Evil for Evil (20 page)

‘Since you’re so smart, what’s the connection between Smith and Lovatt’s house being set on fire?’

‘There isn’t one. Sorley’s got off with everything he’s done so far. He’s the wee boy! That’s how he sees it. And here – maybe he really thinks there’s gold in them there graves and he’s going radge because he can’t get at it. Burn the house to the ground, Lovatt has to leave, temporarily at least, and he has time to do his searching undisturbed.’

‘That’s plausible,’ Fleming conceded. ‘Anyway, at least the news about Melissa Lovatt’s good this morning. They were lucky, though. If the girl hadn’t raised the alarm she and Lovatt would both have wakened up dead.’

‘Oh, Andy can pick ’em,’ MacNee said, grinning. ‘Is he away down to see her now?’

‘Yes, he and Ewan were scheduled to do interviews there anyway. In fact, they wanted to make a start last night, but I didn’t feel it merited overtime. I actually said nothing would happen if they waited till the morning. I’m feeling guilty about that – maybe if I’d let them go it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Or maybe it would,’ MacNee said firmly. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. When do we go?’

Fleming glanced at her watch. ‘Half an hour? I’ve a couple of things to do first—’

She broke off as her phone rang. It wasn’t a long call; MacNee raised his eyebrows as she said, ‘
What!
’ but she didn’t meet his eyes. Her face was sombre as she put the phone down.

She said awkwardly, ‘Tam, you’re needed downstairs. I’ll come with you.’

MacNee said sharply, ‘What’s happened?’

But she only said, ‘I’ll explain on the way down,’ and preceded him out of the room.

The ashes were cooling but still not cold when DS Macdonald and DC Campbell arrived at Lovatt’s Farm. One fire engine was still standing by, ready to extinguish any flare-up, but the weather at least was favourable: dry, with a touch of autumn sunshine, and so far at least, with no sign of wind to breathe a smouldering beam into sudden life.

The back wing of the farmhouse was a hollow shell, with empty windows like dead eyes and a roof reduced to spindly blackened struts and sagging slates at the end nearest the main building. The rest of the house was, remarkably, intact, though there were smoke streaks in the stonework and every door and window was open to try to clear the air. Smoke damage would be extensive, and water damage, too; the ground area round about was a boggy mess. The leaves on the trees, great broadleaves in a sheltering half-circle a few yards from the house, were shrivelled from the heat, though the heavy rain had saved them from greater harm.

Firemen with thick boots and rakes were working in what had been the office, clearing debris and carrying out a few metal items
which, though buckled and blackened, had survived more or less intact. A twisted filing cabinet was lying on the ground where it had been dumped, papers spilling out of the drawers.

The fire chief, Angus Williamson, was a burly, grey-haired man also in heavy boots and wearing a helmet which he took off as the detectives joined him.

‘Wicked business, this,’ he said heavily. ‘Pure chance that it’s not a murder inquiry.’

‘Deliberate, then?’ Macdonald asked.

‘No question. I’ve been in there this morning – unmistakable.’

‘How was it done?’

‘An accelerant of some sort. Petrol, almost certainly – yellow flames and oily black smoke observed in this area last night. And then with all the wood, it’d go up like a Christmas tree.’

‘Someone chuck a Molotov cocktail?’ Campbell suggested, but Williamson shook his head.

‘There were multiple points where it was splashed around – the fluid dynamics of the blaze are quite clear. Someone broke in first – there, we think.’

He led them across to what remained of the glass-panelled back door of the office. It had fallen outwards as the fire destroyed its fixings and though damaged was still relatively intact. He pointed to the square immediately above the door handle.

‘Here, you see? There was glass among the ashes right on the threshold. ‘All the rest of the glass was blown out, but this fell inwards. There’s still the jagged edges from where it was smashed, look. I’ve warned the lads not to touch it.’

There was a key still in the keyhole, too. ‘Not much thought about security, anyway,’ Macdonald said. ‘Simple enough to break in.’

‘Casual about smoke alarms too. Don’t know what they had in
this wing, but the ones in the main house have dead batteries.’

‘Never think it could happen to you, do you?’ Macdonald said uncomfortably, making a mental note to buy batteries on his way home. ‘Thanks, anyway.’

He was turning away when Campbell spoke. ‘Why spread the petrol around? Chuck something in a window, let it blaze – easier.’

Williamson looked at him. ‘Certainly. Not as quick, though. This would spread in seconds.’

Macdonald, his mind on Christie Jack, felt sick. ‘Right,’ he said hollowly. ‘Thanks, Chief. We’d better get on. We’ve a lot of people to see.’

‘Good luck,’ Williamson said. ‘You want this one behind bars as soon as possible.’

Matt Lovatt, his dog at heel, walked along the foreshore. He was avoiding the path; too many of the neighbours were out gaping, some blatantly, some making the excuse of ‘just being out for a stroll’ when they saw him. He tended to prefer the blatant ones.

He still couldn’t get the taste of smoke out of his mouth, and he had slept little in one of Georgia Stanley’s spare rooms. He must be looking as bad as he felt; Brodie, who had got a bed from a friend in the village, had taken one look at him and said he’d take charge.

‘You and Christie take the day off – I’ll easy manage. I’ve an errand to do first, but there’s nothing special needs doing today.’

Lovatt didn’t feel strong enough to argue. The dog, unsettled last night by the smoke and noise and strangers, needed a proper run, and then he’d go to Dumfries to see Lissa. She was on the road to recovery, but they planned to keep her for another day. It was frightening to think how close she had come to death.

He would have died too, but for Christie, but Lissa had come closer. Christie had tried to wake her, of course she had. She’d said
that. But Lissa had spelt out to him before, in malevolent terms, that Christie had what she termed a ‘crush’ on him. Was it possible …?

No, of course it wasn’t. But how come he, half-suffocated by smoke, had realised the bolts hadn’t been drawn back and she, who had half-dragged him out and down the stairs, hadn’t noticed?

She’d done the best she could in the circumstances, he told himself. Perhaps Lissa had taken sleeping pills – she sometimes did. That would be it, of course. Comforted, he walked on. He’d check when he went in to see her later.

Matt had outdistanced the gawpers now. With a gesture, he set the dog free to roam and clambered over one of the groynes of rock going down to the sea. This was one of his favourite places; a neat little bay beside a curving promontory which, like a protective arm, sheltered it from storms sweeping in up the Solway. It had a special tranquillity, on a morning like this—

He was sharing it with someone else. And to his dismay, it was the strange woman who had been attacked by his stag and now was being approached by his dog, which could cause alarm even when right beside him. If she complained …

‘Mika, here!’ he called, his anxiety putting an edge on his voice, and the dog immediately obeyed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to her stiffly. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

She seemed faintly amused. ‘I met him before, and I’m not scared of dogs,’ she said. ‘I won’t make a fuss.’

Embarrassed to have betrayed that his concern was for the dog rather than for her, Lovatt said hastily, ‘Of course not. It’s just he looks ferocious, though he isn’t.’ He ruffled the animal’s fur affectionately, then said, ‘Er – I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal?’

‘I could say the same to you,’ she said. ‘I gather no one was hurt?’

At least she was being civil this morning. ‘No, thankfully. My wife’s
all right, but they’re keeping her under observation for the moment.’

‘That’s good.’ The woman nodded, then turned away.

‘Hope all this isn’t ruining your holiday,’ Lovatt called after her, then turned back himself. He wasn’t going to get the peace he so desperately craved so he might as well go home.

Or he could go to the island. He headed back to the jetty, untied one of the boats and snapped his fingers to Mika, who jumped into position at the prow.

Lovatt needed the quiet to think. Guilt, guilt, guilt – that familiar refrain. His wife had almost been killed and a damaged girl been drawn into deeper danger, under his roof, because of him. It felt like a punishment – but how could he complain he didn’t deserve it? The charge sheet against him wouldn’t be hard to write.

From the shore, Elena Tindall watched the boat speed over to the island. It wasn’t cold this morning, but she was having to brace herself to stop shivering. She was half-slept, of course, and her head still seemed to be ringing with the noise of the sirens.

She left the beach and walked back along the path past the farmhouse. The smell of smoke was heavy on the air here and she felt colder than ever, looking at the destruction – cold with fear.

Her car was outside the chalet door. She could be in Salford tonight, loved and safe, not lonely and utterly, utterly vulnerable. But that was false security; the enemy within was the greatest threat, and she had sensed it becoming more powerful by the day. She could have no refuge until it was vanquished.

There was a wall of pigeonholes on one side of the entrance to the university hall of residence. It looked innocuous enough, but Catriona Fleming approached it as if confronting a savage beast. Yes, there was
something in hers. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she took it out and opened it.

It was from her tutor, just as yesterday’s had been. This one was angrier, and mentioned a time which – Cat glanced at her watch – had passed already. She didn’t know what to do – well, she did, really, but it would mean going to see an angry woman who, the note said, had twice come to the residence looking for her.

She couldn’t face it. She could walk out now, give it all up. She could be back home in two, three hours, back to Dad who would make it all right. Mum would be angry, but Cat was still Dad’s little girl.

But he couldn’t make it all right, could he? She wasn’t a little girl any more, and she’d screwed up her whole career. He was so proud of her; how could she tell him she’d let him down? Her phone rang.

She took it out and looked at it suspiciously. If it was Mum again – but it wasn’t; it was Lily, and suddenly everything seemed better.

‘Sure,’ Cat said. ‘See you in half an hour.’

Fleming held open the door for Tam MacNee as, looking shocked, he went into the reception area. There was a man sitting there, an old man with a drink-ravaged complexion, unkempt and smelling.

It was far from unusual. Galloway had its share of down and outs. But what was different was that this one had a journalist with him: Tony Drummond, his eyes bright with anticipation. A photographer stood, camera at the ready, behind him.

‘DS MacNee, this man says he’s your father. Can you explain how he comes to be destitute on the streets of Glasgow, without any help from you – or even contact? He tells me you washed your hands of him twenty years ago.’

‘Thanks for letting us in,’ DS Macdonald said with real gratitude as Georgia Stanley opened the door of the Smugglers Inn just wide enough to admit them, then shut it again hastily. ‘Thought they were going to eat us alive.’

‘I checked out of the window first. They’ve been driving me demented, ringing the bell and banging on the windows. What on earth is it about? A fire, even arson, no one really hurt – you’d expect a report in the
Herald
, a photo, maybe – but this?’

‘They’re linking it to the bones in the cave,’ Macdonald said. ‘Some of them followed up on the stag story and now this’ll mean headlines like “Village of Horror”.’

‘Not wrong there,’ Campbell said with feeling.

Georgia gave a little shudder. ‘It’s all right for you. You’ll be going home at night, but I live here. What’s going to happen next? Honest, my loves, it’s really scary. The atmosphere—’ She broke off. ‘But you haven’t come to listen to me rabbiting on. You’ll be wanting
a statement, I expect. Not that there’s much to say – woke up, saw flames from the bathroom window, dialled 999. Anyway, come through to the house. It’s a bit quieter at the back.’

She led them beyond the bar and into the little kitchen adjacent to it, then stopped, lowering her voice.

‘Christie’s through there having her breakfast, looking like a ghost, poor kid. I’ve just made her toast and coffee. I offered her bacon, eggs, anything, but …’ Georgia shrugged.

Seeing a gleam in Campbell’s eye, Macdonald shot him a look which dared him to speak, and he subsided.

In the cosy sitting room at the back, a log fire was burning and Georgia had drawn up a table beside it where Christie was sitting, clasping a mug. The toast was untouched.

Macdonald’s heart went out to her. She looked so pitiful, drawn and white, her blue eyes bloodshot and her lips dry and cracked. She was trembling so that when she set down her mug it clattered against the plate. He went over and before he could stop himself took her poor, shaking hands in his.

‘You’re in a bad way,’ he said gruffly. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’

Taken by surprise, perhaps, she didn’t resist. ‘Not a lot of point. It’s just reaction. I’ll get over it.’

‘What happened?’

He was still holding her hands. She seemed only now to notice and pulled them away, looking from one officer to the other.

‘Is that an official question?’

As Macdonald coloured, Campbell said firmly, ‘Yes.’ He pulled over a chair and took out a notebook; as Georgia discreetly withdrew, Macdonald sat down too, trying to switch into professional mode. He led her through the sequence of events – straightforward enough, up to the point where she had led Matt Lovatt out of the burning building. Then she stopped.

‘And …?’ he prompted.

‘I–I don’t know.’ Christie was looking flustered.

Campbell glanced up sharply. ‘You don’t know?’

‘I … well, I had a flashback,’ she said reluctantly. ‘It … it just hit me. Probably the heat set it off, like I was back in Afghanistan.’

‘Right,’ Campbell said. ‘I’ll write that down.’

Sensing scepticism, Macdonald said sharply, ‘A horrible experience, I can imagine. So what happened afterwards?’

Christie nibbled at a piece of dry skin on her lip; she pulled it away, then licked at the raw patch. ‘When I … when I came round, sort of, Matt had gone back to rescue Lissa.’

Macdonald was startled. ‘But … you said you had roused her first?’

‘I … I banged on the door, opened it and shouted. The fire was on the other side of the landing, where Matt’s bedroom was. He was the one in danger.’

‘Waken her, did you?’ Campbell said.

‘Apparently not.’ Christie was on the defensive now. ‘She must have taken pills or something. I didn’t go and shake her, if that’s what you mean. She wasn’t at risk then, and Matt was. I hadn’t time to go fussing after her.’

‘Don’t like her much, do you?’ That was Campbell.

She didn’t answer. She tore another piece of skin from her lip.

‘So,’ Macdonald said, ‘you had every reason to suppose she had left the building while you were rescuing Matt, and then once you had got out you were hit by the flashback?’ He could feel Campbell’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look up.

‘Yes,’ Christie said gratefully.

‘Then Matt realised she wasn’t there, and went back in for her?’

She nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Macdonald looked at her uncomfortably. There was something there, something she wasn’t telling them. He should probe …

‘What are you not telling us?’ Campbell said.

Tears came to Christie’s eyes, but she said fiercely, ‘You’ll find out anyway. I should have noticed – when I went down with Matt the door was still bolted. I was in a state – it was terrifying. I’d probably have realised she was still in there once we were outside, like he did. But—’

‘Oh yes, the flashback.’ Campbell nodded, and Macdonald was seized with a sudden desire to hit him.

There wasn’t much more she could tell them. As they left Macdonald said, remembering his instructions, ‘Just one last question: does the name Andrew Smith mean anything to you?’

Christie looked at him blankly. ‘No. Should it?’

‘Just routine. Thanks, that’s all.’

The interview with Georgia didn’t produce any surprises and the detectives left to run the media gauntlet again. When at last they outdistanced them, on their way to conduct the interviews at the farther end of the village, Campbell said bluntly, ‘You’ll need to keep out of this. At least where she’s concerned.’

There was an eloquent silence. Then Macdonald said, ‘I know it looks bad. But I don’t believe for a moment she left the woman in there to burn. It’s not in her nature.’

Campbell’s silence was even more eloquent than his own had been.

MacNee’s face looked, Fleming thought, as if it had been carved in stone. ‘No comment,’ he snapped.

The old man blinked blearily up at him. ‘Tam? Is that you? Here, son – you wouldn’t have a drink for your old man, would you?’

Tony Drummond said, ‘He was found in a backstreet in Glasgow,
in the state you see him in now. Look at him – does it not make you feel ashamed?’

Involuntarily Fleming’s eyes went to the tattered clothes, filthy with stains she didn’t want to think about, the cracked hands with their broken nails, ingrained with dirt, the pathetic face with its drinker’s complexion and a ragged growth of old man’s stubble. One of his eyes, watery with age, spilt moisture like a tear and Fleming heard the camera click.

MacNee’s hands were clenched at his side and the muscles in his jaw tightened visibly as he forced out, ‘No comment.’

Drummond was visibly enjoying himself. ‘No comment – that’s the best you can say to the father you haven’t seen for twenty years?’

MacNee took a half-step forward, his clenched fist coming up. Fleming stepped in front, blocking him.

‘DS MacNee has said he has no comment,’ she said icily. ‘There will be a statement put out by the press officer later – to
all
the press. In plenty of time for them to catch their evening editions.’

Drummond’s face, as he saw his exclusive disappear, was comically crestfallen.

Fleming smiled, walking over to the outside door and holding it open. ‘Bad move, Tony. I don’t know who arranged this pantomime, but you’ve just killed the goose who might have been prepared to lay an egg or two for you in the future.’

Sullenly, the journalist and his sidekick left, the FCAs at the reception desk watching in frozen silence. In ten minutes’ time this would be all round the station.

‘Right,’ Fleming said briskly. ‘Interview room.’ She took the old man’s arm, trying not to wince at the smell. ‘This way, Mr MacNee.’

He peered up at her suspiciously. ‘Here! Where’re you taking me? I’m no’ a vagrant – I’ve money, look!’ He pulled a five-pound note out
of his pocket. ‘I’m just needing to buy a wee drink.’ From the fumes on his breath, it wouldn’t be the first that day.

‘It’s all right, we’ll see about that later,’ she said, propelling him, still protesting, out of the reception area.

MacNee followed them, a stricken look on his face. His father turned to say over his shoulder, ‘You’ll look after old Davie, won’t you, son? I dinna like this place. We’ll away and have a wee bevvy, just the two of us, eh?’

It was with some relief that Fleming deposited him on a seat in the interview room and said, ‘You stay here, Mr MacNee. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’

‘Coffee?’ He gave a snort of disgust. ‘I’m no’ needin’
coffee
.’

Ignoring a pleading look from MacNee, Fleming headed back to reception to order it. After all, there must be things father and son had to say that didn’t need an audience. Surely?

There was a buzz of talk at reception that died as she approached. She thought of saying something, then decided there was no point. This would be all over the tabloids tomorrow.

Returning to the interview room she paused at the door, listening. The last thing she wanted to do was intrude – and if she was honest, the second last thing she wanted to do was open it. But there was no sound of conversation inside and with a sigh she went in.

Davie had fallen asleep in his chair. His son was sitting on the other side of the room, still with that stricken expression. He didn’t turn his head until Fleming said gently, ‘Tam?’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he burst out. ‘What kind of a son is he, to leave his father drunk in a gutter? That’s what everyone will be thinking.’

‘I’m not. I know you wouldn’t.’

‘I wouldn’t, no. But it’s come to the same thing, hasn’t it?’

‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

He hesitated. Fleming leant forward, her voice coaxing. ‘You’ll have to have a statement for the press officer. Tell me, and we’ll work on it together.’

MacNee buried his head in his hands. ‘Give me a wee moment,’ he said.

She sat in silence. Davie gave a snore and half-woke, then subsided back.

At last MacNee sat up, squaring his shoulders. ‘The thing is, it was him cut
me
off. Wouldn’t have anything to do with me after I joined the polis. He was doing fine at that time, if you didn’t ask where the money came from, but I was asking. I won’t say what he told me I could do to myself, but you can maybe guess.

‘I’ve wondered where he was, what he was doing – of course I have. I’ve still got pals in the Glasgow force I can ask to check the records for me and there’s been nothing for years now. I just thought maybe he’d decided to go straight – or got better at not being caught. But, of course, if folks end up on the streets, minding their own business, they drop off the radar – a caution, even a fiscal fine, maybe, but no criminal record.’

‘Can’t have been easy for you, deciding to join the force with influences like that as you grew up.’

MacNee gave a cheerless laugh. ‘That’s the joke. He wasn’t the bad influence – I was. He used to rant on at me about the company I was keeping. Guys like …’ he drew in his breath ‘… Kerr Brodie.’

‘Ah,’ Fleming said. ‘I wanted to know about Brodie.’

‘We lived in the same tenement. They’d the swanky flat on the ground floor. His old man did favours for folks. You didn’t ask.

‘Mine worked in the shipyards – unskilled, so he didn’t bring home a big wage. But he was straight, so we’d just the wee room and
kitchen flat at the top of the stairs. After my mam died it was just him and me. He told me to keep clear of the Brodies, but Kerr was …’ MacNee paused, then said slowly, ‘Kerr knew all the big names. He’d always money, he – put things my way too.’

He didn’t elaborate, but Fleming saw his face darken – with shame, perhaps? But he went on, ‘Glasgow was in a bad place at that time – the ice cream wars, T.C. Campbell, the Doyles. There was a big stushie about a shooting, but I didn’t think anything about it when Kerr showed up at the door one afternoon. Said he’d a message for me, and he wanted to come in. My dad had been on an early shift so he was around and I mind it was awkward – he wasn’t best pleased, but Kerr could be good company when he wanted so he sat down and we’d a bit of a crack. Can’t remember what the message was – nothing much.

‘They came that night with a warrant, and of course they found the gun they were looking for in the chair where Kerr had been sitting. I told them, but they wouldn’t believe me. They took him away in handcuffs.’

Davie stirred in his sleep and started to snore. MacNee turned his head to look at him, and Fleming saw his face soften, as if he were seeing for a moment the man his father had once been in the sad ruin before him. His voice was harsh as he went on.

‘He’d been stitched up, good and proper. The gun was hot, of course, but he’d a lucky alibi so he went down for possession – seven years, and that was when you served the full term. By the time he came out, Bunty and I were married and I’d joined the force. I wanted revenge on the folk like Brodie, and Bunty wouldn’t let me do it any other way.

‘When he came out he was – destroyed. He’d been paid sweeties all his working life, but he’d been an honest man. “
The noblest work
of God
”, as Rabbie says.’ MacNee’s voice faltered. ‘And his reward was to be screwed – by the establishment, as he saw it, and there were the Brodies standing by to offer him a kindly helping hand. I tried to make him see that for what it was, told him it wasn’t an apology, just a plan to use him in the future like they had last time.

‘But …’ MacNee shrugged. ‘He never wanted to see me again. I tried, a couple of times, when I heard he’d gone down, and got a good swearing. Nothing I could do.

‘And Brodie’s behind this now. I knew he’d joined the army after it all happened – probably had some nice little scam going there. He knows I’m out to get him and he wants me off his back.’

It wasn’t the moment for a lecture on police ethics. Fleming said gently, ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Take him home to Bunty.’

Of course. Bunty, who had never been known to turn away a homeless cat or an abused dog, would see her father-in-law as just another project. ‘She’ll get him sorted out,’ Fleming said, smiling. ‘I’ll get the press officer to draft a statement. But Tam, however she words it, there’s flak coming your way.’