Dead in the Water (31 page)

‘I – I just seem to be permanently cold,’ she said pathetically. ‘It’s shock, apparently. Tony took me to the doctor yesterday and he gave me sleeping pills. I hate taking them, though – I feel all woozy today.’

‘Will you be fit for your scenes this afternoon? I can tell them you’re just not up to it.’

‘Oh, the show must go on!’ Jaki made an attempt at jauntiness. ‘Provided Make-up can put on enough slap to cover up – and they’re ace at that. But at least it’s the weekend. Can’t wait to get back to Mum.’

‘Ah,’ Marcus said. ‘You haven’t spoken to Barrie, then?’

Jaki’s eyes, huge in her pinched face, filled. ‘Oh, Marcus – no!’

‘ ’Fraid so. The word has come down from on high. They’re paying weekend overtime to get finished up. But if you’re not fit for it . . .’

Tears had welled up and were spilling down her cheeks. ‘How can I say that, when you and Sylvia aren’t falling apart? She’s old and frail and was just as shocked as I was, and you’re the one who’s been injured—’

‘I have the advantage that I can’t remember a damn thing about it. Worse for you – you’ll be reliving it, with flashbacks.’

She gave a shudder as he found a handkerchief and dabbed at her cheeks, then said, ‘Now, a good blow!’

Jaki obliged, with a watery smile. Then, visibly trying to pull herself together, she said, ‘Sorry. I’m fine, honestly – disappointed not to be getting home, that’s all. But Marcus, can’t you really remember anything?’

‘I remember the doorbell ringing, and that when I opened the door there was no one there. Then I woke up in hospital. Sylvia and I talked for ages, trying to trigger my memory, but it didn’t work. It’s a complete bugger.’

‘But why ever did you go out? I’d have reckoned it was Kevin Docherty and slammed the door.’

‘I suppose that is the obvious question,’ Marcus said slowly, as if he hadn’t thought of it. ‘I – I haven’t a clue. It was mad, when you think about it. But I’d assumed it was Barrie or some of the lads, so I suppose I thought they were mucking about. That’s the best I can come up with, anyway.’

‘Shouldn’t you move to a hotel, or something?’ Jaki urged. ‘He might come back – I’m scared here, even in daylight.’

He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t be, sweetie. It’s silly. Someone came and put in extra security this morning and I won’t step over the threshold without half-a-dozen of the more solid members of the crew round me until I get back to Glasgow. Anyway, the place is alive with coppers. It’s bound to have scared him off.’

‘But Marcus, who could possibly have wanted to kill you?’

‘Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that. Who have I offended, who have I upset?’ His blue eyes looked troubled, but he went on lightly, ‘Now, if I really had Playfair’s skills, we could get this solved in the next hour. Any suggestions, sergeant?’

She was too concerned to play along. ‘I’ve been trying to think if there was anything else I can remember—’

‘Don’t, darling. You’re only going to get more upset. It’s probably some nutter whose wife fancies Playfair, and he’s jealous. He won’t know where I live in Glasgow.’

He was obviously trying to cheer her up, and she couldn’t tell how worried he actually was – he was an actor, after all. She said earnestly, ‘You’re so brave. If it was me I’d be going into hiding and asking for police protection.’

‘I don’t think you’d get it – not for this. Anyway . . .’ He was suddenly serious too, and his eyes went to the portrait sketch of the man in a pilot’s jacket and white silk scarf, hanging over the fireplace. He said softly, ‘I’m Laddie Lazansky’s son. He flew dozens of Spitfire missions, dodging flak, hunted by enemy planes every night, his life or theirs. He did what he had to do, without whimpering that he was scared. I’ve got to show at least a little of that sort of courage.’

Then he laughed and said lightly, ‘Though it could be, of course, that I’m not panicking because I don’t understand the situation.’

Heather Fairlie opened the door of her neat semi, beaming at Macdonald and Kerr. She was a plump little woman in her sixties, with iron-grey curls, and her brown eyes had smile crinkles at the corners.

To Kerr’s joy, she could smell baking. Their hostess chattered away, asking about Macdonald’s auntie, then left them in a sitting room looking on to a lawn that seemed to have been mown with an electric razor, surrounded by spring flowers in weedless beds.

‘Nibble, don’t scoff,’ Macdonald adjured Kerr, sotto voce, as Heather returned bearing coffee and cheese scones. When they were served, she sat down with pleasurable anticipation.

‘I hear you’re taking another look at what happened to poor Ailsa. My John always felt an interest, you know, with him being the first to spot her lying there in the sea. What can I tell you?’

Heather liked to talk. She had seen the helicopter bring Ailsa in, standing with the other two keepers’ wives and the three men, a silent onlooker as the Grants identified the body and took it away. She had an admirably clear memory: the injuries to Ailsa’s face which she unflinchingly described tallied exactly with the file photographs.

‘I’m going to take notes if you don’t mind, Mrs Fairlie. Nothing formal, just to keep me straight,’ Kerr said.

‘Oh, call me Heather, dear. And write down anything you like. I’d be happy if I thought some good would come of it.’

Macdonald asked about the night of Ailsa’s death, but she had nothing to add to the original statement.

‘Terrible night, that! Wind howling, the sea roaring away – oh, we did get some gales down there on the Mull! Once John went on duty, about seven, probably, I just fastened the shutters and found a nice cheery programme on the telly. Now, what was it again? I can’t exactly mind what it was.’ This lapse of memory clearly annoyed her; she was frowning, trying to recollect.

Kerr said hastily, ‘Don’t worry, Heather. It doesn’t matter. Could you tell us anything about how things were at Balnakenny beforehand?’

Heather brightened. ‘Now, that I can do. The Grants came to the farm just before Ailsa was born. We were all glad of a young couple moving in – I’d bairns myself at the time. Jean Grant was quite like Ailsa when she was young, though you’d never think it now – bright, with ideas about everything. But him – well, I don’t think I ever got a word out of him.

‘They’d Stuart later, of course – a chip off the old block, him – nothing to say for himself. Funny, quiet wee fellow, never joining in with our lot at the lighthouse – half-a-dozen of them, a right load of tykes,’ her voice was fond, ‘but they’d a great time with all the freedom here. Robert was a hard man, stood no nonsense, getting Stuart labouring on the farm from the time he was able for the work, poor wee soul. I always thought it couldn’t be good for him.’

Kerr, thinking back to the monosyllabic, awkward man they had seen, had to agree. ‘What about Ailsa, though?’ she prompted. ‘Did she join in?’

‘Oh, she was one of the gang, right enough. They weren’t over fond of her – too much like her father, if you ask me, with quite a temper and determined to get her own way. But my Kirstie was ages with her and they were pals, sort of.

‘Ailsa turned out bonny, though, and a clever girl too, but she’d always kind of an impudent way with her and she wasn’t feart of anyone – and headstrong! Oh, there were some fine rows at Balnakenny – Kirstie would tell me about them.

‘When she got older, we didn’t see much of her. She’d be off to Drummore or Sandhead, got to know a fancier crowd.’

‘Marcus Lindsay?’ Macdonald suggested. ‘Lazansky, he was then.’

‘Oh, we only heard about that after, with Jean raving about him killing Ailsa. But I’ll tell you this.’

She leaned forward confidentially. ‘We’d heard Ailsa had come home in the family way, and that Jean and Robert were going their length. Folks heard shouting going on up at the house, him and her both, on at the girl – though Ailsa would be giving as good as she got, mind.

‘Just the week before she died, I saw her down here. It was a good drying day, and I was hanging out the washing on the green outby, and she was by herself, taking a walk – needing to get out the house, I don’t doubt. I don’t know when the baby was due, but she was definitely showing.

‘I was sorry for the poor lass, and I called to her, asked if she’d like a cuppa. She seemed pleased to be asked – probably the first time anyone had said a civil word to her in days.

‘She asked about Kirstie, and I’d to tell her she was married with a wee one just a year old. I mind she pulled a face and said, “She was smart enough to do it in the right order.” ’

Kerr interrupted. ‘Do you think she meant she would be getting married later on?’

‘Definitely sounded like that to me. I asked if she’d any plans, but she just laughed and said, “Oh yes, I’ve plans, but I can’t talk about them yet. Wait and see!” ’

‘Did she sound happy about it?’

Heather paused, considering. ‘More sort of high, I think you’d say – nervous maybe. I asked her, did her parents know, and her face went all white and angry. “No. I tell them nothing. They hate me, I think.” Those were her exact words – I could never forget how she spoke.

‘I said, “Och no, they’ll just be anxious” – you know the kind of thing you say, but to be honest I believed her. I asked if she’d be staying after the wean was born, but she said, “You’re joking! I’ve no choice for now, but it would be my idea of hell on earth.” Then she changed the subject.

‘And when I heard Robert Grant had killed her, I wasn’t even surprised. Should have been locked up, that man, and none of us would speak to him, or her, after. I’d be happy to see justice done, even now when he’s beyond the law.’ Her cheerful face was stern.

Macdonald said gently, ‘Heather, there was no proof then and there still isn’t. The new investigation’s to try and sort out what really happened.’

‘If you ask me,’ she said fiercely, ‘Robert lashed out at her in one of his rages, then had to get rid of the body. And the man who was to marry her – that Marcus Lindsay, maybe – kept quiet, not to get involved. And Jean’s accusations – well, with Stuart still so young, who’d run the farm if Robert got the jail?’

‘It sounds as if you don’t think she cared much otherwise,’ Kerr suggested.

Heather pursed her lips. ‘You never know what goes on behind closed doors, but Jean got harder over the years, cut herself off from everyone, took no interest in the way she looked, with no make-up and her hair just dragged back.

‘The lighthouse was decommissioned a few years after and I’ve never seen her since. But she wasn’t a happy woman then, and I doubt she’s any happier now.’

There was little more Heather could tell them. As the officers drove away, replete with scones and information, Macdonald said thoughtfully, ‘You know something? She’s the only one who wants justice for poor Ailsa. Her mother and her brother are doing their best to block us – why are they doing that?’

‘Good question,’ Kerr acknowledged. ‘But how high do you rate the chances of getting an answer?’

16

DS MacNee looked with disfavour at Marcus Lindsay, sitting in a leather wing chair by the study fire. With his sling and the head wound he looked as though he was playing someone in a war movie – suffering but too brave to show it, stiff upper lip, chaps, and all that. Though perhaps MacNee had only thought of that because of the portrait of his father the War Hero above the fireplace.

That got up MacNee’s nose too – all glamour and slick hair. You didn’t get sketches like that of the poor bloody infantry, did you? It was all about toffs showing off. And there were too many photos of the bugger as well, all round the house. It felt as if he was looking at you, and didn’t think much of what he saw.

MacNee was disgruntled anyway because Lindsay could tell them so little. Hardly his fault, maybe, but MacNee couldn’t help feeling if he’d not been such a wimp he’d have managed to remember somehow. His own experience of a much worse head injury hadn’t made him blank it out, had it? Indeed, all too often he still – but he’d decided he wasn’t going to let himself think about that.

Fleming was leading the questioning, asking why Lindsay hadn’t gone back inside when he found there was no one at the door – how daft did you have to be to wander into the darkness when there was a man around with a chib and a grudge against you? ‘Just thought it was the guys taking the mick, probably’? What did Lindsay keep in his head for brains?

Fleming was asking Lindsay now about the man in the shrubbery, which did seem to twitch the upper lip. He was startled.

‘Jaki saw someone watching the house? Why, for heaven’s sake, didn’t she tell me?’

‘She thought it was nothing more than a bush and a lively imagination, and seeing it in the same place next night confirmed it,’ Fleming explained. ‘It was only after the attack, when the “bush” wasn’t there, that she realized.’

‘The house was being watched? Someone planning a break-in? It did occur to me that it might have been a housebreaker, though ringing the bell seems a curious method to choose.’

‘Unlikely, I agree. You may have seen the footprints expert here today?’

Lindsay nodded. ‘Yes. He was telling me about his findings. Interesting guy.’

‘We’re hoping he’ll be able to produce something useful to follow up. But can you think of anyone, anyone at all, who has a problem with you – a quarrel, a grievance, resentment maybe – just to give us a starting point?’