Bad Blood (16 page)

Blindly she starts to push her way through and a man stands deliberately in her way, grinning. ‘In a hurry, sweetheart?’ He makes a grab at her but she pushes past and he dodges in front again.

She knees him in the groin and pushes on without a backward glance and there’s a space opening up in front of her and the bouncer holds the door open for her and she’s outside gasping the fresh cool air.

The air in here wasn’t fresh. It felt stale and sickly as she stood wrestling with the images. There was something creepy about the atmosphere, with no windows and minimal lighting and chipped patches showing white against the matt-black walls. The bench seating was ripped in places with stuffing showing, and the wooden floor was scuffed to bare boards and pitted with the prints of countless stiletto heels. Once the lights and lasers were weaving their hypnotic patterns no one would notice but the sleaziness disgusted her.

Marnie looked round uncertainly. Someone must be here, but there were several doors and she had no idea which one to try. The one she tapped on first led into a storeroom; the second to a small empty office. She was just shutting the door again when she realised that she wasn’t alone.

In the shadows by the bar there was a slight figure in black, a woman wearing a headscarf. She was staring at Marnie with huge dark eyes, as if she was afraid of her. There was a pail and a mop at her feet.

Marnie went over to her and saw her shrink away. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m just here to see Daniel Lee. Where would I find him?’

The girl couldn’t be more than twenty. She dropped her eyes and muttered something, looking helpless.

A language problem. Marnie repeated the question, more slowly, but the only response was a helpless fluttering of hands.

She turned her own hands outward in a questioning gesture. ‘Dan-i-el Lee. Drax?’

It seemed at last that the girl understood. She hesitated, then with a tiny jerk of her head indicated a door at the other end, beside the dais where the DJ’s equipment was, then bit her lip as if she was terrified she had done the wrong thing.

It wasn’t reassuring. If Drax’s cleaner was so scared, did Marnie really want to allow him back into her life? She paused for a long moment, studying the black-painted flat panel door as if it might have the answer.

Last chance, that was what it said to her. This is your last chance to find out if your mother is dead or alive. It’s the only trail you have left to follow. It may not lead anywhere but you’ve gone through so much, got yourself in so deep, that it would be unbearable to leave it unexplored. Last chance. And afterwards you can just walk out, drive away and disappear again.

Marnie took a deep breath and tapped on the door. There was no answer. She tapped again, then opened it. It led to a staircase that spiralled up into darkness at the top. With her heart thumping, she began to climb.

‘The way into my parlour is up a winding stair
…
’

‘Let’s assume for the moment that Marnie Bruce is genuine in her attempt to find out what happened to her mother,’ Fleming said. ‘Of course it’s possible that she may have returned here with the intention of murdering Loudon to get her inheritance but it would be remarkably naive timing, after setting up a sophisticated cover story.’

‘Could she just have lost her temper?’ Macdonald suggested. ‘Suddenly lashed out for some reason, then found herself with an inconvenient body and parked it to try and shift the blame to someone with an interest in Tommy Crichton’s murder?’

Hepburn gave him a sharp look but it was MacNee who spoke. ‘From what I saw of the corpse—’

‘From a distance,’ Fleming said pointedly.

‘From a few yards away, it didn’t look like someone lashing out. Right, boss?’

In all the pressure of an investigation, you somehow pushed the sickening reality to the back of your mind. It came back vividly now. ‘Yes. This wasn’t someone who lashed out then was appalled at what had happened. It was savage. This was someone who killed in anger, then went on being angry. Shelley Crichton is certainly angry.’

‘Or it could be someone who wanted to suggest that,’ Hepburn put in. ‘Would someone who wanted revenge for Tommy really invite suspicion by putting the body there?’

Fleming nodded. ‘I think we have to consider cold-blooded cynicism. But remember, too, there were people in the village who were angry enough about what happened to form a lynch mob for Marnie, and there is such a thing as vigilante justice, though I have to admit it’s hard to see why this would be aimed at Anita Loudon rather than at Marnie herself.

‘I couldn’t send the lads round the doors to find out who organised all that until there was confirmation that Marnie wasn’t still protected but the super phoned a few minutes ago to say she can be identified, so that can go ahead.’

‘And put out an alert to pick her up, I suppose,’ MacNee said.

Hepburn looked horrified. ‘Are you going to do that right now? Can’t we see if we can get her to answer the phone first?’

‘You’ve been trying all day,’ Macdonald pointed out and got a death stare in response.

Fleming said hastily, ‘I can get someone on to tracing the phone if necessary, though it may depend whether she’s switched it off or just isn’t answering. We’ll give them a chance to do that before we go in with the bells and whistles. A general alert means circulating a photograph and the media won’t be any slower than you two in realising who she is. It’s another reason why I’d like to find her – if
she doesn’t know about her mother it wouldn’t be a good way to find out, and if the press get to her first they’ll crucify her.

‘Anyway, we can’t ignore our other lines of enquiry. Grant Crichton – as far as we know, he hasn’t any connection with Anita but as Tommy’s father he has to be considered. You could do that on your own, Andy.’

She ignored his involuntary grin. ‘The other person we need to talk to as a priority is Daniel Lee. We noticed that a photo seemed to be missing from among a group on a table at her house, and now we know he was her lover it’s likely it was one of him and he removed it – that could be significant. I can’t take the time to go up to Glasgow myself, but you could take Louise, Tam.’ She ignored Hepburn’s pleased expression too. ‘How long will it take you to get there?’

‘Couple of hours? Thereabouts.’

‘His business address is a nightclub, Zombies. That’s all we have. Here it is – they dug that out for me.’ She flicked through papers on her desk. ‘Here.

‘Now – anything else? No? That’s fine, then.’

MacNee hung back as the others left. ‘How far back are we going to have to go on this one, Marjory?’

Fleming sighed. ‘Back to Tommy, certainly. But that was all meticulously gone into at the time so there probably aren’t too many surprises.

‘Kirstie Burnside’s disappearance – that’s something else. You and I both know that good old Jakie McNally swept everything under the carpet and then trampled it flat.’

‘We certainly can’t say anything about her. Unless she’s dead.’

‘And we don’t know whether she is or not. Unless Marnie’s managed to find out something.’

‘Something that Anita told her? Say she confessed that she’d killed Kirstie …’

‘Leaving everything to Marnie by way of redress?’ Fleming was
struck with the idea. ‘It’s a more possible scenario than anything else we’ve come up with.

‘On the other hand, Shelley Crichton – I wouldn’t put anything past her.’

‘Oh yes,’ MacNee said. ‘The plant I was sitting beside was one of thae kind that eats wee flies and stuff. Not nice.

‘Well, I’m away. Here – I’m glad Andy didn’t have to take Louise with him to Stranraer. We’re not needing another murder to investigate and that would be pushing our luck.’

The upper floor of the building seemed to have been created in the roof space of the old warehouse, a corridor running its length under the steel roof beams with doors on either side, dimly lit so that it vanished into shadows at the end. As Marnie reached the top of the spiral staircase she hesitated, looking about her uncertainly. She thought she could hear faint soft sounds, whisperings, perhaps, but perhaps that was imagination working overtime.

A man’s voice speaking suddenly quite close to her made her jump. It came from behind the door just opposite the top of the stairs and it sounded as if he was on the phone.

‘No problem,’ he was saying smoothly. ‘Just send someone round and I’ll have all the paperwork ready for you. All right?’ There was a pause, then, ‘Yes, of course. Not a problem, as I said. Just give me a call to make sure I’m here, all right? Wouldn’t like you to have a wasted journey if I was out.’

She heard him say goodbye. A moment later there was a crash as if something had been thrown across the room. Then he started swearing.

Marnie froze. That was Drax – she recognised his voice – and he was in a temper. She knew what his tempers could be like.

‘Go into your room and shut the door,’ her mother’s saying to her. ‘Keep out of the way till I tell you to come out.’

She doesn’t argue, even though her bedroom at Clatteringshaws
hasn’t any heating and there’s a hard October frost. She hears Drax’s car arriving with a squeal of brakes, then her mother’s voice in the hall as she opens the door. She hates the way Mum sounds – sort of feeble and pleading and pathetic. She hears Drax yelling at her, hears her mother starting to cry and then she puts her fingers in her ears so she can’t hear any more. Except a crash so loud that she hears it anyway and she feels her heart pounding. What if he’s killed her?

But then she hears Mum’s voice and she’s not screaming so she must be all right. It’s a long time, though, before the door opens and she can come out. Drax has gone and Mum doesn’t even have any bruises that she can see, so that’s good. She’s looking funny, though, sort of blank and looking through her daughter as if she isn’t there.

That had been not long before it all happened, before her mother disappeared and the world went upside down. It struck her with a sudden chill: the man on the other side of that door could be her mother’s killer – and she was going to go in and challenge him about it? Challenge Drax, in a bad mood – she’d have to be mad. She turned, ready to tiptoe down the stairs.

Suddenly, the door was flung open and there was Drax, his face black with temper. He almost bumped into her.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Marnie bleated, sounding feeble and pleading, like her mum.

‘Who the hell—’ he began, then stopped. A slow smile came over his face. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my little friend Marnie, all grown up! I’ve been expecting you. Looking for a chat, were you? You’d better come in.’

He was always at his most dangerous when he was angry underneath but switched on the charm. What else could she do, though, except follow him in?

Revelling in his own company, DS Macdonald drove along to Stranraer. He drove with the windows open for the first few miles; even without Louise in the car, the smell of her French cigarettes somehow lingered.

It was the least of his problems with her but it was somehow symptomatic of her irritating, immature desire to show that she was ‘different’, not just your standard police officer – as if the rest of them were happy to settle for ‘just standard’. They weren’t, but they didn’t feel the need to take up extreme positions to draw attention to themselves.

No, however hard he tried – and if he was honest he didn’t, always – it was simply impossible to get on with Louise Hepburn. The trouble was that she approached cases as if she was agent for the defence for one suspect or another, and what annoyed the hell out of him was that somehow she always managed to draw him into being agent for the prosecution, instead of being magisterially cool and aloof.

This thing with Marnie Burnside, for instance: he’d found himself
almost accusing her of Anita Loudon’s murder, though that was wholly unprofessional at this stage of the investigation and wasn’t a considered position anyway.

That was another problem: he wasn’t even sure what he did think. It was only this week that he’d realised how much he depended on his one-sided conversations with Ewan Campbell to clear his head and shape his thinking. Campbell seldom spoke, but if he thought Macdonald was going off at a tangent he’d cut through the verbiage with a single incisive remark.

Being alone in the car was a good opportunity to get his ideas straight. After all, thinking aloud wouldn’t be a lot different from talking to a silent partner. When he tried it, though, it made him feel a right berk and he reverted to the old-fashioned method.

The case he had been urging against Marnie Bruce was pretty flimsy, when it came right down to it. Loudon’s will provided a strong motive but there was no proof that Marnie even knew about it. If she had been familiar with her mother’s story, she’d hardly have come blundering into Dunmore asking questions like that. And if she didn’t know about Tommy Crichton’s murder, why would she have moved Loudon’s body to the play park – and how would she have known, anyway, exactly where the child had been found? Unless her mother had told her, which brought him neatly full circle.

No, Louise, blast her, was almost certainly right. Marnie Bruce had simply been the catalyst, caught up in something she didn’t understand. The trouble was, he didn’t understand it either.

This was the point where he could have done with Campbell to come in with one of his terse remarks. He tried to imagine what it would be, but that didn’t work – and he was nearly at Stranraer.

The headquarters of Crichton’s company wasn’t hard to find – a sprawling complex of hangars, workshops and offices on the outskirts of the town. A couple of juggernauts sat in the extensive parking area and a smartly painted sign read ‘Crichton. Haulage and delivery services’.

It appeared to be a prosperous business, with a good number of cars parked outside what looked like the main office building. Macdonald left the car there and found a door marked ‘Reception’.

The room was functional rather than inviting, lined with untidy boards covered in dog-eared lists of what looked like rotas and schedules. Presumably Crichton didn’t expect passing trade, and the woman at the desk seemed mildly surprised as she asked Macdonald if she could help him.

‘I was wanting a word with Mr Crichton, please.’ He showed his warrant card.

‘Oh! Oh yes, of course.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think he’s at home. I’ll check with his secretary but his car’s not here. He was in earlier but – you know.’

Macdonald nodded as she made the call. ‘Poor man,’ he heard her saying, then, ‘Oh? Right. He didn’t need that, did he?’

She turned back to him. ‘Yes, he’s at home. He came in this morning even though he must have been quite upset with all this, but then there was a phone call that meant he’d something to sort out at home. You’ll get him there. All right? Do you need the address?’

‘Got it here. Thanks for your help.’

As he went back to the car, Macdonald wondered what the phone call that had sent Crichton home during the working day had been. A case like this always set the antennae bristling, though it was probably nothing to do with it at all.

Crichton’s house was a handsome modern building in a superb position, looking out over Loch Ryan. One of the Irish ferries was just coming in, its white paint and red funnels bright in the watery sunshine, though the gathering clouds suggested it wouldn’t last for long.

There was a Mercedes parked outside as well as a smart little BMW 1 Series, so it looked as if the owners were at home, but there was no answer when Macdonald rang the bell. After a pause, he rang again just as the front door opened.

The woman was smartly dressed in neat black trousers and a turquoise sweater that murmured cashmere, but her blonded hair was ruffled and her mascara smudged. She looked, Macdonald thought, half-asleep.

‘Sorry to disturb you, madam. DS Macdonald – I was hoping for a word with Mr Crichton, if he’s at home.’

‘Oh – sorry, yes of course. Come in. I’m afraid you caught me having a snooze.’ She looked flustered, and catching sight of herself in a mirror in the hall as she led him in, she gave an exclamation of dismay, patting her hair and taking out a tissue to dab at the smudges.

‘Mr Crichton?’ Macdonald prompted.

‘Oh yes, yes of course. Er … I suppose you’d better just come through to his office. This way.’

The response to her tentative tap on the door was a surly grunt. When Denise opened it, Macdonald saw that Crichton was sitting at a desk covered with a jumble of papers, with more files piled around his feet. He looked as if he had been running his hands through his hair and he snarled, ‘What is it, Denise? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘It’s the police, wanting a word,’ she said and her husband’s head swivelled. His face had gone pale and he got up, pushing his chair back in a clumsy movement, then standing where he was blocking the view of the desk from the door.

He gave her a killer look and she stammered, ‘Sorry, Grant, I didn’t think – I was asleep when he came,’ as he said to Macdonald, ‘What is this about? As you can see, I’m very busy. Can’t it wait?’

‘I’m afraid not, sir. I’m Detective Sergeant Macdonald. We’re investigating the murder of Mrs Anita Loudon.’

Crichton’s face changed. Somehow, this wasn’t what he had been expecting, but he didn’t look any happier. ‘Yes, of course,’ he muttered. ‘You’d better come through to the lounge.’

He almost pushed the others out and, Macdonald noticed with interest, locked the door behind him. Denise, apologising for the
disorder, scurried ahead to fold up a furry throw and plump the cushions on the sofa.

‘I’ll just leave you to it, shall I?’ She made for the door, but Crichton said abruptly, ‘No, you stay. There’s nothing you can’t hear.’

‘Did you know Mrs Loudon?’ Macdonald asked her.

She shook her head. ‘I heard today she worked in Vivienne Morrison’s dress shop and I go there sometimes, but I never knew her name.’ She tucked herself into one corner of the sofa as if she was trying to efface herself completely.

Crichton sat down in one of the armchairs and Macdonald took the other. ‘This must have been a very distressing day for you, sir,’ he said.

‘Yes. Yes, it was.’ Crichton’s eyes went to a photograph on the mantelpiece, a snapshot of a little boy. ‘Whoever put the body there has a macabre and disgusting mind.’

‘Indeed. Do you feel that where it was placed suggested that the killer was someone who was looking for revenge?’

‘Revenge? I assume you’re thinking of my former wife or myself and it sounds to me like a veiled accusation.’

It was said aggressively; there was no doubt that Crichton was getting his confidence back. ‘Not at all,’ Macdonald said blandly. ‘It may be a clumsy attempt to divert suspicion.’

‘Perhaps you could explain to me why killing Anita Loudon would constitute revenge? It wasn’t she who killed my son.’

‘She was one of the witnesses at the time, I understand.’

‘And her evidence helped put Kirstie Burnside behind bars.’

‘Yes, indeed. So you had no grudge against her. How well did you know her?’

‘Know her?’ Crichton bridled. ‘I didn’t
know
her, Sergeant. Knew who she was, yes. But that was all.’

‘You were never, for instance, at her house?’

‘No, never.’ It was a very firm denial.

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

That threw him. ‘Saw her? I-I don’t know. I probably passed her in the street or saw her in a shop, but I wouldn’t have spoken to her. How could I possibly remember? It’s a ridiculous question.’

‘Right. Is there anything you know about Mrs Loudon that might be helpful to us in suggesting a reason for her death?’

Macdonald had hoped that the invitation to point the finger elsewhere might tempt him, but he was disappointed.

‘No.’

‘I see. Thank you, sir. Just one final question. What were your movements last night?’

‘Simple enough. I had supper with my wife, then I worked in my study until late. Then I went to bed. My wife will bear me out.’ He looked across at her, his gaze hard.

There was a slight, fluttery movement from Denise. Then she said, ‘Yes, that’s right,’ in a colourless voice.

Macdonald got up. ‘Thank you both. There’s nothing further, at the moment at least. But if anything else occurs to you, however trivial, you can contact me on this number.’ He put down a card on the coffee table. ‘I’ll let you get back to your paperwork, sir.’

A haunted look came over Crichton’s face. ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘My wife will show you out.’ He left.

Macdonald said quietly, ‘You didn’t sound terribly sure about your husband’s movements last night. Would you have known, if he’d gone out?’

Denise looked at him with something like panic. ‘Yes, of course I would!’ she cried wildly. ‘That’s an outrageous suggestion. He was here all night.’

‘That’s fine. I’m glad to have your confirmation. Thank you for your time.’

But, he reflected as he went back to the car, what validity did an alibi have when it was given by a bully’s victim?

Daniel Lee’s windowless office was minimalist in style with a glass desk, sleek pale leather chairs and a bank of glossy white filing cabinets against high-gloss white walls. Two Perspex tiered trays held papers neatly piled but there was no form of decoration or ornament to soften the chilling impersonality of the room. The mobile telephone lying on the floor was the only sign of disorder.

Light from aluminium downlighters reflected with almost painful effect and Marnie, dazzled as she stepped in from the dark landing, stopped dead.

Ahead of her, Drax spun round with that quickness of movement she remembered so well and putting an arm that felt like a steel bar around her waist he propelled her into the room, closing the door behind them.

‘You wanted to see me. And here I am. Sit!’ He pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

The image flickered into life.

‘Sit!’ he says, pointing to the battered sofa in the lounge.

She doesn’t want to sit. He thinks it’s funny, treating her like a dog. But this isn’t funny. She realises Mum’s told him what she said and now he’s going to make her pay for it.

She doesn’t know why she even bothered saying it in the first place because she knows there’s no way Mum would ever leave him and find somewhere he doesn’t know about, just for the two of them, so he would never come.

‘You and your mum on your own?’ He’s laughing at her. She hates being laughed at. ‘Using what for money? I’m the one who gives you everything. If it wasn’t for me, you know what would happen? Your mum would have to go on the game – you know what that means?’

She’s ten, of course she knows. Dry-mouthed, she nods.

‘Of course, there’s you too – could get a bit more for you, being underage.’

He’s leering at her in that way that frightens her and her mum’s looking at her as if she blames her not him.

He’s going on. ‘She’s useless, you see, your mum.’

‘Why do you want to keep her, then?’ The words come out of her mouth before she can stop them and she’s feeling sick with fear and waiting for him to hit her.

He doesn’t. He laughs. ‘Let’s just say she has a special characteristic that suits me. She’s my slave, aren’t you, babe?’

And her mother, horribly, is laughing too. ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘I’m your slave.’

‘For God’s sake, what’s wrong with you?’ Drax’s voice cut across and she came back to the present. His strongly marked brows had shot up and his dark, dark eyes were wide with what looked like alarm. ‘That’s weird, you’re—’ Then he stopped. ‘You’re doing that thing Anita talked about. You’re going back in time, aren’t you?’

Marnie said nothing. She didn’t know what to say so she went to the chair he had indicated and sat down. Drax didn’t go to the other side of the desk; he sat on it, just beside her, and bent forward staring into her eyes as if they might operate like a film screen.

‘What are you looking at?’ he demanded.

She moved back in her chair, blinked, turned her head. ‘Nothing. It’s random, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘What can you remember about when you were at Clatteringshaws and your mother worked for me?’

Everything, every last little thing, was the truthful answer, right up to the moment when she came back on Halloween and someone hit her on the back of the head.

‘Nothing much,’ she said. ‘Just scraps of things, pictures—’

‘Do you remember the night your mum had a lot of people to take somewhere and it all got a bit difficult?’

Of course she did. She was even now trying to fight down the pictures: a whole load of foreigners, packing into the Clatteringshaws house, men jabbering, her mother shouting at them and her sent to her bedroom in a hurry …

Marnie frowned. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’