Evil for Evil (25 page)

Georgia came in with the coffee, just as if Hepburn had orchestrated a little pause so that her next question could sound more like conversation than interrogation.

‘Have a biscuit,’ she said, then as Christie shook her head, added, ‘Oh, come on. Georgia’s going to blame me if you don’t.’

‘Certainly am,’ Georgia said heartily, and Christie obediently put one on her plate, earning an encouraging smile from Georgia as she left.

‘I’m getting the impression Lissa wasn’t an easy person,’ Hepburn said. ‘Difficult, even.’

Christie looked at her for a long moment, unconsciously crumbling the biscuit on to her plate. Then she burst out, as if unable to help herself, ‘She’s an absolute cow! Poor Matt – if ever there was a decent,
honourable man, it’s him. You can see that all the constant whingeing really gets to him, but he’s so patient with her! And what does he get in return? She goes off and has an affair with Kerr Brodie, and flaunts it, right in front of him.

‘Mind you, I get the impression he won’t take it for ever. He’s been quite short with her lately when she’s been drooping around in that pathetic, poor-me way she has.’

Hepburn was quite taken aback by the success of her chatty approach. There was real venom there, exposing the sort of hatred that might well prompt you, if not to kill, exactly, then perhaps not to strive too officiously to keep alive.

‘Did she give you a hard time as well?’ It sounded a casual question.

‘Oh God, yes! Little sniping remarks all the time, then foul hints about me having a crush on Matt. Really stupid.’

Christie’s face, Hepburn saw, had taken on a flush of colour. She went on, ‘Of course I admire him! He just about saved my life, with this offer of somewhere I could go to try to get my head together. He didn’t have to; he’s just a good person. And he gave Kerr a job too, when he’d probably have been on the scrap heap otherwise – so he goes screwing Matt’s wife. But there isn’t anything going on between me and Matt. I wish there was!’

It was all there, wasn’t it? Smoothly, Hepburn went on to slotting in the other elements of the profile. ‘Have you family to go back to now, if the house is uninhabitable?’

‘Family?’ Christie laughed. ‘Went into care when I was about ten.’

Disturbed childhood – tick. ‘That’s rough. So now …?’

‘Oh, they say we might be able to camp in the main house in a day or two, so I’ll hope to do that – if Lissa doesn’t kick me out for deliberately trying to leave her in a burning house. She’s getting out of hospital today.’

It was time to up the pace. Hepburn’s voice grew a little harder.

‘Do you have access to a car?’

Christie looked taken aback at the change of subject. ‘Yes, I can always borrow one if I want to go into town or something.’

‘Have you been in town lately?’

‘Not for the last few days – a week, maybe? Why?’ She had tensed up, sitting straighter in her chair.

‘Did you fill the car up?’

‘Fill the car up? Oh God, you’re asking about petrol, aren’t you? You think I set the house on fire?’

‘I don’t, Christie. It’s just there has been an accusation that you might have.’

Christie swore. ‘It’s Lissa, isn’t it? Oh, you don’t have to answer, I know it is. She’d tell any lie to destroy me. And you were nice to me so you could fit me up – what a bitch!’ Her face was crimson with anger; she was shouting now.

Impulsive – tick. Frustrated – tick. Looking for revenge – double tick.

‘Get out! Don’t come back, unless you’ve got proof – which you won’t have, because I didn’t do it. And I didn’t try to leave Lissa to burn. Pity she didn’t, though.’

Georgia came hurrying through. ‘What on earth’s going on? Christie, are you all right?’

‘I’m just going,’ Hepburn said hastily. ‘I’m sorry to have upset you, Christie.’ Georgia was looking at her in no very friendly way and she didn’t linger.

As she had thought, right at the start – a textbook profile. On the other hand, if Christie was guilty, her naivety had been extraordinary. It was never straightforward. That was what she loved about police work.

Hugh Donaldson, DS Macdonald thought, was a peculiarly repellent person: watery fish-eyes, a loose mouth and false teeth that clicked sometimes when he spoke.

He hadn’t been rattled by the formal surroundings of the interview room, or by the aggressive tone of Macdonald’s questions. Yes, he had been in the village but only long after the fire engines had arrived at Lovatt’s farmhouse. He had been asleep in his bed until then. No, he hadn’t any idea if anyone had seen him leave his house. Yes, he had gone to Sorley’s house afterwards. Yes, they had been drinking and laughing.

‘Celebrating?’ DC Campbell suggested.

Donaldson sucked his teeth. ‘Call it what you like. I’ve no love for Matt Lovatt – served him right. He did the dirty on us over the lease for the farm and there’s probably others he’s cheated as well.’

Macdonald’s frustration was beginning to show. ‘Not clever, Donaldson. That’s an admission that puts you right up there on the list of suspects.’

The man’s glassy eyes met his, unblinking. ‘You lot have me there anyway. You thought we let the stag out too.’

‘And you deny it?’

‘What’s the point?’ He gave a contemptuous snort. ‘You won’t believe me, but yes, if you like.’

‘You’re lying!’ Macdonald raised his voice.

A sneering smile came over Donaldson’s face and he said nothing.

The detective’s lips tightened. They were getting nowhere; they might as well terminate the interview. ‘One more thing. Andrew Smith – does the name mean anything to you?’

For the first time since he had walked in, Hugh Donaldson’s reaction seemed genuine. He frowned, puzzled. ‘You mean the butcher in Kirkcudbright? What’s he got to do with this?’

They let him go. Macdonald leant back in his seat taking a deep breath. ‘I’d better get my blood pressure down before we call in Donaldson Junior. If he’s anything like his old man, I might have a seizure.’

Steve Donaldson wasn’t. He was, Macdonald noted with pleasure, sweating when he came in, though the room wasn’t warm. Fear was always a useful weapon in interrogation.

Steve came in blustering. ‘You’ve no right to call me in like this. Intimidation, that’s what it is.’

‘Seems to be working,’ Campbell said acidly.

‘Surely you’re not reluctant to assist the police?’ Macdonald sounded sweetly reasonable. ‘We tried to get hold of you yesterday. Sudden decision, was it – to go to the stock sales?’

Looking hunted, Steve mumbled, ‘Aye, well – maybe it was. So?’

‘And what were you looking for?’

Steve gaped, then mumbled, ‘Nothing much.’

‘Really? That’s interesting, because your father said it had all been planned, last week, to look for some blackface tups. For your croft.’

‘Well … could have been.’

‘Just that you didn’t notice?’ Macdonald was enjoying this interview much more than the last. His voice hardened. ‘Come on, Steve, I get angry when people treat me like a fool. You thought it would be better to lie low for a bit, didn’t you?’

‘Er …’

‘Didn’t you?’

Steve jumped at the raised voice. ‘I-I …’

‘Spit it out,’ Campbell said helpfully.

‘Oh – all right, maybe we did. But you can’t blame us,’ he whined. ‘We knew you’d go picking on us. Folk like Lovatt always get the law on their side against poor buggers like us.’

‘Now, that’s where you’re wrong,’ Macdonald said. ‘We’re just on the side of the people who tell us the truth, and so far you haven’t. Bad start. Bad, bad start. Did you set the fire the night before last?’

‘No!’ It was a howl of protest.

‘Did your father? Did Derek Sorley?’

‘No! No!’

‘Don’t believe you.’ That was Campbell.

‘He’s not very good at this lying business, is he?’ Macdonald agreed. ‘You’d be better to tell the truth, Steve. Let’s go back to the start. What did you do that night?’

‘Nothing.’ Steve wiped sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand. ‘I didn’t do anything! I was in my bed till the stushie started.’

‘And your wife will confirm that?’

‘Aye, she will.’

He seemed to be on firmer ground there, and since Mrs Donaldson had treated the police like a bad smell yesterday it was unlikely that she would have anything approaching scruples about lying to them.

‘And if someone says they saw you around the farmhouse earlier?’

Panic showed on Steve’s face. ‘They didn’t! They’re – they’re lying! They’re just saying that to get us in trouble. Lovatt – was it him said that?’

‘We’re not able to disclose any source of information.’ Macdonald’s reply was disingenuous. ‘And what about letting the stag loose?’

‘We never – we never,’ Steve stumbled over the words. ‘That’s – that’s another lie.’

It wasn’t what you could call a convincing denial. Changing his tactics, Macdonald said kindly, ‘Look, Steve, your dad’s a powerful kind of guy, isn’t he?’

‘Aye.’ That was heartfelt.

‘And it would be pretty hard to stand out against him, wouldn’t it?’

Steve began to look wary. ‘Maybe.’

‘You could end up taking the rap for him, you know. And you don’t need to. If it was his idea, or Sorley’s, you could get clear of all this just by telling us the truth.’ Macdonald held his breath.

But he was disappointed. ‘He said you’d do that,’ Steve said. ‘Try to set us against each other. Well, you won’t.’

Swearing inwardly, Macdonald tried a bit more pressure, but Steve remained stubbornly unhelpful. At last, having checked that he too knew nothing of Andrew Smith, they dismissed him.

‘What did you make of that?’ Macdonald asked. ‘Guilt, sure, but guilt about what?’

‘Hard to say.’

Macdonald gave Campbell an exasperated look, then went on, ‘The old man obviously primed him, and probably Sorley too.’ He sighed. ‘Well – better get the next one in, I suppose.’

He immediately took against Derek Sorley, with his ratty face, his greasy ponytail, his belligerent swagger.

‘I can’t imagine what this is about,’ Sorley got his word in first. ‘Why am I here?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t manage to contact you yesterday and as you can imagine we are under a lot of time pressure. It’s just a chat – we’re not recording this. Thank you for cooperating.’

‘As long as it is clearly understood that I am here by invitation and can leave at a time of my choosing.’ Sorley sat down at the table.

‘You’re not under arrest,’ Macdonald confirmed.

‘I should hope not! I am cooperating as a concerned citizen and I wish I could give you information that would lead to the person who did this, though sadly I have none to give. It was absolutely shocking! They could have been murdered in their beds.’

‘Indeed. If you could just give us an account of your movements—’

‘I can do better than that. For the sake of efficiency, I have written out a detailed timetable.’

He handed it over and Macdonald glanced at it. It was a simple list of times and places, entirely innocuous. ‘Very useful. However, there are a few questions I need to ask you—’

Sorley held up his hand. ‘I wish further to state that I saw nothing suspicious that night, and to formally deny that I had any part in any wrongdoing. I have nothing to add to that statement.’ He got up.

‘Sit down,’ Macdonald said sharply. ‘I’ve a lot more to ask you—’

‘But I don’t have a lot more to say. Oh, I’m quite aware of the attitude the police have taken towards myself and the Donaldsons.’ He sounded bitter. ‘Your colleagues who interviewed us before made their position quite plain. I have no intention of playing along with your power games, Sergeant, and unless you’re going to produce evidence rather than speculation, I’m leaving now.’

He walked to the door, still with that cocky swagger, but Macdonald noticed that his hands were shaking. For all his infuriating bravado, Sorley was scared.

Marjory Fleming was at a loose end. She had cleaned out the hens and had tried to find some housework to do, but she couldn’t improve on Karolina’s standards.

For something to do, she made herself another mug of coffee and perched herself on the end of the kitchen table, too restless to sit down. She looked at her watch, as she had done every five minutes since she got up this morning. Half past eleven. She’d called to say she’d be late in today.

Marjory was feeling dreadful: light-headed and gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, and her stomach churning with anxiety. She’d checked on the sleeping Cat a couple of times, of course, and she knew Bill
had done the same when he came in for his break. He looked as if he’d aged ten years overnight – and probably she did too.

They’d left a note for Cammie last night in case he woke and found them gone, but he hadn’t, and they’d had to tell him this morning; he’d gone off to school for a rugby match looking shell-shocked. Marjory hadn’t told her mother. She couldn’t bear the thought of Janet’s distress – not yet, at least. Once they had things sorted out, she would need to know, of course, but perhaps they could just say that Cat hadn’t liked the course and had decided to take a gap year while she sorted herself out.

She and Bill hadn’t talked about it today. There was nothing to say that wasn’t just hand-wringing, and there would be time for that later when there wasn’t the risk that Cat might open the kitchen door on to a sudden silence and know they’d been discussing her. So they made banal small talk about the shopping list, the blocked drain in the yard, and Meg the collie’s recent encounter with a hedgehog, specifically the likelihood that she had picked up fleas – anything, really, except that their hearts were breaking.

God forgive them, she and Bill had felt quite smug about the way their children were turning out: Cat with the place at vet school she had worked so hard for, with her nice boyfriend; Cammie at last doing the work necessary to get into a degree course in agriculture. Now their plans for Cat were in ruins.

‘I blame myself,’ Marjory had said to Bill when they had got Cat to bed last night. He’d told her brusquely not to agonise, that Cat was quite old enough to be responsible, but if she’d been Bill she’d have been wondering if a less career-orientated mother might have produced a more secure child. Blame, fault, guilt – the words repeated themselves, one after another, in her tired mind.