Bad Blood (12 page)

Anita Loudon smothered a huge yawn and Vivienne Morrison smiled sympathetically. ‘Late night?’

‘Can’t take it the way I used to.’ She tried to sound upbeat but she knew her voice was flat.

Vivienne was looking at her in concern. ‘You don’t look great. Headache?’ She was digging in her bag, ‘I’ve got some ibuprofen somewhere – here you are.’

Anita thanked her and went into the dress shop’s tiny back room where there was a sink and a kettle. Her head was indeed pounding but the turmoil inside it was worse. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day.

Vivienne was the most considerate employer anyone could hope for. If Anita said she was feeling ill she’d be told to go home, but Drax would still be there, probably. Somehow here, in the cosy little shop with the thick pile carpet and the pretty wallpaper and the clothes hanging in neat colour-coordinated ranks she felt safe, as if in Vivienne’s pleasant, cheerful world nothing could ever go wrong.

She was always so kind, so understanding. Anita suspected that Vivienne knew there was a man involved on those occasions when she’d suddenly wanted a day off – Dunmore wasn’t a good place for keeping secrets – but it had never been a problem, there had never been awkward questions.

Anita had occasionally thought of telling her about Drax. The
need to talk to someone had sometimes been almost overwhelming, but she’d always managed to resist. Now, though …

There couldn’t be anyone better than Vivienne to confide in: sympathetic, discreet. If she talked to her in confidence, made her promise not to tell a soul – but if she told her everything, would Vivienne keep it secret? How could she?

Not everything, then – just something, a bit of it. She desperately needed the sort of advice someone sensible, someone just ordinary and normal could give her about the bizarre, awful situation she was in.

Anita took a deep, shuddering breath. Perhaps she could—

The bell on the shop door jangled. With a quick look in the mirror, Anita patted her hair, pinned on a smile and came out to greet the customer.

A man and a woman had just come into the shop and even before they introduced themselves and produced ID, she knew they were police.

There were nine bed and breakfasts on the information centre’s list and Marnie Bruce had tried eight of them. Demand for accommodation in Kirkluce seemed to be surprisingly high for a wet Wednesday in November, and seven of the eight had no vacancies. The eighth showed her a room, then on hearing her name, said bluntly, ‘Oh, you! Sorry, forget it. I’m not looking for trouble.’ The vile Mrs Wallace had clearly done an efficient job.

There was still one she hadn’t tried but it was at the other end of the town and Marnie had a pretty clear idea of the response she was likely to get there too. Wet, tired and discouraged, she pulled her case along the High Street, holding her battered umbrella over her head. The sullen intensity of the rain suggested it was on for the day; her town coat was too thin and her hands were red and stinging with the cold.

She couldn’t just go on walking aimlessly. There were plenty of cafés in the High Street so she chose one, wrapping her hands gratefully round her mug of coffee when it arrived.

This had to be the turning point. This was when Marnie could choose to do the sensible thing or to do the crazy, stupid thing that was just asking for pain and grief.

She’d been counting on the interview with Fleming to provide at least some of the answers she was looking for, or suggest a way forward at the very least. She’d psyched herself up for it, determined not to be fobbed off, prepared to be as rude as she needed to be when the inspector ducked and dived.

Only she hadn’t. Fleming had readily given her a straightforward account that squared with what Marnie knew herself. She believed, too, that what the woman had said was true, partly because it had been so obvious that she was lying when she’d said she hadn’t considered whether Marnie’s mother would have attacked her. Clearly she had, and clearly she thought the answer was yes.

She’d even been open about concealing information, but the reason she gave left Marnie with nowhere else to go. She hadn’t even got anywhere with her question about what had happened at Dunmore.

Perhaps she needed to accept that this was a mystery she’d never solve, forget about it and get on with her life. The aggression and abuse she’d suffered already wasn’t going to stop, might well get worse. Was it really worth putting herself through all this?

Her problem was that she’d never been able to understand the comfortable, casual way people would say ‘I can’t remember what I did.’ She couldn’t see why it didn’t drive them mad; her brain simply wasn’t geared to the state of ‘not knowing’. So how could she walk away now?

And there was still one way forward – Anita Loudon. At the very least she must know perfectly well why there had been shock and anger in Dunmore, because she’d shown the same shock herself. Marnie was much too angry about her lies and deceit to let that go.
She needed to see her again, to force her to explain – and perhaps tell her some other things too.

Like how to get in touch with Drax. Marnie gave a little involuntary shiver – a goose walking over your grave, someone had told her once. She hated the thought of bringing him back into her life, but she might have to, if she was going on with this.

No, she certainly couldn’t leave now. Not yet. Not until she’d seen Anita.

Which left her with the problem of finding somewhere to stay. She could go to Newton Stewart, say, or even Stranraer – surely the landlady network didn’t extend that far. It would be a long way to go on public transport, though, only to find out that it did.

Then another thought occurred to her. She’d had an employer who needed someone to drive a van and had got her driving lessons; she kept her licence tucked away in her purse. If she rented a car, she could move about freely and privately: no more standing around at bus stops, afraid that unfriendly eyes might be watching her.

Renting cars cost money, though, and her nest egg was dwindling fast. She’d have to find somewhere really cheap—

Or free. Suddenly, the picture came up before her.

She’s locking the door. She’s looking at the key, still dirty with rust-specks on it and she’s drawing back her hand to throw it away into the bushes when, for no particular reason, she decides to bury it again and she puts it back under the stone where it was always kept
…

‘Know this? I’m getting a bad feeling about this whole thing,’ DS MacNee said. ‘A very bad feeling.’

‘And you don’t think I am?’ Fleming was staring gloomily at the file on the desk in front of her. ‘I’m not sure it’s been a good idea to try to keep us at arm’s length from it. I sent Andy to deal with the disturbance at the B & B because I didn’t want to put you face-to-face with Marnie, but I forgot it would be Louise going with him and
when I buzzed down to speak to them after the interview they’d gone to pursue enquiries at Dunmore. I’m not sure why, but it sounds to me like Louise in full cry.’

‘That’s all we need. She’s got—’

He was interrupted by the phone ringing on Fleming’s desk. She listened, then said, ‘All right, leave it with me.’

MacNee raised his eyebrows and she sighed.

‘That was the duty sergeant. Grant Crichton’s come in, wanting to talk to “someone in authority” and he thought I might want to know.’ When MacNee did not immediately react, she went on, ‘Crichton – Tommy Crichton, remember?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! What now? Is this to do with the business last night?’

‘He hasn’t said that, but it certainly could be. I’d better take that myself.’ She stood up.

‘Overkill,’ MacNee said crisply. ‘You’re not wanting him to think there’s anything going on that’s inspector’s business. I’ll take it.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Fleming sat down again. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to get on with my commission from the super to solve the problem of illegal immigration with a few well-chosen discreet enquiries.’

‘Maybe when you’ve done that you could fix the economy. And get Rangers back into the Premier League.’

He left her smiling wanly. She picked up the file Rowley had given her and leafed through the first few pages, pausing at a list of local firms operating through Cairnryan. A name caught her eye – Grant Crichton.

It was amazing how often coincidences like these happened, usually in threes. She’d probably see the name again in some different context in the next day or two.

‘I understand that Marnie Bruce came to see you yesterday,’ the detective whose name was Macdonald said.

Anita Loudon’s heart was beating so loudly she thought that
everyone in the shop must hear it. ‘That’s right,’ she said, then to give herself time to think before she was asked another question, she added, ‘I knew her when she was a little girl. Her mother was a friend of mine.’

‘Yes, she told us that. Can you tell me what happened?’

Vivienne, who had been looking awkward, said, ‘I’ll just go through the back and leave you to it, shall I?’ But Anita protested, ‘No, no, there’s no need for that! There’s nothing private about it.’ She felt safer, somehow, with Vivienne at her side.

‘Marnie just turned up at the door,’ she said. ‘She was in the area, a sort of holiday, I think. It was very sad, actually – she seemed to have lost touch with her mother and thought I might know where she was, but I haven’t seen her for years. Not since they left the area.’

‘When was that?’ The woman detective, Hepburn, was studying her in a way that made Anita nervous.

‘Oh goodness, twenty years ago, I suppose.’

Unexpectedly, Vivienne chimed in. ‘That’s right. She visited Gemma my daughter yesterday too – they were great friends at school until she and her mother suddenly vanished. She was a funny wee soul, I remember. Gemma says she has perfect recall of everything that’s ever happened to her and perhaps that made her – well, a little dreamy.’

The detectives exchanged glances, then Macdonald said, ‘I gather she had an unpleasant experience before she arrived at your house, Ms Loudon.’

Keep the voice level, Anita told herself. ‘Did she? She never mentioned it to me.’

‘Really?’ Hepburn’s eyebrows were raised. ‘She said she had.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t recall that.’

‘And she said that an aggressive group of women came to your door looking for her and she had to escape out of the back.’

Anita gave a puzzled frown. ‘An aggressive group? I don’t know what she’s talking about. I was chatting to her in the sitting room and
when the doorbell rang I went to answer it. It was someone doing a marketing survey and I spoke to her for a few moments.’ That had worked before. ‘Certainly, when I came back Marnie had gone out of the back door, which I did think was a little odd. But that was all.

‘As Vivienne said,’ she gave the other woman a grateful smile, ‘I did think Marnie was – well, a little strange. She certainly seems to have got very confused in what she was telling you.’

The look that Macdonald gave Hepburn looked oddly triumphant. ‘I see. Thanks very much for your help, Ms Loudon. And you don’t know anything about a disturbance in Kirkluce last night outside where Ms Bruce was staying?’

Anita felt sick. Lorna Baxter, no doubt, and all the fire-fighting she’d been doing could prove to have been pointless. ‘No,’ she said, but it was hard to keep her voice steady and the policewoman pounced.

‘You don’t sound very sure. Where were you last night?’

‘I was at home all evening. And it wasn’t that I was unsure, I was just surprised.’

‘I see,’ Hepburn said, and Anita was very much afraid she did. However, she only said, with a look at Macdonald, ‘I think that’s all for now, anyway,’ and they went out.

Vivienne turned to look at Anita. ‘That was strange! I wonder what on earth’s going on?’ Then her voice changed. ‘My dear, you’re shaking! Is there something wrong?’

Anita burst into tears.

‘All I want is a brief word with this young lady,’ Grant Crichton said, his obvious irritation giving the lie to his reasonable tone. ‘Perhaps my informant was entirely mistaken about who she is and it would take only a little chat to set the record straight. She’s moved from where she was staying, so if you could just find out for me where she’s gone—’

DS MacNee ignored the question. ‘Who was your informant?’

Crichton bridled. ‘We’re not talking about my informant, Sergeant. We’re talking about a young woman who has caused a great deal of upset and disorder.’

‘You may be, I’m not.’ MacNee had never met Crichton before but he’d recognised him immediately: the type to confuse the terms ‘public servant’ and ‘personal servant’ and they always got up his nose. It wouldn’t be long before the taxpayer bit came in.

‘You seem to have adopted a very strange attitude, Sergeant. As a taxpayer, I expect to find the police more cooperative—’ He broke off. ‘Is something amusing you?’

‘No, no. Sorry.’ MacNee composed his expression. ‘The thing is,
the young lady, whoever she may be, has done nothing wrong. We’re not interested in her, we’re interested in finding the folk behind last night’s disturbance. Your “informant”, as it might be.’

Crichton’s face turned a dark red. ‘You have absolutely no reason for supposing that. And no, I am not prepared to act as a police spy.’

‘Now you see, we’d call it being a responsible citizen,’ MacNee drawled.

Enraged, Crichton stood up. ‘This is entirely unsatisfactory,’ he snarled.

The chief constable’s a personal friend of mine – would that be next, MacNee wondered, and if so could he keep his face straight this time?

Fortunately, it seemed that the CC’s acquaintance did not stretch as far as Grant Crichton. ‘I shall make my own enquiries,’ was all he said as he went to the door.

‘I would strongly counsel against it, sir. Harassing the young lady could put you on the wrong side of the law, if she made a complaint.’

Crichton behaved as if he hadn’t heard that, stalking ahead as he was escorted out. But he gave him a dangerous look as he left. ‘MacNee,’ he said, quite softly. ‘I’ll remember that name.’

MacNee went back to the CID room with slight misgivings. He could have misread the man, writing him off as the standard bluff, blustering businessman and having a wee bit of quiet fun at his expense, but now he wasn’t so sure. The bad feeling he’d had earlier was getting worse.

Once Marnie tracked down a car rental office attached to a small local garage, hiring one proved surprisingly cheap and surprisingly easy. The small green Fiat was a bit elderly but it worked and it was weatherproof too. After two days of standing in the rain waiting for buses, she liked weatherproof.

It was mid afternoon when she drove out to Clatteringshaws Loch
revelling in her new freedom. She’d gone to Dumfries first with a carefully planned shopping list that included a camping gas burner and lamp, a sleeping bag, blankets and a hot-water bottle as well as basic supplies.

She’d have to be careful. A car parked outside the abandoned cottage would be a giveaway to anyone passing – possibly even the owner. And she daren’t use her lamp in the front room either.

The rain had stopped, and there was even a slight lightening along the hills on the horizon but with the sky still under heavy cloud, the waters of the loch seemed almost black as she drove past. In the shadow of the trees the cottage looked dark and forbidding and the lift of spirit she had felt was seeping away. It was so derelict, so isolated, so remote—

So exactly what she needed, Marnie told herself firmly. No one could find her here. She would be a completely free agent.

She drove through the rotting gate and parked close to the front door. She’d have to risk leaving the car there while she unpacked her stores, but it wouldn’t take long and then she could drive along and leave it in the car park by the loch. With the information centre and tea room closed, no one would think anything other than that it belonged to some passing visitor.

In the half-light it took her a few minutes to find the stone, and as cars passed along the road, she had to stop herself looking round guiltily. But there was the key and she let herself in, fighting once more against the onslaught of images.

‘You drank too much last night, that’s all,’ Drax is saying brutally to her mother, who’s looking awful, shaky and white and sick.

She hates it when her mother’s like that and she hates it when Drax is angry. Today’s the worst, with both together. She goes into her bedroom and tries not to hear, but he’s shouting now.

‘They’ve arrived, and you’ve got to deal with it! Doesn’t matter how you feel—’

She hears her mother running to the bathroom. She’s crying, and being sick at the same time. It’s awful—

With a huge effort of will, Marnie dragged herself back to the present. The house smelt of damp and stale air, but if she opened windows the cold moist air coming in from outside might be worse. She unloaded her purchases, dumping everything in the hall, then went back to move the car.

When she reached the car park, the light was going fast and the sunset was a lurid green streak outlining the hills to the west. She locked up and walked briskly back along the Queen’s Way, cringing as the lights of passing cars swept over her.

Inside the cottage it was almost completely dark. She made sure the doors to the front rooms were shut then carried the lamp through to the kitchen at the back, set it up and got it lit, letting the mellow light spill into the hall while she organised what she’d brought, putting the gas burner by the useless electric stove and setting out the pan, plate and mug she had bought next to it, along with the camping set of cutlery.

She’d have preferred not to sleep in her old bedroom. The torrent of images it prompted was almost painful, but her mother’s room was at the front so this would have to do. Marnie spread out her sleeping bag and the blankets on top of the dank, sagging mattress, then went back to the kitchen.

She set up the burner and crawled under the sink to turn the stopcock and get the water running. She was wrestling with it when her mobile rang.

‘Marnie?’ It was Gemma’s voice, bright as always. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Fine,’ Marnie said, hoping her own voice didn’t sound hollow.

‘It was really just to tell you I drew a blank with Mum and Dad about your mother. Mum vaguely recollected it when I prompted her but she didn’t know anything about what had happened and it didn’t
mean anything at all to Dad. Sorry – I’m sure that’s disappointing. I’d have loved to be able to help.’

‘That’s all right. It was just an idea, that’s all.’ She hadn’t expected anything else, really, except in that tiny foolish part of her brain that still hadn’t figured out that luck and Marnie were total strangers.

‘How did you get on when you went to see Anita? Was she able to tell you anything?’

She’d forgotten that Gemma knew. ‘Oh, she didn’t know anything about it either. She thought my mum and I would still be together.’ There was no way she was going to embark on the whole tangled story with Gemma.

‘That’s really sad! Are you going to stick around for a bit or just go back to London?’

‘Not sure. Maybe stay a day or two more.’

Gemma’s voice warmed with enthusiasm. ‘That’s great! Let’s meet up for lunch or something – where are you staying?’

‘I’m moving about a bit. Look, I’ll get in touch with you, all right? I’m trying to see a few more people and then I’ll be clearer about when I’m free.’

‘Well, see you do, or I’ll keep phoning. I’m not letting you do the disappearing act on me again! Speak soon.’

Marnie went back to the stopcock. When at last it turned she ran the cold tap to clear the system, her eyes blank as she watched the dirty water belching out. Gemma’s open-hearted warmth sounded genuine, but Marnie felt as if she was standing in the cold outside the hospitably open door to a room with a blazing fire, unable to cross the threshold. Perhaps it was the ugliness of her childhood that had bred a wariness of intimacy, a lack of trust. God knew she needed a friend, but Gemma’s protected existence had given her a sort of childlike innocence that couldn’t begin to understand the dirty reality of the life Marnie had always known. However determined Gemma might be to keep in contact, it was pointless.

At least she had no idea where Marnie was now. No one had any idea. She could do what she liked, go where she liked and if she was careful she could be completely unobserved. Invisible, almost.

She filled the pan she had bought and boiled up the water. The kitchen felt quite cosy now, with the warmth from the gas burner and the gentle light. She sat down to drink her tea, feeling almost dizzy with the sense of freedom.

Shelley had slept badly the night before and then brooded all day over the late-night phone call. She’d thought the voice had been Lorna Baxter’s, but when she phoned her in the morning and challenged her about it, she’d just laughed and denied it.

‘There’s lots of folks in Dunmore on your side,’ she said. ‘It would be one of them, maybe. Still, you might hear some good news today, you never know.’

Shelley had tried to insist on being told what she meant, but Lorna, who seemed to be in high good humour, refused to be drawn. ‘I’ll call you if I hear anything, but if you ask me, Kirstie Burnside’s daughter won’t come bothering us again.’

That sounded like good news – sort of. It wasn’t enough, though, that the girl should be driven away. She had to be made to tell where her mother was hiding first.

During Shelley’s troubled night, the intoxicating possibility that she might at last be able to confront Tommy’s killer had filled her dreams as well as her muzzy early-morning thoughts. For years she had been schooling herself to accept that the meeting would never happen, even though nowadays some people got that chance. Restorative justice, they called it, but not in a case like this. She would never be given the opportunity to make the murderer of her son come face-to-face with her own evilness, to show her hell gaping at her feet. Oh no, Kirstie Burnside had been hidden by a benevolent state that
was still protecting her now. If there was the faintest chance of getting past the protective shield, Shelley wasn’t going to let it pass.

What would it achieve, Janette had asked her once when Shelley had been expanding on that familiar theme. She’d stammered a bit, mouthed the words like ‘closure’ and ‘apology’ – as if any apology could wipe out Tommy’s death. Janette would have been shocked if she’d been able to read her friend’s mind.

She’d waited in, hoping that Lorna, or someone, would call and tell her what had been going on but the phone remained obstinately silent. After lunch she’d phoned Janette ‘just for a chat’ but it was obvious that no local gossip had come her way either.

Anita knew what Shelley needed to know. She’d be out at work just now, but if there was no more news by the evening, she’d have to get hold of her. And if she wasn’t keen to disclose Kirstie Burnside’s whereabouts – well, Shelley might just have to have that face-to-face confrontation with her instead.

The house was in darkness when Anita got back from work. There was no sign of Drax’s car either and Anita gave a great sigh of relief as she let herself in. She had dreaded finding him still here. She didn’t want him quizzing her about her day.

She was getting better at lying, though, lying and telling half-truths. Perhaps she only needed a little more practice and even his eyes, that always seemed able to look right through her, would lose their power.

It was just possible that everything might settle down again. The police obviously didn’t know who’d been involved in this disturbance, whatever it was; she reckoned she’d convinced them Marnie was flaky, so if nothing else happened they might not bother to pursue it.

And if Marnie Burnside had been scared off, if Shelley had accepted the story Anita had told her, if Drax had just gone back to Glasgow to await events, she might stop feeling she was standing on the edge of a
cliff and the headache that Vivienne’s ibuprofen and sympathy hadn’t been able to shift might subside.

That was a lot of ‘ifs’. But when she drew the curtains and switched on the lamps and the fire and the TV and sat down with a mug of tea, the comfortable normality of it all began to soothe her.

Anita hadn’t done much to this room since her parents died. Coming back to Dunmore had been meant as a temporary move, before she went to Glasgow to be at least near Drax, if not with him. It had never happened, though, and here she still was twenty years later. In this familiar room where nothing had changed since she was a small child, it felt as if nothing ever would change. With this treacherous reassurance, she put her head back against the cushions and drifted into a doze.

Marjory Fleming drove back home to Mains of Craigie late as usual after a long, unsatisfying day. Her talk with Marnie Bruce had left her feeling very uncomfortable and the investigations into the demonstration in Bridge Street had gone nowhere, with DC Hepburn sure that Anita Loudon was lying about what had happened during Marnie’s visit and DS Macdonald ready to believe that the girl was to some degree, at least, fantasising.

They were certainly no closer to finding out who had been involved in the protest. Given that the crowd had dispersed instantly and no real harm had been done, it simply wasn’t worth police time to pursue it.

Looking through the file that Rowley had given her hadn’t improved her morale either. It was little more than a list of the shops whose carrier bags had been among the illegal immigrants’ possessions and another list of firms nearby that had regular dealings with overseas customers through Cairnryan. There were half a dozen local companies and another ten based in Glasgow, including the consortium which had Grant Crichton’s name as one of the directors.

Tomorrow, she supposed gloomily, she would have to send uniforms
round the shops asking questions, and get FCAs on to digging out what background they could. If ever there was a waste of scarce resources, this was it.