Chapter 24

Greg Allan was by himself in the CID room when Tam MacNee returned, tired, hot and irritable after an interminable journey which seemed to have consisted mainly of traffic jams and road works with a 40 mph limit. Allan was studying a spreadsheet, looking even more surly than usual, and only grunted in response to MacNee’s greeting.

    Stuff him. MacNee wasn’t exactly brimming over with goodwill either. He took his jacket off, slung it on the back of a chair and sat down. He’d tried to be upbeat about a Lafferty contract killer, tried to argue with himself on the way back: a man like that, mixed up in something like this – why wouldn’t it be him, rather than some middle-class woman with a hysterical temperament, or even a kid, for God’s sake? But Sheuggie’s words, ‘a blade or a gun’, kept echoing in his brain. Bashing someone over the head simply wasn’t a hit man’s crime. It was just that report about the sinister figure . . . but maybe it was like the Murdoch girl had said – invented to get attention.

    Realistically, he’d come to two dead ends today. And there was no assurance that they were anywhere near a result elsewhere either. Marjory, he reckoned, was inclined to think it was the kid; Jon Kingsley – who, for all he disliked him, wasn’t a fool – was certainly plugging Susie. Those were, he had to say, the strongest leads they had, which meant they were right back at the point where they hadn’t even decided if they were looking for one killer, or Ingles + AN Other.

    Maybe, as Marjory had said at the briefing – though more to keep up morale than because she believed it, was his cynical assessment – the boffins would come up with something, fingerprints or fibres or the Holy Grail of a DNA sample. But supposing they did, what they wouldn’t do is tell them who it belonged to.

    So back to the routine stodging, as he’d said to Sheuggie. Read the reports, tackle what’s on the desk. He was on the point of picking up a printout when he noticed the plastic envelope on his desk with the outlined cutting about Ingles’s release last October which they now knew Murdoch had sent Davina. MacNee took it out idly and read it.

    It didn’t say much. Local newspapers didn’t really go in for rehashing background scandals and sensationalizing. His eyes wandered to the other items on the page: someone was getting up a petition for new public lavatories in Newton Stewart; vandalism at a children’s playground – at least, one of the swings had been broken. Riveting stuff.

    He turned it over. The masthead told him this was the front page – and suddenly, he froze. He looked up, staring straight ahead of him, his eyes blank. Maybe the Super had been right for once in his professional lifetime. He put the cutting away, thinking furiously.

    It all started falling into place. There were obvious difficulties – but as tumbler after tumbler clicked into line, there was only one missing for the jackpot. And he thought he knew how he might be able to nudge it into place.

    He jumped up, pushing his chair back so violently that it fell over.

    ‘What’s bitten you?’ Allan said curiously, but was ignored.

    MacNee righted it, grabbing his jacket and making for the door, without a word. He flung it open and almost cannoned into Tansy Kerr.

    ‘Hey, watch it, MacNee! Where are you away to in such a hurry?’

    ‘I need to speak to Euphie Aitcheson,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I may be some time.’

    Kerr looked at Allan, who shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me.’

    ‘Do you know if Andy Macdonald’s back yet?’ she asked. ‘I wanted to speak to him about something.’

    ‘Haven’t seen him, if he is.’

    ‘I’ll be in the canteen. Tell him, would you?’ She left, and Allan directed an obscene gesture at the closed door.

    He did wonder, though, what it was that had galvanized Tam like a cattle prod up the backside. He’d been looking at something from an evidence bag  . . .

    It took him a minute or two to find it, since it was buried under a pile of papers, but when he opened it out he couldn’t see what the fuss was about. It had an outlined report about Ingles’s release, and even when he turned it over, it was just the front page of an old Galloway Globe. He studied it for a minute, but it didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know already and he went gloomily back to take out his girlie magazine again.

 

Even after last night, she hadn’t believed in Susie’s guilt. Fleming paused in the corridor leading to the waiting-room, trying to collect her thoughts. Susie had, as Cat had pointed out, had a very hard time – losing the farm which was her home, having to beg her parents for a roof over their heads, finding herself eventually in a farm labourer’s cottage and suffering, as she saw it, ‘charity’ from the woman she hated. Susie’s temperament was volatile, to say the least of it, and her husband being arrested not once but twice would be enough to push anyone over the edge, into a breakdown.

    But murder? And not just one, but two murders – murders where you had covered your tracks carefully enough to leave no traces, where you had done your best to cover your guilt by implicating someone else – she hadn’t believed Susie capable of that, and it wasn’t only that she had an inbuilt prejudice against any theory of Jon Kingsley’s.

    But then, she couldn’t see Findlay in that role either. She liked him; he had always seemed to her a decent man.

    Fleming took a deep breath and opened the door. Stevenson was sitting with his head in his hands, shaking. He looked up when he saw her, his face as grey-white under the freckles as the plastic carrier bag he was holding on his knees. He struggled to stand.

    ‘No, no,’ she said, hastily going to take the seat next to him. ‘Sit down before you fall down. Findlay, it’s bad, obviously. Tell me now. Get it over with.’

    She could see him try to speak, but he was literally unable to frame the words. Instead, he held out the carrier bag. Fleming took it, looking at him questioningly, then peered inside.

    There was a small, neat black handbag, a bag of quilted leather with a gold chain and linked Cs on the catch. Fleming didn’t touch it. She knew what it must be.

    ‘Davina Watt’s bag.’

    Stevenson found his voice. ‘Y-yes. I opened it, to see – I knew Susie didn’t have a bag like that. And there’s her name on things inside.’

    ‘Where was it?’

    ‘In – in her car. I’d packed up her things at the cottage and brought them down to her parents. They’d – they’d said they’d look after Josh, so I took him in too. Bill – Bill said he was coming in to see your mother and he’d give me a lift back.

    ‘She’d boxes and stuff, so I was unloading them and carrying them in. And then when I came to get the last box, I saw this carrier bag, stuffed in a corner. It didn’t seem to have much in it, so I checked, and saw  . . .’

    He faltered. Wrung with pity, Fleming touched his arm. ‘It’s awful for you.’

    ‘Oh God, have I done the right thing? I told Bill – he said it was all I could do, and I know that, really, but to betray her like this – it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my entire life.’ He groaned, putting his head in his hands again.

    With a heavy heart, Fleming said, ‘Yes, Findlay, you did. You couldn’t have done anything else.

    ‘Now, I can’t actually deal with this. I’m too personally involved. Wait here. I’ll get someone to bring you a cup of tea – and I really think you should drink it – while I make the arrangements.’

    With the bag in her hand, she left, and heard Findlay’s racking sobs as she shut the door behind her.

 

‘Greg said you were looking for me?’ DC Andy Macdonald came into the canteen, carrying a file which he put down on one of the side tables.

    Tansy Kerr was drinking coffee at a table with a couple of uniformed officers. The canteen was busy; the searchers party had returned and others were starting to drift back from their various assignments.

    ‘Oh good!’ Kerr got up. ‘I’ve had a boring day, apart from the interview this morning. I’m off duty now but I thought I’d stick around to hear how you got on before I left.’

    ‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t want a child of mine keeping the company she’s got herself into on the internet.’

    ‘Animal Liberation Front?’

    ‘And Bite and all the rest. I’ve got printouts, if you’re interested. Just let me get something to drink first.’

    Kerr waited while he collected coffee and a Mars bar. ‘I’ve got a theory about it, Andy. I talked to Mirren this morning and I decided two things: one, she hadn’t actually killed her father and two, she was somehow in it up to her neck.’

    ‘That would figure.’

    ‘I hoped you’d say that. Now, there’s a statement from a kid called James Ross. He saw Mirren talking to a man wearing black in the early evening. And there’s another mentioning a guy the girl who lives next door saw around midnight. Dark clothes, blacked-out face – what does that suggest to you?’

    ‘Cobra,’ Macdonald said smugly.

    He had her there. ‘Is that an acronym?’

    ‘Wrong “nym”. It’s a pseudonym, the kind used by animal liberation terrorists to glamorize thuggery.’

    He went over to fetch the file. ‘Look at these last e-mails. He’s promised to come and rescue the dog and do a spot of fire-raising to teach Mirren’s father the error of his ways. Doesn’t mention any attack on him, though.’

    ‘But that would square with her remark when they broke the news,’ Kerr pointed out. ‘Sergeant Christie’s report claims what she said was, “I didn’t know he was dead.” She assumed her pal Cobra had done it – and wasn’t much fazed either, by all accounts.’

    ‘Certainly, from the tone of those websites, she wouldn’t have any reason to think he wouldn’t have.’

    ‘Better tell the boss.’ Kerr was excited.

    ‘Say after contacting her in the afternoon to find out where the dog was – which he’d rescue, of course—’

    ‘And say she told him where he would find her father—’ Kerr put in.

    ‘We could be on to something,’ Macdonald said. ‘Give me a high five!’

    Elated, they slapped hands. ‘He’ll take some tracking down,’ Macdonald warned.

    ‘Hours of fun,’ Kerr was agreeing when the door to the canteen opened and a woman constable came in.

    ‘Here,’ she called, ‘anyone know what’s happening? There’s a big fuss – something’s going on.’

    She immediately had their attention. Kingsley, who had been talking to one of the house-to-house teams, spun round, a light in his eye.

    ‘Breakthrough?’ he said. ‘What do you reckon?’

    Everyone started talking at once. It was only a few minutes later that the door opened again and Fleming appeared. She was looking harassed and her black eye had gone Technicolor. The buzz of speculation died.

    ‘Anyone seen MacNee?’

    ‘He went out,’ Tansy volunteered. ‘Said he needed to talk to the Aitchesons.’

    Fleming sighed impatiently. ‘Damn.’ She looked round. ‘Macdonald – you’d better come. Kerr – no, better not. I don’t want anyone who’s been involved in this already.’ Her eye went round the uniforms and spotted Sandy Langlands. ‘You’ll do. The Super’s taking charge of this one himself. I’ll explain as we go.’

    Langlands, pink at this evidence of her confidence, followed her along with Macdonald. There was a very brief silence, and then the chatter began.

    ‘What was that about?’ Kerr said blankly.

    But Kingsley was cock-a-hoop. ‘You know what that means – “something we’ve been involved in already”. Susie Stevenson – what did I say?’

    ‘Could be Findlay Stevenson,’ Kerr pointed out, but without much conviction. Bloody Kingsley, bloody right again.

    ‘What did Tam want with the Aitchesons, do you suppose?’ Kingsley wondered. ‘Seems to be a bit off the pace recently, our Tam, doesn’t he?’ Kerr ignored that.

    One of the uniforms said, ‘Well, I’ll wait till tomorrow to hear what’s happened. They won’t pay me to hang around, and anyway I’ve got a hot date this evening.’

    There was the usual ribaldry, and a general exodus of those on overtime began.

    Kerr was torn. She was curious, certainly, but she’d done a lot of hanging around already today and if she didn’t get some laundry done she’d have nothing left clean. ‘I’d better get home too. Are you waiting, Jon?’

    ‘Depends. I want to have a word with Greg anyway. His shift doesn’t end till seven and I’ll get him to give me a bell if there’s news by then.’

    ‘You could call me too if he does.’

    He said he would, and she thanked him, but without much expectation that the promise would be kept.

 

It was torture, this self-exclusion. Fleming had handed over formally to Donald Bailey – summoned from the nineteenth hole – and been commended for her astuteness in withdrawing.

    ‘It could have been extremely prejudicial, you know, Marjory,’ he said, repeating what she had said to him, in rather more orotund phrases. ‘Any competent QC could make much of your personal animosity towards the accused.’

    ‘They will, Donald, they will,’ she warned him.

    ‘But at least we can demonstrate that you have been utterly scrupulous in your detachment.

    ‘It was young Kingsley who was driving this one, wasn’t it? Oh, he has the faults of youth and impetuosity, but an able fellow, an able fellow.’

    ‘Indeed. I’ve given you DC Macdonald for the interrogation – he’s a sound man, and I’ve gone over questions that need asking – though of course,’ she added hastily, ‘you’ll be directing that. And PC Langlands will be taking notes for action.’

    ‘What’s happened to Tam? I would have expected him to stand in for you, Marjory.’

    ‘To be honest, I don’t know. He was in Glasgow, checking out an attempted suicide by one of our suspects, but I haven’t seen him since he got back. According to Kerr, he went out on a follow-up interview. I’ll brief him if he comes back in tonight, or else tomorrow morning.’

    ‘Fine, fine. And let’s hope this is us into the home straight, eh?’

    So now here Fleming was, alone in her office, seething with frustration. She could have used the time to go and see her mother, but it wouldn’t be a kindness to let her see her daughter looking like something out of a documentary about violence. She phoned her instead, and found her cheerful after a visit from Bill and the children and, as always, understanding about the – in this case fictitious – demands of the job. She phoned the hospital too, for a report on her father, and found they were cautiously suggesting tomorrow as suitable for a first visit. She dreaded it, but whatever the day might bring, she ought to clear a space to go with Janet to do that. She phoned Bill too, but there wasn’t much they could say beyond echoing their dismay to and fro.

    Her desk had returned to its normal chaos of papers, but she couldn’t find the enthusiasm to sort it out. There was a report waiting to be written on training, and reading she could do, too, on other matters, like an analysis of car crime, which looked suspiciously like a cut-and-paste job, handed in by Greg Allan, but none of it was enticing.

    It would have been good to phone Laura, tell her about Susie’s attack and get sympathy, but at the moment it was too difficult. Even though Laura had acted so often as an unofficial police adviser, she would feel uncomfortable mentioning the sequel, and it would be equally uncomfortable not to.

    There was still, of course, that message from Chris Carter. She called up her e-mail, clicked it open and read it again. It would be better to reply tomorrow, when she might be able to say they had cracked it, she told herself, knowing she was making excuses.

 

‘Now, let us turn to the question of timing.’ Donald Bailey had taken control of the interview to this point, more or less ignoring the existence of his colleagues. ‘The day Davina Watt was killed—’ He clicked his fingers, and Macdonald supplied the date.

    Findlay Stevenson looked bewildered. ‘I – I don’t know. Thursday, last week? We were staying with Susie’s parents then. She’d have been working, I expect. She sometimes does mornings, sometimes afternoons until she has to collect Josh from school. You’d have to ask her.’

    ‘Or her employer, of course.’ Bailey was pleased with that thought. ‘Make a note of that, constable.’

    ‘Yes, sir.’ Langlands had written it down already, under ‘Action’.

    ‘Now,’ Bailey continued, ‘let’s take Wednesday of this week. Three days ago. You have a rather less imperfect recollection of Wednesday, I trust?’

    Stevenson’s mouth twisted. ‘Oh yes, I remember Wednesday all right.’

    ‘I have your statement here. Somewhere.’ Bailey rooted about among the papers in front of him until Macdonald pushed the right one in front of him. ‘Ah yes. You came to Drumbreck at approximately eight-fifteen p.m., reasoning, you said, that at that time there would be movement of cars and people around the place and your presence would be less conspicuous than after the arrival of the night watchman?’

    Stevenson took a drink from the glass of water on the table, but his mouth still sounded dry. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

    ‘You watched your chance, then simply released the dog?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Then drove straight home, arriving back a little after nine?’

    ‘Yes.’

    Macdonald leaned forwards. ‘You didn’t see Niall Murdoch at that time?’ Bailey stared at him, as if he had forgotten he could speak.

    ‘I didn’t see anyone. I shouldn’t think anyone saw me, either. I was doing my best to avoid being seen.’

    ‘Finished, Macdonald?’ Bailey asked acidly. ‘Very well then. To resume: you came back home, where your wife was waiting for you?’

    ‘Yes.’

    ‘Go on, man – what happened then?’

    Stevenson’s eyes fell. ‘We – we had a row.’

    ‘A row? What about?’

    ‘She didn’t like me stealing the dog – said there would be more trouble. She was angry. Very angry.’

    Bravely, Macdonald interrupted again. ‘What form did her anger take?’

    ‘Well – yelling and throwing things, mostly. I think she was starting to have some sort of breakdown. You probably saw what she did to poor Marjory Fleming.’

    ‘Indeed we have,’ Bailey boomed. ‘A peculiarly vicious attack. And you say you were subjected to something similar?’

    ‘She didn’t attack me – just threw things.’

    ‘And what did you do?’

    ‘Ducked,’ he said simply. ‘And tried to talk her down, told her she’d wake Josh – and she did calm down, eventually. Then we went to bed.’

    ‘Now here,’ Bailey said, forming a pyramid with his fingers and leaning his chin on it, ‘we come to it. Did she, your wife, leave the house at any stage during the night?’

    Stevenson looked down. ‘I – don’t know.’

    ‘Don’t know, man? How could you not know? You can’t sleep so soundly that she could get up, dress, and leave the house without you knowing?’

    He seemed embarrassed. ‘We – er – weren’t together. She made me sleep on the spare bed in Josh’s room.’

    ‘Ah!’ Bailey exclaimed in triumph. ‘So you are telling us that after – what – say, ten o’clock, you could not say where your wife was or what she was doing?’

    He shaded his eyes with his hand. ‘No. I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea.’

    ‘Well, I think that wraps it up! Unless there’s anything else?’ His look towards Macdonald defied him to suggest anything missed out.

    ‘Not for the moment, at least.’ Macdonald’s was a careful response.

    ‘Thank you, Mr Stevenson. We won’t take up more of your time. And may I say you showed considerable fortitude and public spirit in coming forward with this information.’

    ‘Thank you.’ Stevenson stood up, swaying a little with fatigue and looking round as if he couldn’t quite work out where the door was. Langlands hurried to hold it open, then went to intone, ‘Interview terminated eighteen-eighteen,’ and switch off the recordings.

    ‘That seemed to go pretty well.’ Bailey stood up with the air of one expecting applause. ‘The lady certainly has some questions to answer, once the trick-cyclists let us have a go at her.’

    ‘Yes, of course. But sir,’ Macdonald framed the words with great delicacy, ‘it probably struck you, just as it struck me – Stevenson has a few questions to answer himself. He’s still a suspect, and of course he was there at a much more plausible time. He’s basically given her an alibi until after the night watchman came on duty.’

    Bailey’s face registered shock, then he coughed. ‘Of course, of course, as you say. This is definitely something we have to consider. A bit more digging necessary – and you see, if he were indeed responsible, who would have a better opportunity to incriminate his wife by leaving that bag in her car?’

    ‘Yes, I spotted that too, sir,’ Langlands said unwisely, coming over holding the tapes, and oblivious to Bailey’s glare, went on, ‘We’ve only his word that he found it there, after all,’ which left Bailey with nothing to add.

    ‘An obvious point, constable. Now, I had better go and brief Inspector Fleming.’

 

Tam MacNee let himself out of the Aitchesons’ house. He hadn’t expected them to show him out with friendly waves and invitations to drop in the next time he was passing. He’d have to watch Euphie Aitcheson didn’t put a knife in his back next time she caught him off his guard.

    It was raining heavily and he could even hear a sullen roll of thunder from somewhere far away. He hunched his leather jacket up over his head and hurried down the path. It had taken a lot of time and effort, but he’d got what he came for in the end. It fitted, it all fitted, every last little piece of the jigsaw puzzle. All that remained to do was go back to HQ and set the wheels in motion.

    But talking of wheels – he reached his car and saw with considerable annoyance that the front tyre was flat. And it had to happen in rain like this, too! He bent down to examine the problem.

    He didn’t hear someone come up behind him until he was almost on him. He was crouching and off-balance; he attempted to straighten up and turn to defend himself but trying to shrug off the jacket impeded him. He only managed to say, ‘Kingsley, bastard—’ before the jack came down on his head and he fell to the ground.