Bad Blood (14 page)

Twenty minutes later, when useful background information had strayed into interminable anecdote, desperation gave Macdonald the impetus to push in with, ‘Can I just ask you about last night? You told the other officers, I think, that you saw something?’

‘Not saw, no,’ she said regretfully. ‘They’ve started putting me to bed like a wean at some daft time, now I can’t manage myself. But there were comings and goings last night, I can tell you that – my bedroom’s on the other side of the hall at the front and her front gate creaks. There were car doors slamming a couple of times, and early on I heard her talking to someone.’

‘Male? Female?’ Macdonald asked.

Ivy shook her head. ‘Only heard Anita’s voice and I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I switched off the TV to see if I could hear it, but she’d stopped by then.’

It wasn’t a lot to go on. They’d had high hopes at the start of having found the ideal elderly woman witness – nosy, observant and eager to share anything she knew. They tried to pin her down on times, but she was vague about when, and how often, she had heard the gate creak.

Disappointed, Macdonald said, ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Gordon. That’s been a great help, giving us the background.’

He made to get up, but, like the Ancient Mariner, she made a grab at him and fixed him with a rheumy stare. ‘But I haven’t told you about her lover!’ Macdonald sat down again.

‘Och, she thought she was being quite canny. Often he’d come after it was dark, maybe, or he’d just park his car outside and she’d come running out and jump in. Been going on for years and years. Not even on, you know – he’d just maybe pop in when he fancied a wee bit of the hochmagandy, you know?’

Hepburn, ready to laugh at the jocular term, realised Ivy was deadly serious as she went on, ‘And he was here yesterday.’

‘Staying at the house last night?’ Macdonald’s voice sharpened.

Ivy hesitated, then reluctantly admitted that she didn’t know. ‘Saw him going away yesterday – oh, around twelve, maybe. But he could have been back in the evening, for all I know. Why a body has to be put to bed at seven o’clock I don’t know. If you’re old you need less sleep, not more.’ She sounded bitter.

It was a pause that neither officer liked to interrupt and after a moment, she went on, ‘I’d like you to get him, though, if he did that to Anita. I mind her so well as a wee lassie.’ She produced a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

Hepburn said gently, ‘But you’ve no idea who he is?’

Ivy’s tears vanished in indignation. ‘Of course I do! It’s Daniel Lee – him that I told you about.’ She pursed her mouth in distaste. ‘He got called some silly name – Drax, that’s right.’

DI Fleming arrived at Anita Loudon’s house along with DS MacNee, gave their names to the constable on duty at the inner cordon and were permitted through. As they struggled with their paper protection suits, MacNee muttered a constant litany of words which included daft and overkill, as well as a choice selection of expletives.

‘I tell you what we look like – maggots,’ he said as they dodged SOCOs coming and going down the front path.

‘Something I’ve learnt of late is to think as little as possible what you look like, and avoid mirrors. It’s a life skill I’m acquiring to cope with middle age.’

MacNee snorted. ‘I’m jake with mirrors. They don’t answer back. If I didn’t have to wear one myself I could get quite a riff going about grubs.’

‘I can imagine. Why do you think I make sure you do?’

Fleming didn’t feel as flippant as she sounded. A woman murdered in a peculiarly brutal way was bad enough, but she was finding it hard to see it in isolation, as a crime that had happened last night and an investigation that would start this morning. In some way she couldn’t as yet figure out, this was harking back to the murder of a little boy forty years ago.

Inside there were white-clad figures moving everywhere. In the lounge there was someone swabbing the corner of a coffee table tipped on its side – a woman, Fleming realised, as she looked up. ‘Any luck?’

The SOCO shook her head. ‘Nothing to the naked eye. Needs testing, obviously, but I doubt it.’ She put the swab into a sterile pouch and marked it. ‘Knocked over in a struggle, perhaps.’

‘Maybe. Maybe just when she fell. Ask Kevin about that.’

There was another white-clad figure kneeling just beyond her. Kevin looked up when he heard his name. ‘Fell here, I reckon. Got a bloody nose, probably – look.’

There was a small patch of blood on the beige carpet. There was also, Fleming noticed, a much larger bloodstain a foot away.

Kevin pointed. ‘I’m moving on to that. Looks to be where the main injuries occurred, at a guess. What happened to her?’

‘Got her head bashed in,’ MacNee said. He had been moving about, checking out the room.

‘Ouch,’ the woman SOCO said, taking a fresh swab to the next corner.

‘Have a look at these,’ MacNee said, indicating the photos arranged along the top of an old-fashioned bureau. ‘See her?’ His pointing finger ran along the photos of Anita Loudon: blonde and
glamorous, in a provocative pose; having a good time with friends; playing the fool.

Then he pointed to the photo of two elderly people at the back. ‘See them? It’s their room, not hers, isn’t it?’

Fleming surveyed the room with its old-fashioned brown furniture and beige-toned decor. ‘And what does that say? How long has she lived here without them?’

There was a SOCO sitting at a side table, sifting piles of paper with her plastic gloves. She turned round. ‘Funny you should ask that. I’ve just found a lawyer’s letter here, saying that the house was now in Anita Loudon’s name.’

Fleming looked interested. ‘Date?’

‘1992.’

‘That’s more than twenty years,’ MacNee said. ‘Did she just not care about how the place looked?’

‘Maybe she just never got round to it,’ Fleming said, conscious of certain elements of refurbishment that long ago ought to have been put in hand back at Mains of Craigie. ‘But from the way she dressed, you’d think she’d want a smart house as well as smart clothes. Maybe she didn’t really plan on staying but it just happened. Anyway – she can’t tell us now, can she?’

MacNee was frowning. ‘Look at this, boss.’ He was pointing to the back of the bureau.

Anita’s housekeeping clearly hadn’t extended to daily polishing and right at the back of the surface there were cleaner marks in the fine film of dust where something had been standing.

‘A photo’s gone,’ Fleming said. ‘And it’s gone recently – could even have been yesterday. Now who was in that photo and why did it have to be removed?’

‘Janette might know,’ MacNee suggested. ‘She’s certainly been in the house.’

‘I didn’t have the impression they were close, though. We’ll have to
circulate the question and find if there’s anyone around who knows.

‘Let’s check out the rest of the house.’ With another glance around the room, where apart from the overturned coffee table there was no sign of a struggle, Fleming was moving towards the door when the SOCO who had been sorting through papers called to her.

‘DI Fleming! There’s something here I think you might be interested to see.’

She was holding a couple of sheets of paper, stapled together, in her gloved hands and Fleming and MacNee moved behind her to read over her shoulder. It had the letter heading of a firm of solicitors in Stranraer, and it was headed ‘Last Will and Testament of Anita Frances Loudon’.

They read it quickly, Fleming giving a slight gasp as she reached the beneficiary’s name. The signature at the bottom, Anita F. Loudon, was firm and clear, with a circle crowning the ‘i’ and a little flourish below and it had been drawn up two years before.

‘Thanks,’ Fleming said to the SOCO. ‘You’re absolutely right – it’s very interesting indeed.’

She and MacNee went out into the hall and stared at each other.

‘I’m gobsmacked,’ MacNee said. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘I don’t know, obviously. But I’m going to find out, right now. I want Marnie Bruce brought in immediately.’

‘Small problem. Do we know where she is?’

‘Ah. The landlady wanted her out of the place in Bridge Street, didn’t she. Do we not know where she went?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. For all we know, she may even have gone back south – it’s what we were kind of hoping would happen.’

‘If she’s gone, we’re going to have to find her and bring her back now,’ Fleming said grimly. ‘And try all the local guest houses too, in case she hasn’t. I’m suddenly anxious to know exactly what she was doing last night.’

‘You phoned her, didn’t you? You’ll have the number in call history.’

‘Right enough.’ Fleming took out the phone frowning as she scrolled back through the list. ‘It’ll be unnamed, of course, but I called her late morning on Tuesday. Ah – that’ll be it.’

She punched in the number, listened, then pulled a face. ‘Not answering,’ she said to MacNee, then texted ‘Please call me back as a matter of urgency. DI Fleming’.

‘Still no response.’ The way MacNee said it made that sound highly significant.

‘There’s more than one reason for not answering. But it would have made me a lot happier if she’d picked up and agreed to meet us back at the station in half an hour.’

MacNee shook his head. ‘
Through weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn
,’ he declaimed. ‘Thought you’d have worked that out by now.’

‘Wow! That was quite a story,’ Hepburn said as she and Macdonald at last escaped Ivy Gordon’s clutches. ‘But what has it all got to do with Marnie?’

‘Who said it does? You’re obsessed with the woman.’ Only one more day after this, Macdonald told himself; he could take it for one more day. Campbell, thank God, would be back on Monday. ‘She was talking about Anita’s background, that’s all.’

‘I don’t buy that. Marnie comes back here, tracks down Anita to try to find out about her mother and suddenly all hell breaks loose. There’s all that back story that Ivy tells us – what does that say to you?’

‘It says to me that Marnie Bruce is right up on the list of suspects, like I said. Oh look, there’s the boss. We’d better go and have a word.’

They went up to the edge of the cordon and waited while Fleming and MacNee talked to the SOCO on the doorstep, struggling out of their protection suits. MacNee, gathering them up to put in a plastic sack by the door, noticed Macdonald and Hepburn and said,
‘Boss,’ with a jerk of his head. Fleming glanced round, finished her conversation and came down the path towards them.

‘Anything useful?’

‘Couple of things,’ Macdonald said. He gave the five-minute version of their hour with Ivy Gordon, finishing with what she had said about Daniel Lee, and saw Fleming look at him sharply. ‘Know him, boss?’

Fleming hesitated, then said, ‘I suppose it could be the Daniel Lee who’s in a local consortium. I’ll get someone to check.’

If that was why she knew the name, she’d had a remarkably strong reaction to it, Macdonald thought, but she was going on.

‘There’s another thing. Louise, you had some contact with Marnie Bruce, didn’t you?’

Macdonald saw Hepburn stiffen slightly. ‘Well, I interviewed her, yes.’

‘But you haven’t been in touch with her since?’

Fleming and MacNee were both looking at her with a curious intensity and Macdonald wasn’t surprised when Hepburn sounded defensive in her reply. He’d have felt defensive himself if they’d looked at him like a couple of vivisectionists working out where to make the first incision.

‘Not personally, boss, apart from when we interviewed her after the Bridge Street incident. You said you would phone her.’

‘Mmm. So you’ve no idea where she is at the moment? She didn’t say where she would go when she left the B & B in Bridge Street?’

Macdonald and Hepburn both shook their heads.

‘That’s unfortunate.’ Fleming hesitated, as if trying to make up her mind about something, then went on, ‘Look, this isn’t for general release so keep it to yourselves. There’s a copy of a will among Anita Loudon’s papers leaving everything to Marnie Bruce.’

Hepburn flinched. To his credit, Macdonald didn’t turn for a triumphant look at her. It wasn’t easy.

Fleming went on, ‘I’ve tried her phone but she’s not picking up. I left a message, but obviously we need to pick her up. Get back to the station and find the tourist board list of B & Bs in the area and grab anyone you can find to work through them. Tell them we need to talk to her because she visited Anita Loudon recently. Just that, OK?’

Macdonald agreed politely, though he thought she’d be lucky if the rest of the lads swallowed that story. Followed by the crestfallen Hepburn, he went back to the car.

As they drove away, she said defiantly, ‘I know you think that shows you’re right, but there’s no proof. Marnie might not even have known about the will. And I still believe Anita Loudon was lying.’

He could afford to be magnanimous now they were heading back and would probably be in the office for a fair bit of the day too. ‘I certainly won’t argue that there’s still a lot we don’t know,’ he said.

It was only then it struck him: they’d be working overtime tomorrow, without a doubt. And over the weekend too, quite possibly. Three more days, then. He could bear it. Probably.

Marnie’s phone rang then gave a ‘ping’ as she was driving up the A77 towards Ayr. A text message: she ignored it. There was so much going on in her head that she wasn’t sure she could have a coherent conversation with anyone.

‘I think he said they’d lost touch,’ Anita is saying. She knows Anita’s just trying to get rid of her but she’s not leaving till she has the address—

Blot it out – concentrate on the road! It was clear now; she edged out, then put her foot down and passed the lorry in front.

‘No, I can’t go to the parents’ night,’ Mum says. ‘Drax needs me, we’re busy just now.’

She feels tears come to her eyes. She knows there’s no point in saying that everyone else’s mum will be there because her mother won’t pay any attention but she says it anyway.

Mum’s angry and like always when she’s angry she goes into attack mode. ‘What’re they going to tell me – that you’re not working hard enough, that you’re useless?’

‘Yes, probably,’ she says in the hard voice she puts on at times like this, as if she doesn’t care.

‘What’s the point, then? Anyway Drax has a job for me tonight.’

Desperate to stop the flood of unrelated images, Marnie turned on the car radio. Perhaps that would help.

She had the heater on full too, though she still felt as if the cold had gone right through into her bones. She hadn’t slept till the early hours and then had wakened feeling cramped and stiff, with the hot-water bottle she had gone to sleep clutching acting as an ice pack instead.

It was a glorious day, though, and even in her troubled state the scenery as she drove on up the coast made her catch her breath. The strange, volcanic hump that was Ailsa Craig was on the horizon now and the sea around it was dark blue, sparkling in the sun. Low in the sky there was a single pale cloud, like a winged dragon, Marnie thought fancifully. It would have been good just to stop and stare at it, blank her mind out, let the beauty and the peace wash it clean …

The voice on the radio, which had been burbling in the background unheard, suddenly penetrated her consciousness.
‘—small village of Dunmore in Dumfries and Galloway. The woman’s body was found in a children’s play park by a passer-by and police are treating the death as suspicious.

‘There was more bad news on the economy—’

Marnie didn’t hear the rest. She slowed down dramatically, earning a blast on the horn from the driver of the car behind, which swept past as he held up his finger in a rude gesture that she didn’t notice. There was a sign for a lay-by half a mile ahead and she drove there and pulled in.

The phone. It was lying on the seat beside her; she shrank back as
if it were a snake that might strike. She had to force herself to pick it up, and her fingers were clumsy as she opened the text.

It was from DI Fleming. What was Marnie to do now? ‘As a matter of urgency’ – the phrase was chilling. She sat back in the seat and shut her eyes.

She wasn’t going to call back. She was invisible, remember? She was going to go on and do what she had planned, once she was calm enough to drive safely.

She opened her eyes again. There were gannets diving out there, white arrows entering the water with barely a splash. Round the foot of Ailsa Craig she could see tiny white ripples where the waves were breaking. The dragon cloud looked more like a horse now.

At last her hands stopped shaking, she put the car in gear and drove on up the road to Glasgow.

Vivienne Morrison’s shop was shut when DI Fleming and DS MacNee arrived.

‘News travels fast,’ Fleming said. ‘Have we an address for her?’

‘Here somewhere.’ MacNee leafed through some scribbled notes. ‘Yes – it’s a farmhouse on the edge of the village.’ He gave her directions and they drove off up the hill.

‘So do we reckon it’s the lover or the beneficiary?’

Fleming gave him an exasperated look. ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t start picking sides! We’ve got enough of a problem already with Louise and Andy.’

‘At least Louise didn’t jump the gun and get in touch with her and it doesn’t look as if our Marnie’s answering the phone.

‘But this “Drax”? What sort of a man would have a name like that?’

Fleming glanced at him. ‘You don’t remember? Oh, I suppose I’ve had my memory refreshed recently. He was one of the child witnesses at Kirstie Burnside’s trial. He was around when Tommy Crichton was killed.’

‘Oh,’ MacNee said flatly. ‘Don’t think I wanted to hear that.’

‘I saw that a Daniel Lee was one of the directors in that local consortium but I didn’t make the connection till Andy said that. Strangely enough, Grant Crichton is one of his co-directors. You’d think it would be an uncomfortable reminder for him, but I suppose business is business.

‘And there was a Michael Morrison on the list too. Vivienne’s husband, do you reckon?’

‘What is their business?’

‘Not sure. The super’s been on this rant about illegal immigration – I told you I’d got lumbered with it. That was one of the local firms operating through Cairnryan but I haven’t had time to check out the details.’ Her face brightened. ‘That’s one good thing – at least I can say that I definitely don’t have time for it now.

‘Is that the farmhouse up there? Not our sort of farmhouse, evidently.’ As Fleming turned off up the metalled drive, she glanced across the neighbouring acres with a knowledgeable eye. ‘Looks as if the farmer put his feet up after he sold off the house. Lots of farm buildings over there but he’s not working the fields.’

MacNee followed her gesture with an incurious eye. To him they looked like fields always did – green and a bit messy. His lawn at home, now – he’d begun to take quite a pride in it recently, though when he’d mentioned it to Fleming she’d looked at him as if he’d announced he was getting a Zimmer.

A young woman answered the door. She was blonde and very pretty, but the pleasant social smile she had greeted them with vanished when they introduced themselves and asked to speak to her mother.

‘Oh dear, it’s this awful news about Anita, isn’t it? I’m her daughter, Gemma. You’d better come in.

‘I can’t believe it, not here! We don’t even bother to lock the doors half the time.’

She led them across the hall into a sitting room straight out of
Country Living
– three sofas with cream linen loose covers drawn up to form a square with the fireplace, a sofa table behind one of them with a large but very tasteful arrangement of silk flowers and, yes, a stash of what Fleming always thought of as property-porn magazines in neatly squared piles. She was pleased, though, to notice on one of the sofas what looked very like an unnoticed smear of chocolate at child level.

‘I’ll go and get Mummy,’ Gemma said. ‘She’s lying down. Please can you be very gentle with her? She’s in a terrible state.’

As he always did, given the chance, MacNee prowled round the room checking it out. A tabletop was devoted to happy family snaps, the majority featuring a fair-haired child. ‘Fond grandparents,’ he said.

Fleming pointed to one of the many scatter cushions on the sofas. ‘“If we’d known grandchildren were so much fun, we’d have had them first”,’ she read out.

MacNee surveyed them, snorting at hearts and flowers and the Union Jack – not to his taste – then with a grin picked up one which suggested ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’.

‘Maybe I could just hold this up,’ he was saying as the door opened. He dropped it hastily.

Vivienne Morrison did, indeed, look in a dreadful state. Her eyes were puffy with tears and she was visibly shaky; her daughter had an arm round her waist as she helped her to sit down and took her own place beside her, holding her hand.

She managed a travesty of a smile. ‘I’m sorry, do forgive me. It’s just been … such a shock.’

‘Of course,’ Fleming said. ‘We’ll keep this as quick as possible. I know our officers interviewed you and Anita Loudon at the shop yesterday.’

Making an obvious effort to control her voice, Vivienne said, ‘Yes,
but it started as just a normal day. We’ve worked together for years and years—’

She stopped, biting her lip. Fleming said gently, ‘You’re obviously very distressed but I know you’ll want to give us any help you can so that we can find out who did this to Anita. Was there anything, anything at all, that she said yesterday to suggest that she was worried, that something had happened?’

Vivienne broke down. ‘Poor, poor Anita,’ she was saying, when the door opened and a tall man with greying fair hair, good-looking still, if showing signs of comfortable living, appeared saying, ‘I thought you were lying down, darling!’

His face darkened at the sight of the officers.

‘It’s the police, Dad,’ Gemma said.

‘I imagined it must be.’ He came into the room, holding out his hand to MacNee. ‘Michael Morrison. This is a sorry business.’

‘I’m DS MacNee. This is DI Fleming.’

He covered up his assumption that the man would be the senior officer quite smoothly. ‘Yes, of course. I imagine you want to question my wife and I know she’ll want to give you every possible help. But as you can see she’s really in no fit state to talk to you. I’ve phoned the doctor to come and I’m sure he will confirm that.’

Fleming couldn’t really argue. All she could do was say, ‘If she could possibly just tell us whether Anita said anything that could be of help—’

‘I’m sure she gave us a very full account when we were talking about it earlier,’ Morrison said. ‘Isn’t that right, darling?’

Vivienne’s shoulders were heaving but she managed to nod.

He had got the officers on their feet already – deliberately, Fleming wondered? – and now moved to hold the door open very purposefully.

‘Thank you for your help, anyway,’ she said, then as he escorted them to the front door she added, ‘Perhaps I can just ask you how well you knew Anita Loudon yourself?’

Morrison shrugged. ‘Hardly at all, really. Of course, I knew her as someone in the village but the shop is my wife’s business, not mine, and we didn’t socialise. She seemed a pleasant lady, though, and my wife was very satisfied with her as an employee.

‘So – have you any idea who might have done this?’

Was it just her imagination, or was there tension in his attitude as he waited for her reply. She prolonged the pause deliberately before she handed out the usual response about promising lines of enquiry.