Evil for Evil (12 page)

With uncanny clarity she saw a deer lifting a back leg to scratch its ear, like a dog. She watched it for a moment, then swung the binoculars along.

There was the stand of trees at the far end and close by, the cottage. It looked deserted, the door standing open and the windows boarded up. She had only just focused on it when a motor boat starting up made her turn towards the sound.

The man steering was definitely the man she’d seen on television – grey hair, stocky. In the boat was something covered by a tarpaulin, but she couldn’t make out what it was.

He guided the boat in neatly to the jetty then walked with a lurching gait uphill towards the cottage. There was a small tractor with a trailer parked beside it which he hitched to the back, then drove it down on to the jetty.

It blocked Elena’s view of the boat, but when he heaved the
tarpaulin package on to the trailer she saw it was long, narrow and clearly heavy – heavy and oddly flexible. Almost … almost like … a body?

Now she really was losing touch with reality. It was this terrible place. She shouldn’t have come – she shouldn’t have come.

But she had to. She’d decided.

The man was driving it back up the hill now, the trailer bumping behind. He swung it along the front of the cottage, then with impressive skill reversed the trailer through the doorway, with only inches of clearance on either side.

Elena put down the binoculars and picked up her wine glass, but she didn’t open a magazine. She was still watching ten minutes later when he drove out again, parked the tractor, then got into the boat. It sped back to the jetty below Lovatt’s Farm, where a car was parked. He drove it up to the farmhouse.

What had she just seen? She didn’t know. Perhaps it was nothing to do with her. But for her own safety, it would be wise to know everything she possibly could about what was going on here.

Christie Jack tipped the sachet of instant French Onion soup into a mug and topped it up from the kettle. She’d made her sandwich – cheese and chutney – already, but she was dragging her feet, being in no hurry to join Matt and Melissa Lovatt at the table. They weren’t talking, but the atmosphere between them seemed to get unhealthier by the day, until you felt crushed by it just from sitting beside them.

Lissa was toying with cottage cheese, lettuce and tomato as if it was almost too much effort to eat. Matt was making munching a ham sandwich look like duty not pleasure.

Christie put the soup packet back in the old-fashioned press. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen hadn’t been done for years.
There was an old coal-fired Aga and the Belfast sink wasn’t the new smart kind you saw in design magazines; it had the chips and scars of use and the old brass taps were green round the base with verdigris. Above the scrubbed wood table hung a pulley, draped with drying clothes. Useful, of course, but oppressive when you were underneath it.

Lissa often complained about the kitchen – not forcibly, but in that sighing, helpless way that set Christie’s teeth on edge. No wonder Matt had learnt to ignore it. Knowing what Christie knew now, she wondered if he’d developed the skill by ignoring other, more important things. It could hardly make him happy, though – which showed in the lines of strain on his face. She felt a flame of anger on his behalf as she went to join them.

She had just sat down when Kerr Brodie arrived. Lissa suddenly sat up straighter, and watching Matt under her brows Christie saw him glance towards Kerr, then without speaking go back to his sandwich.

‘Everyone’s very quiet today,’ Kerr said jovially. ‘What’s happened – somebody died?’

Matt looked up. ‘You could say,’ he said stiffly. ‘The police were here earlier, asking about the bones found in the cave.’

Kerr put two slices of bread in the toaster. ‘Och aye. Nothing to do with us, though. They’ve finished over at the island, right?’

‘As far as I know. Were you ever in that cave, Kerr?’

Kerr was slicing cheese. ‘Now, what would I be in there for?’

‘I didn’t even know there was a cave until today,’ Christie chipped in. ‘Round the other side, I suppose.’

‘I went in once, when we came here first,’ Matt said. ‘Nothing to see, I thought – just a hollow in the rock.’

‘I was with you,’ Lissa said suddenly. ‘I remember. Such a beautiful day and I wanted to go out and see the seals basking on the rocks out
in the bay.’ Her blue eyes were dreamy. ‘I used to love doing that – before …’ She bit her lip.

Matt got up, pushing his chair back abruptly. ‘Yes,’ he said flatly and went to the door, then turned to Kerr and Christie. ‘Couple of things we need to discuss before the afternoon rounds. The office in quarter of an hour – OK?’

Kerr gave an affirmatory grunt as he grilled the cheese on his toast. Christie said, ‘I’ve finished. I can come now, if you like.’

She was rewarded with one of Matt’s rare smiles. ‘Doesn’t do to be too keen, you know,’ he said teasingly. ‘You always get the worst jobs.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ Christie said blithely. She didn’t see Kerr’s sardonic look as she followed Matt out.

The meeting had dragged on, as meetings do, and it was almost five o’clock when MacNee, hovering near the door of the CID room, intercepted Fleming as she returned from it. He was holding a piece of paper.

‘Interesting development, boss.’

‘I like that word, “interesting”. It would make a change from the last two hours, when I thought the clock had stopped. Is that a printout?’

She took it from him and they walked up together to her fourth-floor office; Fleming liked it, with its outlook over the plane trees lining the main street in Kirkluce.

She sat down and started reading, while MacNee explained. ‘It came in around two, and I phoned to have a word. One of the guys in the lab has a sideline speciality in watches and couldn’t resist prioritising. You’ll see there – date on the stopped watch, 12th October, 1999. Silver oxide battery – a life of two to three years, apparently.’

‘So – a possible date of death anything up to three years before.
But we don’t know how long it had been in the watch already – six months, a year …’

‘1997?’ MacNee said. ‘The nephew Rosie talked about was seven then and he’s nineteen now. Twelve years ago.’

‘Mmm.’ Fleming tapped her front teeth with a fingernail, a habit she had when thinking. At last she said, ‘They’re very rough figures, of course. We’ll have to get more detail from Rosie – talk to the nephew too, if he remembers anything. Time of year, for a start, though if they were fishing after supper you’d assume summertime.

‘Andy and Ewan can pursue that as well tomorrow. And I tell you something, Tam. We’re going to nail the sadistic bastard who did this, step by step.’

The rain came on in late afternoon – sharp, stinging rain with a cold breeze. The clouds were low and heavy and at half past six Elena Tindall peered out into the gathering gloom without enthusiasm.

She had just made her nightly phone call to Eddie and had spun it out longer than usual, letting him ramble on about the business. His familiar, loving voice, his anxiety for her happiness, had left her shaken in her resolve. It would be so easy to slip back into that cosseted life …

Half-life, which she spent rigidly exercising the control that Eddie mistook for tranquillity. And quietly going mad until the day when she couldn’t take it any more. It would be different afterwards; Elena was pinning everything on that. Afterwards – she hardly dared think the word.

She must take the next step, now. Before she could weaken and sit down with a glass of wine at the TV, she grabbed her new waterproof jacket, pulled the hood up and walked out into the chill of the autumn evening.

Georgia Stanley pulled a pint and set it in front of Cal Findlay.

‘Not a night to be out, is it?’ she said pleasantly. ‘We’ll likely be quiet anyway after all the excitement, and most of the weekenders will be heading home. At least they got the weather when it mattered.’

Findlay agreed but made no contribution to the conversation. With professional tact, Georgia moved to the other end of the bar where three more of the locals were sitting chatting. Last night the talk had all been about the bones in the cave, but that was yesterday’s news now. With only low-key police activity there wasn’t much more to say and the multiple iniquities of the local council were a more interesting topic.

Georgia was polishing glasses when the door to the main street swung open, admitting a gust of wet, cold air. A woman she had never seen before came in, closing the door behind her quickly. Her jacket had great dark wet patches on it and when she pushed back her hood she had to wipe her face with her hands.

‘Hang that up by the fire, love,’ Georgia called to her. ‘It’ll dry quicker.’

‘Thanks.’

As the men at the bar watched her with casual interest, she draped the jacket over a chair then stood with slim hands held out to the blaze, rubbing them to warm them. Then she came over to take a bar stool just one away from Findlay.

‘Red wine,’ she said, in answer to Georgia’s query. ‘Whatever you have.’

‘Just the house red – Chilean merlot?’

‘Fine. Large glass.’

A lively interest in people, Georgia often thought, was all that made this job bearable. Pouring out the wine, she took stock of her newest patron.

Very good-looking, undoubtedly, in a glacial way – dark-blue eyes, chiselled nose, blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail held by an elastic band – the sort of natural-looking sun-streaked honey-blonde you only got in expensive hair salons. And those perfect, perfectly white teeth – she hadn’t got those on the NHS.

What was intriguing, though, was the cheap clothes, markedly out of place with the glossy, high-maintenance appearance. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, though as she paid for her drink Georgia noticed the slight narrowing of the fourth finger which long-term wearing of a ring produces. Divorced by some wealthy bastard who’d stopped paying?

Feeling stirrings of sympathy, Georgia said, ‘On holiday, are you? Shame the weather’s changed.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity. It’s so lovely around here. I’m staying in one of the chalets up above here – Spindrift, it’s called. Very comfortable.’

‘Been here before?’ Georgia asked.

‘Oh, long ago. A couple of times. Just brief visits.’

Her sideways glance included Findlay. He hadn’t been in a mood to talk earlier, but he’d changed his mind now. Like most men, he responded to a good-looking girl – though looking more closely Georgia reckoned she was quite a bit older than at the first glance.

The bar started to fill up a little; clearly some visitors hadn’t gone, including the rest of Andy Macdonald’s stag party. Georgia was kept busy dealing with them, and when she turned back to glance at Findlay and the woman, they were still in conversation.

But what on earth had she just said to him? He was staring at her with what almost looked like horror.

Elena was on her third glass of wine when the back door of the Smugglers Inn opened and three people came in. One was the limping
man she’d watched on the island. The girl ex-soldier she’d seen on TV was there too, and the man she’d met earlier that day. He gave her a half-smile of recognition, then sat down with the girl at a table near the fire while the other man came to give the order.

He nodded to Elena. ‘Terrible night,’ he said. ‘Georgia, pints for me and Matt, bottle of Beck’s for Christie.’

As he waited he turned to look at Elena and she saw his eyes kindle in that way men’s eyes always did.

‘Visitor?’ he said. ‘I’m local – along the road. Kerr Brodie.’

Feeling the familiar bone-sapping weariness at having to respond, she smiled, but didn’t encourage him by offering her own name in exchange. ‘Yes, just visiting.’

Georgia came back with the drinks. Brodie moved off with a wink to Elena and, ‘Catch you later, eh?’

Findlay had left and Elena was on her own at that end of the bar. She couldn’t face the weather and the walk home just yet. Another drink after this one, and she should be reaching the stage where she could go back to the chalet and crash out. She drained her glass and held it up, catching Georgia’s eye and saw her give a doubtful glance. She served her anyway, with a chatty remark, but didn’t try to pursue a conversation.

A few minutes later the door to the main street opened again and another group came in: a big slob of a man, a short, balding man with a straggling ponytail and an elderly man, fat as a toad, with hooded, rheumy eyes. They were in high good humour, laughing as they came up to the bar.

The old man’s eyes lit on Elena, then lingered with an expression she recognised, producing in her a wave of revulsion and horror so physical that she thought she might be sick. She got to her feet, pushed back the stool clumsily and abandoning her drink went over to grab her coat, in her haste stumbling over an umbrella. She heard a guffaw as she hurried out.

The rain was still relentless and the street lights were shrouded in halos of mist. The shock of cold air made Elena gasp as she huddled into her jacket; the icy freshness made her head swim even more. It seemed a long way back to shelter and solitude and a door she could lock behind her. And pills that would let her sleep.

Her head down, Elena trudged up the track to the chalets. It was unlit, uneven, but she just had to take one step after another, trying not to think, trying not to feel.

It was as she was reaching the first gate that she heard the footsteps behind her – strange footsteps, light and quick and clacking. She glanced fearfully over her shoulder but the ground behind declined sharply and she could see nothing.

She quickened her pace. She was probably being neurotic, but …

Her hands were cold and wet and clumsy and the heavy bolt resisted her attempt to shift it. And whoever was behind was gaining on her now.

At last the gate yielded and swung back. She didn’t pause to close it; she was running now, though with the steep ground and the mud underfoot it felt like running in a dream where no matter what effort you make, you get nowhere.