Dead in the Water (14 page)

The callous response shed a light on the relationship. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Fleming said, but as that received no acknowledgement, went on, ‘May I come in?’ She took the customary step forward which made it harder to refuse.

‘If you have to.’

Jean walked away down the narrow hall, leaving her visitor to follow and shut the front door. Fleming expected to be taken to the farmhouse kitchen where, as she had reason to know, most social interaction on farms took place, but instead Jean opened the door into what would once have been called the front parlour.

There were antimacassars on the backs of all the chairs. Fleming hadn’t seen one since she was a child, and the cut-moquette, wooden-framed suite didn’t look as if it merited such protection. The room was otherwise sparsely furnished with only a couple of side-tables and a display cabinet full of glasses. On the mantelpiece an orange china vase held dry grasses and in front of the empty grate was a fan of pleated paper. It was all spotlessly clean but the room felt dank, as if it had been unheated and unused for years. Half-drawn blinds made it dark and no pictures brightened the beige wallpaper.

The only personal touch was some formal photographs on a side-table. Fleming had seen the one of Ailsa, but there was also a somewhat faded wedding photo, presumably the Grants’ own, and two or three others, including the kind you order through the school: one of a boy with red hair and a dark-haired girl – Ailsa, presumably, before she went blonde.

Apart from that, the room gave nothing away, any more than did the face of the woman who had sat down in a chair with its back to the light.

Uninvited, the inspector chose the chair nearest to the photographs. An opportunity to study them might present itself.

‘I’m sorry to be raising again what must be a very painful subject, but a decision has been made to reopen the case of your daughter’s murder.’

She could see no flicker of emotion on the other woman’s face, but then it was in shadow.

‘Oh aye?’ was all she said.

‘I need to go over the events leading up to Ailsa’s death, and ask you what you can remember.’

‘What for? They asked enough questions at the time, and wrote down what we said.’

This degree of hostility was unexpected. Feeling slightly defensive, Fleming said, ‘I’ve read the reports, but other questions have occurred to me that you may be able to answer. I’m sure you’re even more anxious than I am to get justice for your daughter.’

At last she got a genuine response. ‘Didn’t get justice last time, did she?’ Jean said savagely. ‘All these years, he’s gone on living his decadent life, spending his money, strutting about. And I told them – I told them. And they did nothing. Why should I go through it all again – for nothing to happen?’

Fleming leaned forward. She had a low, attractive voice, now at its most persuasive. ‘I know you mean Marcus Lazansky, and if you believe he killed Ailsa I can understand your bitterness. I have a daughter myself.

‘But you will know he was in America at the time. I need to hear exactly why you blame him. You can tell me anything, however trivial, that gave you reason to believe that.’

Jean had raised her head and was looking at her. Her eyes were still cold and watchful, but it was progress.

‘They had a relationship when they were quite young, didn’t they?’ Fleming prompted.

‘Oh aye, he did. And then dropped her. I saw how my bairn suffered – though dear knows she’d had warnings enough about him. And there were plenty others wanting her – you can see how bonny she was,’ she said, gesturing towards the large photo, ‘but she couldn’t see past him.

‘I told her till I was sick telling her, that she’d to have nothing to do with him. He was –’ she spat the word, ‘poison! But I could tell she wasn’t listening.

‘Oh, she’d say, “Yes, Mum, got the message.” That was her great phrase, but I knew what was in her heart. We were close, me and Ailsa.’

‘The relationship they had as teenagers – was it sexual?’

For a moment Fleming wondered if the woman would rise and strike her. ‘Sexual? Certainly not! She was only sixteen and I’d warned her well about what men were like.’

‘Of course. But—’

‘Oh, I know what you’re at! By then she was away from her mother, lonely in a big city, homesick most likely, and he took advantage of that.’

‘Mrs Grant, I can appreciate your point. But is there a possibility that there was someone else in Glasgow? Marcus Lindsay can prove he was out of the country most of the time. How could you be sure that being lonely she didn’t take up with another man?’

Tears welled up and Jean blinked them away. ‘Out of the country? Wouldn’t be telling you if he’d come back sometimes, would he? And how did I know? I’ll tell you. She denied it was him, but she wouldn’t name the father, even to me, and we were close, like I said. The only reason she wouldn’t tell me was because I’d told her she’d not to see him.’

Was this really all – a mother’s stubborn belief that her daughter tells her everything? Fleming, with clear and shaming memories of her own youth, cherished no such illusions, but she could hardly say that.

Jean had produced a handkerchief, blown her nose fiercely, and lapsed into stony impassivity. Fleming changed the subject.

‘She had a phone call that afternoon. You didn’t know who it was from or hear what was said?’

‘The phone’s in the hall there. I was busy in the kitchen and she answered, and by the time I came through to see, she’d finished and was running up the stairs. I asked her who it was but she never said.’

‘How was she looking? Upset? Happy?’

‘I didn’t see. She was a bit quiet at her tea, but it wasn’t unusual. She and her father weren’t speaking.’

And that was something Fleming needed to know about too, but she wasn’t going to interrupt.

‘She went to her room, after, and then I heard her come back downstairs and she was all made up. I hadn’t seen her like that since she came home. I said, “Where are you going?” and she said she was meeting someone.

‘“On a night like this?” I said, and she said, “Don’t stop me. He’s there, waiting for me – I have to go to him.”

‘That’s what she said.’

Jean’s voice was thick with tears, but Fleming had to ask a question that hadn’t been asked twenty years ago. ‘Did you hear a car? Did she take anything with her? Clothes, money, a suitcase?’

Jean stared at her. ‘I – I don’t know. How could I possibly remember, after all these years? She went, that’s all, and I had to let her go.’ She was agitated; she got up. ‘Excuse me – I’ve something to do for a minute.’

Filled with pity, Fleming heard her hurrying up the stairs. A woman as private as Jean Grant would not weep in public.

So it looked as if Marcus Lazansky/Lindsay could be scored off the list of suspects. Jean had held a grudge against the young man who had caused her beloved daughter heartache, and it all followed from that.

And yet, and yet . . . Jean Grant did not strike her as an irrational woman, and this was irrational to a degree. Fleming had a bristling sense of something not quite right. She wished that Tam MacNee had been with her, either to confirm this or to mock her ‘intuition’.

In accusing Marcus, could Jean be protecting someone? – and suspicion, in the past, had rested on Robert Grant, despite a sturdy alibi. Was it possible the marriage was closer than it had sounded from Jean’s unfeeling remark about digging him up?

The wedding photograph was on the side-table at her elbow. Fleming picked it up.

She wouldn’t have recognized Jean, if she hadn’t looked like a darker version of her daughter. She was very young; her face still had softly rounded contours with dark curls framing it. She was wearing a soft, pretty chiffon dress, holding the arm of a burly red-haired man with a ruddy complexion who did, indeed, look like a farmer. He wore an uneasy grin; she looked solemnly towards the camera, as if even then she did not smile readily.

Life, for Jean, was a serious business. It had been, for them – or had it, until tragedy struck, been good enough? It wasn’t uncommon for marriages to go sour when these things happened. Fleming was trying to frame tactful questions as she heard Jean coming down the stairs again.

Sylvia was visibly weary when she returned to Tulach House. Marcus saw her hands shaking as she propelled herself along the hall. He went to kiss her, feeling concerned and responsible, even.

‘Darling, what have they been doing to you? I shall have to set about them. You look exhausted!’

Sylvia summoned up the famous smile. ‘No, no, of course you mustn’t! They’ve been clucking round me like mother hens. And your make-up girl has a magic touch. I’m thinking of putting her on a retainer – it was only when I took the stuff off that I started looking my age!’

‘Nonsense, not a day over fifty-nine,’ he said robustly, though wondering whether he had pitched it low enough to be flattering, without being so low as to be blatantly insincere.

Sylvia gave her throaty laugh. ‘You’re a liar, and I love you for it. But oh, God! It’s a sad day when being told I look sixty is a compliment. Still, take what you can get, say I!’

‘Sylvia, most women of thirty can’t even dream of looking as good as you do now. Now, what can I get you? Mrs Boyter’s still around if you haven’t lunched – she’d love to whip you up an omelette.’

‘Heaven forbid! They were practically force-feeding me. I had to shut my mouth like a toddler when I’d had enough, and even then I was afraid they’d start making aeroplane noises and try to buzz in the next mouthful. But darling, if you did happen to have a tiny bottle of champagne – I know, I shouldn’t, but it’s such a wonderful pick-me-up.’

Marcus sketched a bow. ‘Your wish is my command. Now, go into the drawing room and keep warm, and I’ll fetch champagne and a couple of glasses. I’m not scheduled today, so we can have a lovely relaxing afternoon.’

He had left the door behind her open and she did not hear him return. She was stooped over, as if sitting upright was an effort, and she was clumsily shaking what were probably painkillers out of a bottle into her twisted hand. His throat constricted as he looked at her, remembering her great beauty and glamour.

Sylvia dropped one of the pills, and swore. He came forward. ‘Let me help you,’ he said, and she jumped.

‘I didn’t know you were there. Damn! I hate being seen taking pills – so old-making!’ She had straightened up, but with a betraying wince.

Marcus released the cork with a gentle sigh of vapour. ‘Swallow them down with this and you’ll feel better. Was it a tough morning?’

‘My stupid old legs, darling – just couldn’t get into the old banger they found, without pushers like they have on Japanese trains. Not quite the image we’re looking for, so they’d stuff to rework. Lots of retakes.

‘But let’s not talk about my boring problems. I’ve been longing for a proper chat. Tell me about you and darling Jaki – what a sweet, talented girl!’

Marcus smiled at her. ‘You’re always so generous – but yes, she is. I think she’s definitely working herself into a permanent slot in
Playfair
.’

She gave him a stern look. ‘Not what I meant, and you know it. How are things between you?’

‘Sylvia, you’re worse than a mother!’ he protested, but without heat. ‘We’re calling it a day, but keeping up appearances at the moment – you know what the gossip’s like. We’re still friends, but that’s all. I should have known she was too young for me, but somehow—’ He shrugged.

‘Oh, put it all behind you! The mid-life crisis – it does terrible things to your judgement. You should be looking for a nice girl with a bit of money who’ll love the house and have lots of beautiful little boys just like you.’

‘Sylvia, for heaven’s sake—’ he said with amused exasperation.

Sylvia reached out to take his hand. ‘But darling, much more important – tell me all about this business with the police. What was that about? You seemed quite stressed.’

Marcus really didn’t want to talk about that, but he couldn’t snub her. He said as lightly as he could, ‘It was a sad thing that happened twenty years ago. A pregnant girl was murdered, then dumped in the sea, but they never got the man who did it. They’re reopening the case, and they’re asking questions. That’s all. I couldn’t really help them.’

She wasn’t to be deflected. ‘But why you? You were with them a long time.’

He sighed. ‘We had a brief romance as teenagers. We broke up before I went to Glasgow, and I never saw her again. When she died, and indeed at the time she got pregnant, I was in the States. I told them, and showed them Papa’s old scrapbook with the programmes in it. End of story.’

Sylvia frowned. ‘I still don’t understand why they’d come to you now, not having seen the girl for years. Surely—’

There was no alternative. ‘Someone accused me of her murder – her mother’s my guess. She probably had a grudge against me because I dumped Ailsa, or something. All right?’

‘
All right!
’ Sylvia began working herself into a state. ‘It’s terrible! You can never trust the police! Look at all these miscarriages of justice.’ She embarked on a long story about a friend whom she claimed they had fitted up, although to Marcus it sounded as if his activities had been, at the very least, deeply suspect.