear – that was as much her enemy as the man outside. She had to do something – anything! – rather than huddling here, a sacrificial victim to her own cowardice. She jumped to her feet.

Kershaw was still asleep; she shook her awake, putting a hand over her mouth.

‘Sssh! We’re going to go upstairs and lock ourselves in the bathroom.’ It was all Fleming could think of. ‘There’s someone after us who probably has a gun and he’s going to break in.’

And how long would it take him to shoot out the lock on the bathroom door? Their only realistic chance had been if no one thought to look for them here. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. They were cornered, here in this pleasant, domestic death-trap.

Kim, though, was getting up obediently, looking bewildered and moving stiffly.

‘Come on,’ Fleming said. ‘Quick as you can.’

And then she heard it – the beautiful, amazing sound of police sirens, approaching fast. With new energy she urged Kershaw towards the stairs, then heard the even more wonderful sound of pounding footsteps, running away.

She dashed into the front room and caught just a glimpse of him before he was swallowed up in the fog as if he had only ever been a figment of her imagination. She sagged in relief as she turned to Kim.

‘He’s gone. And the lads will be here any moment now – listen.’ There was a siren very loud and close. ‘They’ll have stopped at the bridge, probably. I want to see where that man’s gone so I can tell them.’

Fleming opened the front door and stepped outside.

 

Where the hell was badger man? The wind had dropped and the fog had settled again; MacNee had lost him. But what he could hear was the blessed sound of sirens and he knew the man would be doing what any professional would do in those circumstances. He’d be trying to reach his car to make a quick getaway, and, MacNee thought with grim satisfaction, would be in for a nasty shock when he found it.

He set off back along the road he had taken, and with a lift of satisfaction felt the wind pick up again, more strongly this time. Fog was a fugitive’s friend, and now it was personal. MacNee was going to nail the bastard.

He glanced over his shoulder as he ran and saw Fleming coming out of the house with Kershaw behind her. They’d have been better to wait till the boys had things tidied up, but the boss had never been what you’d call patient. And then his blood ran cold.

 

MacNee? Fleming stared. He was sprinting up the road towards the bridge. What the hell was he doing here? Had she him to thank—

From a space between the first and second houses on the side of the road backing on to the river a man stepped out, a man with a pale complexion and black hair that grew in a widow’s peak on his forehead, a man with a gun in his hand.

Something strange happened to time. He seemed to be raising it in slow motion, levelling it at Fleming as she stood there, presenting a target as wide as a barn door. She tried to turn, but her movements seemed slow, almost balletic.

And then Kim Kershaw was in front of her, moving between Fleming and the gun to take her solo part in the dance of death. The gun cracked and the bullet found her.

Fleming caught her as she crumpled, slowly, slowly, then lowered her to the ground. She looked at the blood on her hands, feeling only an odd detachment as she waited for execution. The gun fired again.

 

MacNee had launched himself at Black, but just failed to reach him before he got in that first deadly shot. Then he was on him, knocking him to the ground.

The second shot went wide, as MacNee struck the gun from his hand with his baton, sending it spinning down the road. He got in a glancing blow to the back of Black’s head and, as the man scrambled to get away, flung himself on top of him, trying to pin him down. But Black was bigger, stronger and frenzied in his efforts to escape; a moment later MacNee was winded on the ground and Black vanished again, up the road and into the mist.

Fleming, ashen-faced, was kneeling beside the crumpled figure. She looked half dazed and helpless; she was staring at her hands, red with blood, held out in front of her. As MacNee reached them, he saw the dark, spreading patch on Kershaw’s sweater. Her eyes were closed.

‘Oh dear God!’ he said, ‘Is she . . . ?’

Through numbed lips Fleming said, ‘It’s bad.’

He could see that. He knelt down, checking for a pulse.

‘She’s breathing, at least.’ He stood up again, looking around impatiently. ‘Where the hell are the uniforms? A chest wound – we need to get it sealed and keep her warm till the ambulance gets here.’

There were shouts and the sound of running feet as the first men arrived from the patrol cars. MacNee had his jacket off and was spreading it over Kershaw; one of the others did the same, then sprinted back for first-aid supplies and survival blankets.

Another said urgently, ‘Where did he go?’ and MacNee pointed.

‘The gun’s on the ground there, though he might have another one.’

The man nodded, then set off in pursuit, yelling instructions.

MacNee turned to Fleming. She was looking ghastly, with a fresh bruise on her temple, and her body was racked by violent shuddering. ‘You’re needing a blanket too. You’re in a bad way,’ he said gruffly.

Fleming didn’t seem to hear him. ‘She took the bullet for me,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘She pushed me aside, Tam. I – I think she wanted to die.’

Watching, that had been his reading of it too, but he said robustly, ‘Well, she maybe won’t. Look, the fog’s definitely lifting and they could get the air ambulance here in twenty minutes. And afterwards we’ll all just have to give Kim something to live for.’

 

He’d been a fool to take the time to get in the shot, but Black had simply lost it, furious at the bungling that had landed him in this situation, desperate to retrieve his position. It was all to play for: when he saw the door opening and the women coming out, he couldn’t resist. And then he hadn’t even got the right one.

Now he was cowering on a hillside in mist that was lifting by the minute, with God knows how many policemen on his heels. He was following the course of the river, upstream of the bridge. He’d have to ford it somewhere, then come down on the other side to his car.

They’d have had no reason to suspect it would be up beyond the turn to Rosscarron House. Once he reached it, he could put his foot down and blast his way through whatever was down there. At least it was a chance.

He could hear them shouting to each other, behind him and lower down. The water was a bit shallower here – and anyway, what alternative did he have? Making as little noise as possible and grimacing, he scrambled down the bank and struggled across.

At least he was on the right side now, and though he could see maybe twenty, thirty feet in either direction, there was nothing alarming. For speed, he must risk taking the road down, though he hugged the edge where a scrubby hedgerow of bushes might give him cover. He could hear a chopper overhead; he might need to disappear.

There was his car now. Maybe there was, after all, a chance to escape disaster. With a prayer to his patroness, Lady Luck, he reached it and opened the driver’s door.

It was only then he noticed a slashed tyre. A second later the door slammed over, pinning him painfully against the car, and holding it in place was a small man with an unpleasant, gap-toothed smile. It sent cold chills down his spine, that smile – that, and the three uniformed officers standing behind.

‘You and me’s got a wee bit of unfinished business, pal,’ the small man said. ‘Maybe you’d like to try resisting arrest?’ He smiled again. ‘We’ll all have a fine time subduing you, you dirty bastard.’

And suddenly no one was smiling any more.

 

‘I’m sure I don’t need a CAT scan,’ Marjory Fleming protested. ‘It was only a slight knock.’

‘That’s what they all say,’ the young houseman said cheerfully. ‘And then there’s a brain clot and they drop dead without warning two days later.’

‘Did anyone ever tell you that you had a wonderful bedside manner? No, I thought not,’ Marjory said, with forced cheerfulness.

It was a huge effort to act normally, but it was the only way she could get through all this without disintegrating. She daren’t let herself think about the woman in the operating theatre who was, in the conventional phrase, fighting for her life. Particularly since Marjory was fairly sure she wasn’t.

But certainly, once she’d had the scan, it was a relief to know that there had been no lasting harm. Bill, looking shaken, had arrived just as she got the verdict.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Surface damage only.’

‘The surface is pretty bad,’ he said with husbandly candour. ‘They’ve said I can take you home – probably afraid you’ll scare the other patients.’

Marjory managed to smile. ‘Good. Lucky the hens are made of sterner stuff.’ But when Bill went to take her in his arms, she said quickly, ‘Don’t, Bill. I want to get home before I go to pieces. Make another joke – that might help.’

She hobbled out of the cubicle on her bandaged feet. Behind her, Bill said, ‘Not sure I can make a joke to order, but I could repeat the one Hamish Raeburn told me about a farmer, a lady vet and a farrowing sow—’

‘Anything but that,’ Marjory groaned, but it got her out to the car before the tears came.

Thursday, 27 July

‘A good, thorough go to the hall this morning, Hayley,’ Susan Telford admonished the young woman in a pink nylon overall. ‘There’s the brass to do, and it’s time the floor was polished again.’

‘Yes, Mrs Telford,’ Hayley said meekly, only pulling a face when her employer’s back was turned. Fussy old bat! But she switched on the hoover and got on with it. If it wasn’t properly done, she’d only end up having to do it again.

She poked the hoover under the hat-stand. A piece of paper stuck to the nozzle; she picked it up and glanced at it incuriously – just a copy of the sheet they put in all the bedrooms. She binned it and went back to her task.

 

Bailey thought he was doing Fleming a favour by ordering her to take time off, and it was true that she was still feeling ill with shock. But she would so much have preferred to be in the thick of it all, to have an inquiry that was rapidly gathering pace to occupy her mind. She had phoned Andy Macdonald, who had told her briefly that the Fraud Squad had gone in to Rosscarron House and a very promising laptop computer had been found in the kid’s bedroom. They’d sworn out warrants for Lloyd and Driscoll, and both Ryans were in custody.

He added, with obvious relief, that they’d been able to stand down the armed-response unit before it dented the budget, and that Bailey was taking all the credit going for exposing the fraud and condescending to Glasgow about having rounded up one of their serious villains. Macdonald hadn’t time to chat, though, and while she was grateful for these crumbs of information, it only made her hungry for more detail.

The house was empty. Bill was away today at a sale, the kids were at school, and though her mother, Janet, clucking her distress, had said she’d be out to see her, she’d a friend to take for a hospital appointment first, so Fleming was delighted when she saw Tam MacNee’s car pulling up in the yard and hobbled out on her bandaged feet into the drizzle to greet him.

Meg, bored by inactivity, bounded out too and MacNee looked gratified by the welcome. ‘Oh, it’s great to be bonny and well liked, as they say. How are you feeling?’

‘Fine. Come on in – I’ll put the kettle on. Everyone else is too busy to talk to me. I’m glad to have a companion in ignorance.’

‘Who says?’ MacNee said cockily, and she turned from the range to look at him.

‘What do you know? Oh, have you heard anything about Kim? I phoned this morning, but they wouldn’t tell me because I’m not a relation.’

‘The word is, she came through the op, but she’s critical.’

They were silent for a moment and then MacNee went on, ‘Cara Ryan’s got herself one of the Glasgow lawyers who knows every trick in the book and has a few wee wrinkles of his own, and she’s ready to say she knew nothing about it and lay all the blame on her husband. And Ryan’s claiming he didn’t do anything except keep quiet about what she and Jason Williams were up to.’

‘Where are you getting all this from?’ Fleming demanded, pushing a mug of coffee across the table. Then, when MacNee winked and tapped the side of his nose, she said, ‘And you’re not getting any of my mother’s baking if you don’t tell me.’

MacNee caved in at once. ‘Jock Naismith and I are old pals, and nothing goes on that he doesn’t know about. He’s agreed to keep me posted.’

‘Right. So what about – Black?’ She couldn’t control a shudder as she said the name.

‘He’ll appear on petition this morning and they’ll remand him, of course. There’s a lot of interest in the gun. The lads up in Glasgow seemingly think it might clear up one or two outstanding murder cases for them. He’s looking at thirty years, and that’s if the judge is in a sunny mood.’

Fleming had been eating a flapjack, but she put it down again, feeling queasy. ‘I couldn’t really take it seriously, you know, before. I couldn’t quite believe it. I mean, look at this.’ She gestured around the farmhouse kitchen – the cheerful curtains, the Aga, the dog asleep beside it, the dresser with the unmatched china and the holiday postcards and the photos of the family. ‘This is real – the other’s fantasy. Only it isn’t.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ MacNee agreed. ‘I’ve known that since I was just a wee boy. But anyway, we got him.’

‘You got him.’ Fleming crumbled her flapjack. ‘The next bullet would have been for me. You and Kim between you – you saved my life. You’re making a habit of it.’

‘Och, haud your wheesht!’ MacNee looked embarrassed. ‘And Kim’ll be all right, you’ll see. She’ll have to be, to corroborate your allegations about Cara Ryan or they’ll be claiming she’s no case to answer. A good lawyer would say your fingerprints in the larder were just the result of a search and it would be your word against hers. I’ll tell Kim she’s needed, if they’ll let me in to see her. It’ll give her something to fight for.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Fleming said gloomily. ‘Oh, it’s all such a mess and a muddle – I’m not sure I’ve got it clear even now.’

‘It’s looking as if it was Cara who was pulling the strings all along,’ MacNee said. ‘She wanted to punish Lisa Stewart.’

‘And she wanted to punish her father for bringing Lisa into their lives,’ Fleming added. ‘She said as much. And we saw for ourselves how little she minded his death.’

‘Here – she maybe even set it up. Come to think of it, she gave Ryan his orders right under my nose, that day at lunch after the accident, and I was standing beside Ryan when he told Jason that Crozier would be coming up through the wood to see the caterers. Cara was Ryan’s meal ticket, so he did as he was told.’

‘They can’t have planned that all along, though,’ Fleming argued. ‘It only became necessary after Rencombe was killed. I worked out that he must somehow have put Williams under threat.’

‘Jock said that Pilapil more or less told Andy and Ewan there was a plan to blackmail Crozier, and he’d guessed what they were up to – if Rencombe was sent to find out the details, then threatened to expose them, that would do it. Of course, if they’d got him to commission Lisa’s death – well, they’d have him over a barrel, wouldn’t they?’

‘Then Cara saw the chance to frame Lisa for Crozier and Williams – after all, as she saw it, Lisa had got off with her first killing.’

‘And had she?’

Fleming shook her head. ‘No, I simply can’t see it. Nico, jealous, uncontrolled – it’s far more likely. Oh goodness, I’ve got to buy him a computer game. He helped us escape, you know.’ Then she stopped. ‘What’s going to happen to the poor kid now?’

‘You know as well as I do. He’ll go into care and it’ll be a downward spiral. I just hope we’re not looking for him for murder in another ten years. He’s a right little psychopath, if you ask me.’

‘I can’t bear to think about it.’

‘Forget it, then. There’s nothing you can do.’ MacNee was pragmatic as always. ‘Try working out how we’re going to nail Ryan for Williams’s murder. Last time I looked, Forensics hadn’t come up with anything useful at all.’

‘It’s an odd one, that,’ Fleming said slowly. ‘An incredible risk to take, just to set Lisa up to take the rap. Elaborate – a lot could have gone wrong, for a revenge that might not even work. You’d be better just paying Williams to kill her too.’

‘Maybe Ryan was scared of blackmail. Williams knew too much, and that was the way his mind worked, after all. And with Crozier out of the way, Ryan would be in the money and Williams would be expecting to take his cut . . .’ He hesitated.

Fleming looked at him, then said flatly, ‘I don’t buy it. Not convincing.’

‘OK, OK, but what, then? It wasn’t Black, that’s for sure – too messy.’

She was tapping her finger on her front teeth. ‘You know what Bailey would say, Tam?’

‘Occam’s razor,’ MacNee said slowly. ‘Cut through all the fussy fantoosh – if there’s a simple explanation, it’s the right one.’

‘There’s a simple explanation. Lisa Stewart was there, on the spot, with every reason to hate Williams. We know she couldn’t have killed Crozier, so we’ve been looking to the others involved in his killing. But where did she get the weapon? You said it wasn’t lying around.’

‘It wasn’t.’ MacNee was confident. ‘But if Williams knew Lisa had seen him kill Crozier – he’d killed twice already – taking her out would be the obvious thing to do.’

‘And somehow the tables were turned on him when he produced the crowbar,’ Fleming said thoughtfully. ‘He was slight, and she’s probably quite strong.’

MacNee nodded, then said, ‘But hang on – Cara did her best to dump Lisa in it that morning when we told them about Williams. How did she know Lisa was even at the guest house?’

‘Williams knew, of course. And if he was planning to kill her, Cara would have been cheering him on, and they’d be expecting to hear the news that Lisa was dead,’ Fleming suggested. ‘When they couldn’t contact him, they’d be worried – worried enough for Ryan to go and see what had happened, maybe. And then he couldn’t raise the alarm because there would be too many awkward questions to answer. They were probably hoping no one would be able to establish who Williams was.’

‘And once we did, it was the ideal opportunity to claim that Lisa killed Crozier too.’

‘It hangs together,’ Fleming said, then sighed. ‘I hate these situations – where you have a plausible theory that you can’t put to the test. Unless there’s new evidence of some sort, which is getting more unlikely, we won’t be able to prove who murdered Williams. Then there will have to be a case review, to point out all the ways we’ve failed.’ She groaned.

‘It was probably self-defence,’ MacNee argued. ‘And whatever Lisa might have done, she’s more than paid for it now, poor lassie.

‘But it’s looking like the most they’ll be able to pin on Ryan is conspiracy to murder, and if we can’t make your imprisonment stick against Cara, she’ll probably walk free.’

‘At least when it comes to Black they’ll throw away the key,’ Fleming said. ‘Do you think Cara paid him to kill Lisa herself, or was it just a little present from Crozier’s pals?’

‘She’d be their next partner. Probably their idea of a wee welcome gesture. Or it was something to keep her sweet, so’s they could deal with Ryan instead of someone who’s likely to be high one minute and spaced out the next. But I tell you one thing – we’ll get nothing out of Black. A stint in Barlinnie is just a wee walk in the park compared with a swim in the Clyde in concrete boots.

‘Look, the rain’s gone off.’ MacNee got up. ‘I’d better go and give the dogs their walk. They’re going stir crazy. Thanks for the coffee.’

At the door, he turned. ‘By the way, I sent a bunch of flowers and a wee note to Bunty. I thought I’d maybe do that for a while, till she’s ready to see me.’

 

‘How are you getting on, Hayley?’ Susan Telford looked critically around the hall. ‘The floor’s looking nice.’

‘I’ve just got the brasses to do and then I’m finished,’ Hayley said.

‘Thanks very much, Hayley. See you tomorrow. Is that rubbish? I’ll take it through to the back for you.’

Susan picked up the waste basket and went out to the garden. Most of it seemed to be paper for recycling. She was just about to tip it into the appropriate bin when something caught her eye.

On a folded sheet the word ‘JAN’ was written in block letters on top of some typescript. She picked it up, frowning.

Could it be a goodbye note from Lisa? Forgetting the rest of the rubbish, she hurried through to the lounge.

‘Jan, I’ve just found this,’ she said, holding it out.

Jan Forbes raised her eyebrows, then unfolded it.

‘Oh! It’s from Lisa!’ she exclaimed. She read it in silence, her brows knitting together. Then she put it down and said, her voice shaking, ‘Oh dear. I think we’d better get this to the police.’

 

That night Marjory and Bill sat in the familiar sitting room in their comfortable, slightly shabby chairs with the familiar pale-gold Bladnoch in the crystal tumblers and Meg in her familiar position between them. It was a chilly night and the fire was dancing in the grate, the logs scenting the air with pine resin.

The room was just as it always had been, humdrum and comfortable, a place where you were secure and cosy and safe. Only you weren’t. There was a cold, evil world out there that could break in at any time and the haven they had created was no more than a terrifyingly fragile illusion. Marjory stared sombrely into the flickering flames.

At last Bill said, ‘What’s happened to your friend? Is he caught up in this?’

Marjory shrugged. ‘He’s gone back to the States. There’s no suggestion that he’s implicated in the murders. He and Cris Pilapil were obstructive because they were party to a serious fraud – the authorities may even try to extradite him. Mercifully it’s nothing to do with me.’

He nodded. There was a crackle from the fire as a spark flew out and Meg sat up with a jump and looked accusingly around her.

Without warning, Bill said, ‘Have you ever wished you’d chosen the other path, Marjory? The walk on the wild side, where you could always be nineteen instead of having a boring farmer for a husband?’

‘Oh, Bill!’ Marjory looked at him, hesitating. Then she said, ‘Yes, if I’m honest, occasionally, when I’m in a rebellious mood. And then I look at you and the kids and I wouldn’t change a thing. I was wise enough to recognise real, lasting love when it came, Bill – you have to believe that. We’ve had years and years and years of happiness. And more ahead, thanks to Tam and poor Kim.’ She bit her lip.

‘I owe them,’ he said, coming across to cradle her bruised face and kiss her gently. ‘And don’t think you’re alone in your rebellious moments. I had my dreams too, you know. Professional rugby – I wonder how far I might have got if the farm and a family hadn’t come first. In fact, I still play an occasional game for the British Lions before I drop off to sleep at night.’

Majory pulled a sceptical face. ‘You must be substituted pretty early on, then. I’ve never known you take longer than five minutes before you’re snoring.

‘Anyway, right at the moment I have to tell you that a seriously boring life looks amazingly attractive.’

They both laughed. Later, when Bill went out with Meg to shut in the hens, Marjory raked out the fire and straightened the cushions. She couldn’t bring herself to open the curtains for the morning before she left the room, though, as she usually did, even if her panic in the kitchen that night had been no more than paranoia. Probably.

Oh, she would get over it, put it all behind her, but it would still be there, at her shoulder, ready to whisper that happy confidence was laughable naïvety. She had been haunted lately by lines from a poem she had studied at school:

 

Like one that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turn’d round, walks on

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

 

 

Friday, 28 July

‘Marjory!’ Superintendent Bailey said, as DI Fleming limped into his office. ‘I thought I told you to take time off.’

‘I did, Donald. Yesterday.’ She sat down without waiting for an invitation, though: her feet still felt as if someone was playing about with red-hot needles.

‘Dear me! Is this a sense of duty or just rampant curiosity?’ he demanded jovially. He was looking particularly pleased with himself this morning.

‘Mostly curiosity,’ she admitted. ‘Any developments?’

Bailey chuckled. ‘Oh, I think you could say that.’ He reached into a tray on his desk and took out a sheet of paper. ‘They brought this in to me yesterday. I was going to give you a call today before we released it to the press, but better that you can read it for yourself.’ He handed it over.

Fleming glanced at the typewritten side, headed ‘Welcome to the Rowantrees Hotel’, with ‘JAN’ written across it. Then she turned it over.

The writing was careless and childishly ill formed, and it began abruptly.

 

Ive had to tell a lot of lies in my life but Im going to kill myself and this is Gods truth.

I never killed Poppy. I loved her. Somethings wrong with Nico, could kill again – not his fault poor little bugger.

Alex Rencombe – never knew about this Jason must have gone back to the house after I left. And I never killed Gillis Crozier either I saw who did, though.

Lee – Jason was hiding in the wood I was up above then Crozier came up the path and he hit him again and again. A lot of blood.

He must of seen me. I didnt tell the police I dont trust them they did me over.

I got back to Kirkluce and he texted me there was money in it for me. I didn’t trust him Im not stupid. So I said the hotel garden so I could scream if I was scared but it was dark he came from behind put his hand across my mouth hed an iron bar in his hand I just grabbed it threw all my weight on it. Then he stumbled and I swung it at him he tried to get away and I went after and hit him on the head he fell I wiped the bar on my jacket and threw it down.

I knew Id killed him I didnt care. He would of killed me.

Thats all. I just want people to know I never killed Poppy, like they said I did. I loved her.

Lisa.

 

Then there was a brief postscript: ‘You were kind to me no one else was. Thank you goodbye.’

Fleming finished it and laid it down. ‘That’s so pathetic! Poor, sad girl,’ she said. ‘Never had a chance, did she?’

‘Oh, absolutely, absolutely,’ Bailey said heartily, clearly not wanting to sound unfeeling.

Fleming went on, ‘It’s more or less exactly what MacNee and I worked out – applying Occam’s razor, Donald, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

Bailey smirked. ‘Can’t go wrong. But this wraps it up, Marjory. A truly positive result – and we don’t need to waste resources on further investigation into either Crozier’s death or Williams’s.’

‘We’ve got to go all out to nail the Ryans for conspiracy to murder, though,’ Fleming pointed out. ‘We should be able to get fingerprint evidence that Williams was in the house, and MacNee can state he heard Ryan telling Williams Crozier would be coming up the path.’

‘And we have evidence already of money from the Ryans’ bank account going to Williams,’ Bailey went on, ‘so I have every confidence we have a case.’

‘That’s good. But Cara . . .’ Fleming shook her head. ‘She lined us up for the hitman and presumably she was behind poor Lisa’s death too. But Tam says she’s got a good brief and certainly at the moment it’s only my word against hers – no case to answer.’

‘Ah, that’s where I have some more excellent news to give you. Declan Ryan is falling over himself to give evidence against his wife. He’s stated that he heard you battering on the door of the cupboard, that he saw your car at the door and that Cara told him you and Kim were locked up there to be killed by Black. Her saying to him you were there isn’t proof that you were, of course, but taking it in conjunction with your evidence, the procurator fiscal has agreed to charge her.’

Fleming stared at him. ‘That’s fantastic news! No wonder you’re looking smug, Donald!’

‘Not smug,’ he protested. ‘Surely you can tell the difference between being smug and taking pleasure in justice being done.’ But he was smiling, and Fleming grinned back.

She got to her feet, wincing. ‘I’d better return to the paperwork.’ Then she hesitated. ‘Er . . . I assume you’d have told me if there was any news of Kim?’

‘Critical but stable – that’s all they’ll say,’ Bailey said heavily.

Fleming nodded and hobbled out. Her buoyant mood had disappeared.

 

The auxiliary nurse came into the high-dependency unit’s nursing station. ‘There’s a funny wee guy outside wanting to see Kim Kershaw. Says he’s a detective – he’s got ID and the constable on guard duty knows him. He says he needs to ask her some questions – I’ve told him there’s no point, but he’s insisting.’

The staff nurse looked up from the notes she was writing and shrugged. ‘There isn’t, but I don’t suppose he can do much harm. Tell him he’s got ten minutes – he’ll probably give up before that.’

‘Fine.’ She returned to the man sitting in the waiting area. ‘That’s OK. No more than ten minutes, though.’

‘Thanks, Nurse,’ he said, getting up.

She smiled because he had smiled at her – at least she thought it was a smile, though she wasn’t quite sure.

 

Kim Kershaw was lying on a high hospital bed, ghostly pale and gaunt, with her eyes closed. She was wired up to a machine, and there were drip stands and tubes and things . . .

Tam MacNee averted his eyes. He wasn’t good in hospitals. Even visiting made him feel faintly queasy. Still, he hadn’t much time for what he wanted to do.

‘Hello, Kim,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s Tam MacNee.’

She could almost be dead, except that he could see the faint movement of her breathing. She certainly wasn’t responding, but he’d read somewhere that even deeply unconscious patients could hear what was said to them. Hearing was the last sense to go.

Her hands were lying on top of the sheet. She had slim, fine-boned hands and he took the one not connected up to the drips and focused on it – easier than looking at that lifeless face. It felt limp and cool in his warm one.

‘I’m here to say sorry,’ MacNee began. ‘I didn’t realise about your poor wee girl. I was jealous, I suppose, because you had a bairn when my wife was desperate for kids and we could never have them, and I was too wrapped up in my own problems to think about anyone else’s. I’m sorry, Kim. It’s easy to say the word, but I mean it, right from the heart.’

He felt kind of daft, talking to himself, but he went on anyway, ‘You’re a brave lassie. When you come back, I’ll say sorry again, in front of everyone, and we’ll get on fine, you and me. We’ll be pals – I’ll make it up to you.

‘Tell you what – I’ll take you to a Rangers game in Glasgow, pies and Bovril on me, and you can laugh when the other side scores and I’ll not say cheep – only you better laugh quietly, maybe, because there’s other fans not as tolerant as me.’

She hadn’t moved. The hand still lay limp, but somehow he’d a funny feeling she’d heard that. He went on, ‘I’ll tell you what’s happened with the cases. We’ve it all sewn up. The Ryans have been charged . . .’

He gave her a brief outline and he could swear that she was listening. There was no actual sign, none at all – his imagination, perhaps – but it still encouraged him to go on.

‘The thing is, we’re needing you to work hard at getting better. You’re important, Kim – we need you on the team. You’ve got a good brain there – not a lot of that in Kirkluce CID, except you and me, eh?’

Was she still listening? MacNee had been holding her hand like a fragile piece of china; now he gripped it harder. ‘Come on, lass! You’ve shown me you’re a bonny fighter – get cracking!’

She wasn’t with him any more. She had switched off, gone back into her twilight world where he couldn’t reach her. Slowly he released her hand and laid it gently back on the covers.

He was making it up, MacNee told himself firmly as he went out. He’d been imagining it all along, Kim’s interest and then her disengagement. He was a practical man who had no truck with all the touchy-feely nonsense and there’d been too many occasions lately when he’d let himself get spooked. He was needing to get a grip.

It was early in the day for it, but maybe a wee dram might stop him feeling quite so cold and bleak.