Evil for Evil (26 page)

Perhaps she had to rethink. Cat was going to need her. She had to
be there, ready to listen and support. Her salary was what kept the farm going in these difficult times, but perhaps she could request a transfer to a less demanding job. It gave her a pang even to think of it, but if that was what Cat needed, she’d have to do it.

Marjory looked at her watch again. It was torment, sitting here with nothing to do, and her mind slid back to all that was waiting in her office. She might need to apply for compassionate leave, however little she relished explaining to Bailey what had happened.

It was almost quarter to twelve now, but at last there was the sound of shuffling feet in the corridor and Cat came in, wearing a pair of ancient panda slippers and a dressing gown that was too short for her, the despised remnants of her childhood which were all she had left at home. Her eyelids were swollen and her usually fresh complexion was muddy.

Marjory sprang to her feet. ‘Cat! How are you feeling?’ She moved towards her daughter but Cat did a neat sidestep.

‘Fine. Is the kettle on?’ Her tone was bright and brittle and Marjory’s heart sank.

‘Yes, of course. I’ll make you some breakfast. What do you want? There’s bacon, and eggs, of course.’

Suddenly nervous, Marjory had said that without thinking, and clearly it wasn’t tactful. Cat went paler than ever. ‘Just coffee’ll do. I’ll make it myself.’

Rebuffed again, Marjory went back to her perch and picked up her mug.

‘Anyway, what are you doing here at this time of day?’ Cat demanded.

Playing games had never appealed to Marjory. ‘Cat, you nearly died last night. I’m here because I think you need looking after and cherishing.’

Cat turned and looked at her with a cruel little laugh. ‘Oh, really? It’s a bit late for that now, don’t you think? Haven’t you a crisis at work you could put ahead of me in the queue?’

Marjory opened her mouth to protest, but she couldn’t quite think what she was going to say in her own defence.

Cat was merciless. ‘If you thought we were going to have a nice little mother-and-daughter heart-to-heart, forget it. I’m going to take my coffee back to bed. I’m a bit tired, for some reason. So you might as well go back to work instead of hanging around here.’

‘You know how much that hurts, don’t you?’ Marjory said quietly.

‘Then perhaps you understand how we’ve felt every time you rejected us in favour of the sodding job. Fine – that’s what you wanted, that’s what you’ve got. I expect the place is falling apart without you right now. You’d better go. They probably need you. I don’t.’

The stags were bellowing in fine style this morning, but DC Hepburn had almost stopped hearing them after wandering to and fro for twenty minutes, looking for Matt Lovatt. She was on the point of giving up her quest when she at last spotted him, walking down a sloping field towards the coastal path. A small herd of deer was grazing there, untroubled by his presence and also, more remarkably, by the presence of the huge dog that was roaming around nearby. It was ignoring them, but from the look of the beast Hepburn thought that in their position she would be feeling edgy, at the very least.

She saw Lovatt register her own waiting presence and at a sharp word from his master the dog came to heel. As the pair came nearer, Hepburn noticed first the man’s disfigurement and then the exhaustion and drawn misery in his face. Poor bugger! Some people had it tough.

‘Are you looking for me?’ Lovatt called as he approached, and Hepburn produced her warrant card.

‘DC Hepburn. Just wanted a word, if you’ve got a moment.’

Reaching her, Lovatt sighed. ‘Yes, I thought someone might.’ He looked around, a little uncertainly. ‘I don’t know where I can take you. The house is still too smoky to stay in for any length of time. I managed to get in to pick up some clothes, but that was all I could manage – and I apologise for the stink.’ He was wearing an old army jersey and combat trousers, and there was indeed a strong smell of smoke.

Hepburn glanced around her. It was wet underfoot, but the early rain had cleared and a silver patch in the clouds showed where the sun was trying to break through. ‘Why don’t we just talk as we walk?’ she suggested. ‘Your dog looks as if it needs a lot of exercise.’ She clicked her fingers encouragingly, but the dog paid no attention, keeping its cold amber gaze fixed steadily on this stranger.

‘What kind is it?’ she asked, feeling faintly unnerved by the unblinking stare. ‘Beautiful animal.’

‘Hard to say, really.’ Lovatt fell into step beside her as they headed out along the path, with a gesture which allowed the dog to bound ahead. ‘I got him as a pup when I was out in Bosnia.’

‘Oh yes, you were with the army, of course. What regiment?’ Hepburn said with the easy friendliness which usually encouraged people to talk.

It didn’t work this time. ‘KOSB,’ Lovatt said, then lapsed into silence.

To business, then. ‘The fire – have you a theory about who may be behind it?’

Just as she spoke, Lovatt’s mobile rang, and miming apology he answered it, made a brief, brusque reply to the caller, then rang off.

‘Sorry, what were you saying? Oh yes – the fire. Unfortunately, Constable, I have enemies in the village. I’ve said all this to your people already. There’s a farmer, whose son wanted a new lease
to farm my property, and another man who fancied digging up the Norse graves on Lovatt Island without permission. Ever since we arrived there’s been harassment. It started with graffiti and vandalism, then they released one of my stags, and now this. I’m just very afraid of what they may try next, if your lot can’t stop them.’

‘Mmm. So you don’t subscribe to your wife’s opinion that the person who started the fire was Christie Jack? And that her plan was to murder your wife and leave the field clear for her with you?’

Visibly taken aback by the sudden ruthlessness of the question, Lovatt protested. ‘For God’s sake! That’s absolute bollocks. Lissa – well, she’s obviously still very upset. She had a terrible experience. She’s not thinking clearly.’

‘You mean, she’s unreliable? Or maybe simply jealous, if you and Christie have a thing going?’

Lovatt stopped and turned to confront Hepburn. ‘I swear to you, there’s nothing between me and Christie. She’s a child – and a damaged child at that, after her experiences in Afghanistan.’

Hepburn was relentless. ‘And you don’t think, perhaps, that those experiences might have, let’s say, destabilised her? That she might not see things in quite the same light as normal people such as you or I might?’

Lovatt gave a snort of mirthless laughter. ‘Who are you calling normal? With the life I’m having to lead at the moment I’m feeling anything but. Maybe I should give up, pack it all in and move away, let Steve Donaldson have the lease …’

He moved off, still talking, and picked up a stick to throw for the dog. Hepburn listened with interest. She had caught the flicker of unease on the man’s face at her suggestion, and had no hesitation in attributing this sudden volubility to an attempt to dodge the question.

Time to move on. ‘You inherited the farm from your grandmother, right?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Is your father dead?’

Her bluntness was calculated, and Lovatt turned his head sharply. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said stiffly. ‘I haven’t heard from him since I was ten years old, after he walked out on my mother and me.’

‘I see.’

They had reached a little bay. The dog had brought back the stick then raced off again as Lovatt threw it down on to the beach. Hepburn followed the dog, the fine sand powdery under her feet. The sun was starting to break through the clouds, flicking the wave tops with tiny shafts of light. She bent down to pick up a smooth stone and sent it skipping over the water.

‘What about the bairn’s part?’ she asked casually, over her shoulder.

‘The … the bairn’s part?’

‘Oh, you know. The lawyer must have explained it to you. In Scots law, the deceased’s offspring have a right to a third of the moveable property. Was that paid out to your father at the time you inherited?’

Hepburn spoke with the easy authority of one who had been totally ignorant until the question arose with the death of her own father last year. Lovatt, she was fairly sure, would have heard of it in the same way.

‘Oh – oh yes,’ Lovatt said vaguely. ‘I don’t know – the lawyers looked after all that. There was no claim made, as far as I know.’

‘So your father may be dead?’

‘He may be. Like I said, I really wouldn’t know. I can tell you that my mother died some time ago. Look, Constable, I can’t quite see the relevance of all this, and as you can imagine I’ve got a hell of a lot to do. Do you mind if I go and do it?’

‘Of course not,’ Hepburn agreed smoothly. ‘Thanks for your patience. Just one last thing – do you know anyone called Andrew Smith?’

The dog, waving the stick, was prancing in front of Lovatt, but he didn’t seem to notice. The side of his face that was towards Hepburn was the side which could not register emotion of any kind, but the man stood stock-still for a second. Then he bent to pick up the stick and throw it again.

‘Andrew Smith? There was a squaddie of that name in my regiment – oh, and I think Smith the butcher in Kirkcudbright is called Andrew. Is that who you mean?’

‘Are they both still alive?’

This time Lovatt’s puzzlement was clear. ‘Yes, of course – at least as far as I know.’

‘Then neither of them is the Andrew Smith who died in the cave on your island.’

‘Wh–what?’ Lovatt’s face, already pale, went white on the good side.

‘I think you heard. The skeleton in the cave. Made a connection?’

But the man was a soldier, trained to deal with sudden emergencies and the dog was a useful prop. ‘There you are, Mika,’ Lovatt said as he threw the stick again. His voice was controlled as he said, ‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s just that it seems so much more personal when you have a name to attach to that particular horror. Have you been able to find out anything else about him?’

It wasn’t hard evidence, Hepburn thought as she drove back to Kirkluce, but she knew what she’d seen.

Swish! The automatic doors at the entrance to the hospital opened for the umpteenth time, admitting a blast of cold air. Melissa Lovatt,
sitting on one of the upholstered benches in the reception area, gave it a resentful look and shivered.

She didn’t have a coat. Matt, of course, hadn’t thought to bring one yesterday. At least he’d brought her mobile, along with a bundle of what looked like charity shop reject clothes but had apparently been lent by Georgia, since her own were still in the house. She wouldn’t want to wear them anyway, all saturated with smoke; they’d have to be laundered or, better still, thrown away. Matt would have to take her to Kirkcudbright to get replacements today, however busy he might claim to be.

Everything was far too big, of course. The sandals Georgia had sent were flapping on her feet, the bulky sweater swamped her slight frame and she’d had to roll up the legs of the trousers. It was lucky Georgia had thought to send a belt, but even with it fastened in the last hole Lissa still had to clutch them when she was walking to prevent them slipping down. They certainly weren’t thick enough to keep her warm.

But Lissa was feeling a chill which had nothing to do with the draughty hall. She had almost died, and no one – no one at all – seemed to care.

When the ward sister arrived to tell Lissa that she was being discharged immediately, she had been quite abrupt. No professional concern there: she’d almost hustled her now former patient into her clothes and they had even begun stripping the bed before she was out of the room.

And then Lissa had phoned Kerr. She’d only done it because the romantic hero Matt whom Kerr had described wasn’t the Matt who had arrived at her bedside yesterday, icily polite in the face of her emotional appeal and interested only in forcing her to say that she’d been so doped that she hadn’t heard his little friend Christie’s warning.

She wasn’t going to admit it, though. In any case, she’d always
slept so lightly that even after a sleeping pill she wouldn’t have slept through someone banging on the door – of course she wouldn’t! But you couldn’t expect everyone to understand that, and if they were sceptical, Christie would literally get away with murder – well, attempted murder, anyway.

The nice young policewoman who came to talk to her had been very sympathetic, but even she had gone on about needing more proof, although it would seem to Lissa that the bolted door made it obvious Christie knew she hadn’t left the house and had abandoned her to the flames, which ought to be proof enough. And this was the woman her husband was trying to protect!

So to call Kerr to come and fetch her had been Lissa’s first thought today, even if he hadn’t come to see her or even phoned since she was admitted. That should have warned her, but it hadn’t. She was totally unprepared for the shock of his reaction.

‘For God’s sake, Lissa!’ he had said. ‘Can’t you take a hint? It’s over! Leave me alone!’

She gasped with pain. ‘But Kerr, we love each other—’

‘Oh, you think! You were up for a wee fling and so was I. God knows, I’ve tried to let you down gradually, but you just can’t seem to get it.’

Her pride spoke. ‘I don’t accept that, Kerr. It was more, much more.’

‘Do I have to take a sledgehammer to get it into your empty little head? It’s over. Finished.’ He rang off.

Had that been a threat? Tears of fear – or perhaps just humiliation – had welled up. They had talked of love – or perhaps only she had? Lissa felt confused, betrayed.

And what was she to do? She couldn’t sit in the hospital for ever. She had to get home – though of course she had no home to go to
now. She had no friends, no family – apart from a cold and indifferent husband and a little grave on a bleak Scottish island.

More tears had come, but eventually she had dried her eyes and blown her nose fiercely. She’d have to phone Matt; there was nothing else she could do. But he too had been brusque, totally unsympathetic.

‘Got someone with me,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll come when I can.’

There was nothing Lissa could do except wait, and shiver. The receptionists, she was aware, had been watching her and one came over to ask if she was all right. She’d had to say her husband had been delayed. That had felt humiliating too.

But eventually the swish of the doors heralded Matt’s arrival. He went towards the desk, then spotted her and came over.

‘Oh, there you are, Lissa. Come on, then.’

He was wearing old army fatigues and she could smell stale smoke. He didn’t apologise for keeping her waiting, and he didn’t look pleased to see her. He was wearing what she always called his ‘black’ look, his brow furrowed and his eyes stormy.

‘You took your time,’ Lissa said acidly.

‘Not from choice,’ Matt snapped, swinging round to head for the door.

She was a little in awe of his temper. She trotted behind him without responding, clutching at her slipping trousers.

‘Where are you taking me?’ she ventured as they reached the car.

‘Georgia put up Christie and me at the Smugglers Inn last night. She’s only got two bedrooms, but I can move out and let you stay—’

‘Stay under the same roof as that murderous little bitch?’ Lissa demanded shrilly. ‘Oh, ideal – that way she can have another go.’

‘That’s a bloody silly thing to say! And don’t dare repeat it to anyone else – it’s manifest nonsense.’ With his lips folded tight, as if he didn’t trust himself, Matt drove off.

After a few minutes he said curtly, ‘If that’s your attitude, I’ll take up the offer I had to use one of the caravans and you can stay there.’

‘Fine. And you can take me via the dress shop in Kirkcudbright high street.’

‘I got out some of your things.’ Matt jerked his thumb at the back seat.

Lissa gave them a disdainful glance. ‘I refuse to go round smelling like an ashtray. I have to have something warm to wear until they can be washed, and these things are falling off me.’ She did, however, reach back to grab a pair of trainers; she wrinkled her nose, but at least they fitted.

Matt sighed, deeply. ‘Oh, all right, as long as you don’t take too long – there’s a million things waiting for me. And for God’s sake don’t fling money around. I still don’t know what compensation we’ll get and we’re running on empty at the moment.’

The set of his jaw, she noticed, was very grim. Lissa had always felt entitled to her feelings of hurt but her first thought – to say, ‘Do you grudge me the very clothes for my back?’ – suddenly seemed unwise. What was emanating from her husband was not just the smell of the disaster that had struck them. It was the smell of hatred.