Evil for Evil (15 page)

Like a good landlady, Georgia told him and served him his free drink, to his obvious surprise. She was beginning to worry about the bill that would be waiting for Matt Lovatt and had started restricting the supply for people trying to stack them up – like the Donaldsons, naturally, who were getting more obnoxious by the minute. She took an anxious glance at the clock; it was a while yet till closing time and at this rate the poor guy would need a second mortgage to pay his bar bill.

The arrival of Martin and his family caused an immediate stir. As his wife came in, clutching at her heart dramatically, she proclaimed in carrying tones, ‘You’d better get me a brandy, Martin. I was never so terrified in my life!’ Within minutes a fascinated group had gathered, with the Donaldsons, Sorley and Tony Drummond well to the fore. There was a reverent hush as Barrie took over to describe in minute detail his near-death encounter with the poison darts.

He had just reached the point where the girl had said, ‘I shall have to dispose of this hazardous waste,’ when the back door of the pub opened and Matt Lovatt came in, gaunt with tiredness and strain.

He seemed surprised at the silence, but it allowed him to say, ‘Thanks for being so patient, everyone. The stag’s safely back in his pen.’

‘So I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for this yourself,’ Georgia said with considerable satisfaction as she set down a pint in front of a scowling Steve Donaldson. He fumbled for the money with a dirty look at her and at Lovatt.

The buzz of talk started up again as Lovatt said, ‘All right, Georgia, what’s the damage?’

‘I hate to tell you, Matt. But look, I’ll split the difference on the wholesale price. It’s been great business for me this evening.’

He looked taken aback, she thought, as if kindness was beyond his expectation. His ‘That’s very generous of you. Are you sure?’ sounded stiff, though she had no doubt that his gratitude was genuine.

‘Least I could do,’ she said. ‘I think word got round.’

He looked round the bar ruefully. ‘Yes, I can see that.’ Then he lowered his voice. ‘Could I just ask you – did you hear anyone say anything about how the stag got out? Christie swears the gate was latched and I’m inclined to believe her.’

With some regret, Georgia said that she hadn’t. ‘But I can tell you,
there was a lot of joking and sniggering from the Donaldsons and Derek Sorley just after you went out to deal with it.’

Lovatt sighed. ‘Doesn’t prove anything, of course. But …’

‘Exactly,’ Georgia agreed. She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but you should be warned. That lot really hate you, you know. They’ll do anything they can to harm you.’

‘I know that,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve lived with it since I came here. Now, what do I owe you?’

She worked it out and he paid with a credit card, then thanked her again. As he walked out, there was a gale of unpleasant laughter from the Donaldsons’ table.

Georgia bit her lip. She’d said all she could say to Lovatt, but he hadn’t picked up on her feeling that the resentment which had simmered for three years was for some reason coming to the boil.

Christie came back from the farm office to the kitchen and went to the sink to scrub her hands, feeling that you couldn’t be too careful.

‘I’m glad to have got rid of that scary stuff,’ she said to Lissa, who was sitting at the table with a cup of herbal tea, looking damp and reproachful. ‘Are the men still busy with Rudolf?’

‘Kerr is. Matt’s gone back to the pub to pay a huge bill we really can’t afford. And all for such a simple thing as a gate not being shut properly …’ She gave a little sigh, her limpid gaze an oblique accusation.

Christie was too exhausted and upset to be anything but blunt. ‘Are you accusing me? Because it’s not true. I know I shut it.’

‘Did you?’ Lissa said vaguely. ‘Oh, well …’

With a tightened jaw, Christie said, ‘I’ll just go and see how Rudolf is.’ She headed to the door; she always came off worst in these encounters with Lissa.

‘Kerr’s cross with you,’ Lissa volunteered. ‘Poor man – he’s going to have to spend half the night looking after it.’

Again, there was that sly hint of blame, impossible to refute. ‘I’m quite happy to take his place,’ Christie said crisply. ‘Matt can tell me what to look out for.’

‘He’ll probably stay himself anyway. That would suit you, wouldn’t it?’

It was too pointed to ignore; it had to be challenged. ‘What do you mean by that?’ Christie said, hoping that a blush wouldn’t betray her.

‘Oh – nothing, really.’ Lissa gave a small, tight smile.

If they were going to play games, it wasn’t going to be under Lissa’s rules. Her voice flat, Christie said, ‘There’s nothing between me and Matt, if that’s what you’re implying. More’s the pity – he deserves someone whose first thought isn’t always “poor me!”’

Lissa’s pale face flushed, and for a moment she showed temper. ‘How dare you!’ Then she smiled. ‘Oh, dear, how sad! You see Matt as a romantic figure, I suppose, because of his face. He’s not, you know. He’s a very difficult, moody person. You’ve no idea how cold and cruel he can be. I’ve had a lot to put up with.’

‘Poor you,’ Christie said sarcastically, and saw that little spurt of temper again as Lissa said with uncharacteristic sharpness, ‘No, poor you, really. Don’t you think if you just decided to leave, it might be easier?’

‘Easier for you and Kerr, you mean?’ Christie had a temper too.

Lissa went very still. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Perhaps Christie shouldn’t have said it, but it was too late to take back the words. ‘I know about your affair. And from the way Matt’s been this last bit, I reckon he’s guessed too. So maybe it will be you and Kerr that are leaving.’

Lissa’s face showed real alarm. ‘Oh, but I couldn’t leave! Not ever – there’s the baby, you see.’

She’d done it again – left Christie feeling insensitive, brutal, even. ‘Oh, well …’ she said awkwardly.

But Lissa was saying, almost to herself, ‘If he asks me, I’ll tell him – he’ll understand. He knows what I’ve been through, how hard I find it to cope. If this brings me comfort, he won’t push me into despair – he knows what that’s like. I’d kill myself, rather than leave. I know he won’t make me.’

She got up and with a smile she left the room.

Christie stared after her. She couldn’t interpret that smile. Was it mocking? Triumphant? Or was Lissa just satisfied that she’d found the solution to an awkward problem? As an excuse for a
ménage à trois
it was cheek of a breathtaking order.

Would Matt really go along with that? She didn’t know him well enough to say. And perhaps he was moody and difficult; she knew what the after-effects of trauma had done to her, and she wasn’t reminded of what had happened every time she looked in a mirror. He certainly wouldn’t have had much support from a wife who’d established a monopoly on suffering. Christie’s feelings for Lissa had been a mixture of irritation and, yes, contempt. Now they crystallised into a clearer emotion: purest hatred.

It was still raining steadily. She pulled her hood over her head and hurried across the yard. She could see a light in one of the sheds; they’d have put Rudolf in an inside pen. Tired though she was, she’d be happy to sit up with him. Anyway, if she tried to sleep in her present disturbed state she knew how she would be punished.

Elena took her sleeping pills along with a glass of wine which she took to the chair by the window. Her usual seat – though of course she had only come yesterday. How odd it was, that habit kicked in
so quickly. The territorial instinct, perhaps. My chair. Mine. I can do what I like with what’s mine …

She caught herself up. She was so tired, she was rambling. And shocked. And drunk, a bit.

She’d dealt all right with the police, though. They had seemed indifferent, almost bored, and all those years of strict control had paid off. It had just been what she’d heard described as ‘a little local difficulty’. She liked the phrase, but she couldn’t recall who said it. A politician, probably, caught up in one of the usual scandals …

God, she was rambling again. She had to rehearse what she’d told the police, just in case. Natalie Thomson – it had come easily to her lips.

Of course it had. Natalie Thomson had come to grief long ago on the streets, a terrible warning – but Elena had believed she’d blotted out that time. She didn’t care for the thought that somewhere it was lodged in her consciousness. It was, though, along with everything else. She’d given them an address, too – 14 Church Street, Solihull: an address which didn’t exist – or at least she hoped it didn’t. She’d never been to Solihull. She wasn’t actually entirely sure where it was.

So even if something did appear in the press there would be nothing to attract Eddie’s attention. He was getting restive and inquisitive, making his frequent phone calls more difficult to handle, as he constantly pressed her to say when she would return. Elena knew why: she’d covered her tracks this time so he couldn’t trace her through her plastic. He thought she didn’t know he did that, so he couldn’t admit it and it was probably driving him mad. She’d told him this was a retreat and she’d be switching off her phone for long periods. If necessary she could even say she was going into a few days of silent meditation to get Eddie off her back.

Silent meditation. Peace. How good that sounded! A mind scoured
of memory, aware only of this moment … and this … and this … She found she was drifting, her eyes starting to close as the pills began to take effect. She shook her head to clear it, and got to her feet.

Peace! Elena’s mouth twisted in a cynical smile. The only peace she could know came from chemical oblivion and—

She didn’t want to take the other route. Yet when she reached her bedroom, her eyes went to the chest of drawers. She couldn’t look away; as if drawn by a string she crossed the room and opened one of the small top drawers. There it was, the pretty shiny thing that gave her so much power, over herself if nothing else. For a moment she resisted, then she picked it up and snapped it open. She drew the little wicked blade across her arm, felt the sting of pain and saw the thin line of blood rise with a sigh of exquisite relief.

Eddie Tindall was, as usual, at his desk by seven-thirty. It had been a struggle today – after a restless night, he’d fallen into a deep sleep shortly before the alarm went.

This was the happiest part of his day, normally. He could shift twice as much with phone and email switched off, and today, too, he was engaged in a favourite occupation: assessing a report on a business he might add to his ever-growing empire.

He wasn’t concentrating, though. Eventually he stopped trying and logged on to the bank account he’d checked last night. He wasn’t really expecting it to be different this morning; it was just a neurotic twitch.

There had been no activity in their joint account since Elena withdrew a couple of hundred pounds in the middle of last week – a standard amount for taxis and tips, stuff you didn’t use a card for. He logged off again.

He’d phoned to check her credit card account last night, and she
hadn’t used that either, not even for petrol. He’d got a printout detailing her recent mobile phone calls: most were to his own number and the ones he didn’t recognise proved to be a hairdresser’s, a couple of restaurants and several surprised women friends whom he had to fob off with a story about Elena wanting them told she’d be away for a few days.

Elena’s rules had always been clear: she would come back, but he mustn’t ask where she went, and she wouldn’t tell him if he did. Until now that had been fine – he’d always traced her anyway. Knowing where she was gave him a reassuring sense of possession and now his failure was sending him crazy.
He needed to know!

Could she be deliberately covering her tracks? He shied away from the question, too afraid of the answer staring him in the face even to consider it, putting up a barrier with every possible counter-argument. A retreat, she’d said; that suggested something religious, so maybe there was no charge – a donation at the end, perhaps. She could have seen it in a magazine and booked by post. And if it wasn’t very far away, she wouldn’t have needed much petrol. How many times had Eddie gone through that reasoning? A hundred – more? It was running like a loop in his head, faster and faster because if it stopped, unwelcome thoughts would intrude.

He could break her rule and ask her straight out, but when he’d hinted a question on the phone, her voice had gone cool and distant. If he pushed her too far, she could just stop taking his calls; he suspected she’d blocked some already.

So he’d just have to be patient until she came back, Eddie told himself firmly, but another voice whispered, ‘
And what if she doesn’t?
’ What if he could never again come home to that still pool of serenity she created, could never again make love to her and then lie and watch her sleep, in awed disbelief at his good fortune? How could he bear it? He groaned.

This was no good. He picked up the report again, forcing himself to consider the questions it raised. Yet even so, the loop was still playing in the background.

Marianne Price was wearing red today: red polka-dot blouse, red pencil skirt, red stilettos. She always chose red when she’d a busy day ahead. It got her going, she said, and she swept into Eddie’s office in a whirlwind of activity.

‘You’ve that Jakie Butler coming at ten,’ she told him, ‘and there’s these forms – lawyer wants them this morning. Told him he’d be lucky, but—’ Then she stopped. He was frowning over the papers he was reading and he’d only grunted instead of giving his usual greeting. There were bags under his eyes – well, Eddie always had bags under his eyes, but you could pack these for a weekend in Torremolinos.

‘Not get much kip last night?’ she asked.

Eddie looked up, rubbing his hand down his face. ‘Does it show?’

‘Does to me. She still away, then, is she?’ Marianne seldom referred to her boss’s wife, and never by name. ‘That Woman’ served if she was talking about her to someone else.

‘Yes, she’s just having a bit of a break. At a retreat.’

‘Retreat? What’s she needing to retreat from, then?’

‘Feeling a bit stressed lately.’ Marianne’s silence was eloquent and he hurried on, ‘Do her good to get away from her old man.’

‘Where is she, then?’ Eddie had confided his checking-up habit to her long ago. ‘Just to make sure she’s all right,’ he’d said, defensively, then made her promise not to tell Elena – not difficult, since Marianne confined conversations with That Woman to monosyllables as far as possible.

‘
I don’t know!
’ The words burst out as if Eddie couldn’t help himself. ‘It’s just I never ask her straight out – you know. And this
time she’s not booked anywhere, or withdrawn any cash, or used her credit card. Oh, it’s maybe that she’s not needed to – if it’s a religious place maybe they don’t charge, and …’ He went on to recite the arguments, gone over so often they seemed threadbare even to himself, then saw her sceptical face. ‘You don’t believe that, do you? You think she’s gone off with someone.’ He sounded utterly dispirited.

Though tempted to punch the air and shout, ‘Result!’ Marianne restricted herself to a non-committal, ‘Couldn’t say, really. Been in touch, have you?’

‘Oh yes!’ he said eagerly. ‘Just says she’s tired, needs a bit of peace and quiet, but she’ll be back for sure once she feels rested.’

That would figure, she thought grimly. Poor Eddie! Dead decent fella, but soft in the head when it came to That Woman. She’d have her fling, then come back to her meal ticket, no doubt. Marianne hadn’t the heart to tell him, though, so she played for time. ‘If that’s what she says, why shouldn’t it be right?’

‘Because if you’re on your own, you can’t do anything without money. So someone else is paying.’ Then another thought occurred to him. ‘Unless she’s got another source I don’t know about. Do you think she’s found out I check up on her?’

‘Not from me,’ Marianne said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the woman. If she did know about Eddie’s activities, it might feel uncomfortably like being stalked by your own husband. She hesitated. ‘Say there was someone, would you have her back afterwards?’

‘If she’d come,’ he said simply. ‘I don’t care. What I can’t bear is not knowing where she is, feeling she might just disappear and I wouldn’t be able to find her – it’s doing my head in.’ He rubbed his forehead, as if to ease some physical pain.

Maybe the woman was entitled to a bit of privacy. On the other
hand, Marianne had no doubt where her loyalties lay, and if her advice wrecked the marriage, she wouldn’t be weeping into her champagne.

‘Why don’t you give Clive a call?’ she said.

Eddie looked shocked. ‘Clive? I couldn’t …’ he said, then slowly, ‘But he’s always very discreet, isn’t he?’

‘Very,’ Marianne confirmed. As she left the office, she saw him lifting the phone.

Nothing new had come in this morning. DI Fleming hadn’t expected anything; labs wouldn’t be working over the weekend and useful information from other sources was unlikely. She laid out the notes she’d made at home, ready to task Macdonald and Campbell before they went to Innellan this morning, then started preparing for the morning briefing. There would have to be an extensive follow-up to Friday’s domestic and there had been an off-licence break-in that would mean leaning on the usual suspects.

Her phone buzzed. ‘There’s a Tony Drummond asking to speak to you, ma’am. He says you know him,’ the Force Civilian Assistant said.

‘In a manner of speaking. He’s a journalist. Put him through anyway.’

Fleming didn’t blame him for trying to safeguard his investment, but it wasn’t going to do him any good. She wasn’t ready yet to talk about what the watch battery suggested about timing and she wasn’t going to drop poor Rosie in it either, so she’d nothing fresh for him.

‘I haven’t forgotten we owe you,’ she said in greeting, ‘but you’ll have to be patient. I’m not expecting reports before the middle of the week at the earliest.’

‘Fair enough,’ Tony conceded. ‘But I really wanted your comment on the incident last night.’

‘Incident?’ Fleming said sharply. ‘What incident?’

‘You mean the local police haven’t reported to you? I should have thought anything happening at a murder scene would have relevance.’

‘It depends.’ She was wary now. ‘Details?’

‘One of Matt Lovatt’s stags got loose and attacked a holidaymaker.’

‘Badly hurt?’ Fleming was startled.

‘No, apparently not. Though of course she could have been.’ There was a distinct note of regret in Drummond’s voice.

She laughed, relieved. ‘Mercifully the police aren’t expected to deal with could-have-beens. I’m sure the Kirkcudbright officers can deal with negligent accidents.’

‘Yes, but was it an accident? That’s the question.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Georgia Stanley said last night that the girl looking after the stag was adamant that the gate was properly closed. And she says there are elements in the village who really have it in for Matt Lovatt.’

‘And you have some idea this links up with the murder?’ Fleming did not try to hide her scepticism.

‘You don’t think it does?’

She grinned. ‘Nice try – “DI dismisses incident as irrelevant”? Sorry, no comment.’

‘You’re not a lot of fun, you know that?’ Drummond complained. ‘Come on, give me a quote I can use.’

‘I’ll give you an exclusive. “Detectives are being sent to pursue enquiries.” And the reason it’s an exclusive is that no one else will bother to ask me.’

Fleming was smiling as she put the phone down. You had to hand it to Tony – he tried hard, and she quite liked the man. She scribbled, ‘Stag attack’, as a reminder on the notes for Macdonald and Campbell, then went back to her preparation.

Tony Drummond pulled a face. Fleming was nobody’s fool; he hadn’t actually thought she’d play along with the idea that last night’s fuss was linked with what he was trying to promote as the ‘Cave Man Mystery’, but he needed something to keep the story alive. He’d done well with the stuff over the weekend – the sadism of the watch had gone down particularly well with the tabloids – but if it just went quiet as Fleming had suggested it would, generating interest again wouldn’t happen unless the findings were sensational.

He glanced at his watch. Half past nine: time he headed into the
Galloway Globe
to do what he could with his limited copy. Last night he’d only gone to the pub when he heard police sirens, by which time the action was over. The family who’d witnessed it had overwhelmed him with details, and then some, but when he’d phoned Lovatt this morning for an interview and photo of the stag, he’d got a very brusque refusal – rude bugger!

There was the injured woman, of course – Natalie Thomson. The police had given him her name last night, but said she’d taken a sleeping pill. He’d have to go up there and interview her before going in to work.

When Drummond reached Spindrift, there was no sign of life. Glancing in at the picture window across the front, he could see the sitting room was empty. Still sleeping off the pills, probably. He hesitated, then glanced at his watch again. He didn’t want to antagonise her, but he wasn’t driving all the way back later, when she might well have gone out. He rapped on the door. There was no response, and after a minute he banged on it harder, shouting, ‘Hello? Natalie, are you there?’

From the curtained room next to the front door he heard the sounds of someone wakening from deep sleep: a couple of groans, and then muttered swearing. Drummond grinned to himself and waited expectantly.

The woman who opened the door looked groggy, her hair a bird’s nest and her half-shut eyes smudged with last night’s mascara. She was huddled in a black towelling robe with the Dior logo and she was eying him with naked hostility.

‘What the hell do you want?’

He switched on the charm. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Were you asleep? And I guess you must have been pretty shaken too.’ He held up his press pass. ‘Tony Drummond. It’ll only take a moment of your time—’

‘Press?’ she said thickly. ‘Piss off.’

The door was slammed so hard it almost got his nose. Aggrieved, Drummond retreated. OK, she’d been asleep, but there was no call for aggression. Her and Lovatt must both have taken their nasty pills this morning, unless it came naturally.

He’d just have to pad the article with suggestions of foul play – and he could make something of the phrase, ‘Detectives are being sent to pursue enquiries’, especially if he linked it to Innellan’s other news story.

Elena Tindall leant against the door she had just slammed. She felt like death. Her stomach was heaving and the gash on her thigh was throbbing in time to the pounding of her head. She struggled to the sofa at the back of the sitting room and sank on to it, glancing anxiously towards the window in case the scum was poking a camera at it, but a moment later she heard a car drive away.

Water. She needed water. Her lips were parched and her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. With infinite caution she raised her head, waited for the room to stabilise, then staggered through to the kitchen.

The water was good, very good: icy cold, fresh and without the
stale chemical taint city water always had. Elena drank greedily then filled a jug, found some paracetamol and went back to the sitting room. Her legs were shaky, but her discomforts gave her an excuse not even to try to process the various shocks which had hit her. She had drunk too much, of course, but she was punch-drunk too.

It had all seemed so clear and simple when Elena made her plans. She only had to be invisible; the name she had given to the letting agency as she paid in cash was not her own, and once she had left there would be no trace.

It had taken steely resolve not to turn back on her journey north, but now that was faltering. There was just too much.
She could leave, now
, tempting whispers were saying.
Drive home to Eddie, back to the comfort of his adoration
. Eddie – perhaps that comfort was the closest thing to love she would ever know. But at what price? The maelstrom of emotions behind the calm and smiling front she always presented to him was destroying her and to return with the issues unresolved would, she surely knew, kill her, in one way or another.