Evil for Evil (34 page)

‘I am constantly touched by the consideration of people who can’t bear the thought that police investigation might somehow be hampered by being given information. Especially when it happens to be the truth. For God’s sake, Matt, what the hell is this about?’

Fleming’s voice was savage. Lovatt squared his shoulders, as if to withstand the force of a gale as she went on, ‘You discovered your father was dead. So, like any loyal son, you reacted with – total indifference?’

The biting sarcasm stung him. ‘Loyalty, in my book, has to be earned. This was a man I hadn’t seen since I was nine years old. He wrecked the business he’d inherited from my Smith grandfather and if my Lovatt grandmother had let him take charge of the farm here, he’d have wrecked that too.’

‘Gambling?’ It was the sergeant who put the question.

How the hell did they know these things? How long would it take them to discover …?

‘All right,’ Lovatt said. ‘He gambled the money away. Then he
walked out and left my mother and me to struggle along as best we could. We never heard from him again. No address. No maintenance. She got a job in a supermarket and we lived on that. She died of cancer just before I got an army scholarship. She didn’t know that I would be all right. She died worrying.’ His voice had risen. ‘So you see, that’s my view of my father – a bastard who didn’t let my mother die in peace, because the support that should have protected me till I could look after myself wasn’t there.’

Lovatt could feel spittle forming at the rigid end of his mouth and he wiped it away. ‘You can hardly be surprised that I didn’t burst into tears of grief when the constable told me. Clearly he’d screwed someone else just like he screwed my mother and me, and they’d taken their revenge. The throw of the dice was always more important to him than anything else except the turn of a card.

‘And before you decide that you’re going to elevate me to prime suspect, can I just say that within the time frame you seem to be talking about for his murder, I was serving with the army in Bosnia, and then having treatment in a German military hospital. I didn’t have a home so I never took home leave. Once I got the dog I stayed with friends in Europe so I didn’t have to bring him into Britain. You can check my passport, if you like. Oh no, silly me, I forgot. Someone burnt down half my house, and probably the passport with it. Still, I’m sure you can check it out somehow.’

The question was, had he given them enough information to stop them going to search for it? If they did, it would put him again through the sort of hell he had spent most of his life trying to avoid.

The inspector’s eyes were cold. It had been a moving story, and yet she hadn’t been moved. ‘I see,’ was all she said, then, ‘For the moment at least, I want you where we can keep an eye on you, for your own safety. I understand you were staying at the Smugglers Inn at one
stage. I want you back there, and I’ve arranged for police protection.

‘We are confident that everything will become clearer over the next few days, but while we are concerned about your safety, we would ask you to stay there.’

Lovatt’s heart sank. Georgia’s fussing concern, the tiny room, and above all Christie – Christie whom, somehow or other, he had destroyed.

‘Of course,’ he said as convincingly as he could. ‘I’ll just wait for the fire to die down then go across. Wouldn’t want the house to catch fire or anything!’

The feeble joke fell flat. The sergeant, whose name he couldn’t remember, said, ‘Och, I think I can see to it that it’s safe enough,’ and seizing the poker prodded and separated the logs so that the flame dwindled into glowing ash.

‘Right, we’ll take you across,’ the sergeant said, with a smile which somehow made Lovatt feel uncomfortable. ‘Just to see you get there all right, ken?’

He didn’t actually touch Lovatt’s arm, but it still felt like being frogmarched out of the building.

Bill Fleming came back to the farmhouse feeling tired and depressed. His wife’s car wasn’t in the yard; he hadn’t expected it would be, but seeing it there would have cheered him up after a day spent trying to save a sick stirk, with nothing to show for the effort except a sizeable vet’s bill. He’d been daft to bother; he’d been pretty sure from the start that he’d lose it, but looking after the beasts was his job, even when it went past the point of common sense. Just the same way as Marjory did her job.

Cat was in the kitchen, wrapped around a mug of coffee and staring into space, looking tragic. At least she was dressed; he’d been a little terse when he found her still in her dressing gown at lunchtime, and
the last thing he felt inclined to do after a hard day’s work was tiptoe respectfully round his daughter’s feelings.

‘How are you doing?’ His hearty tone was forced.

‘Oh
fine
,’ she said with heavy sarcasm. ‘As you see.’

Biting his tongue, he went to the fridge for the casserole Karolina had left to be heated in the Aga.

‘I take it Mum won’t be gracing us with her presence at supper again tonight?’

The sneer in his daughter’s voice flicked him on the raw. He put the dish carefully in the oven and then shut the door while he counted to ten. Then twenty. After twenty, he realised he was still angry – bloody angry.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she will be. She’s working, you see. She must be absolutely exhausted by now, after two almost sleepless nights, but she’s still working. It’s what grown-ups do.

‘The farm made a loss last year – did you know that? And the year before. On the odd good year, I break even. So the childish idea you seem to have that your mother ought to have stayed at home to do nothing but nanny a demanding and, I now think, thoroughly overindulged daughter, would have meant we lost the farm.

‘It’s your mother’s earnings that keep us afloat. Those jeans you bought for uni, the designer ones you were so pleased with – it was her job that paid for them, and for your overseas trips with the school and all the other luxuries you take for granted.

‘You’re not a child, Cat, you’re a young woman. You made irresponsible, silly decisions and made a mess of things, but you’re not a tragic heroine. You’re just wallowing in self-pity.’

Cat was gasping with shock. ‘Dad! I thought
you
were my friend, at least!’ Her eyes filled, then spilt over. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

The childish gesture went to Bill’s heart. His every instinct was to reach out to comfort his little girl, but he steeled himself. ‘A friend is someone who tells you the truth, Cat. You’re not going to sort yourself out by wrapping yourself in a great wet blanket of misery.

‘I’m sorry about Will. I thought he was a nice lad, but what he did was rotten, dumping you when you were so vulnerable. But go on the way you’re doing, and you could let him ruin your life. He’s not worth it.’

‘I know that. But I was just totally thrown at the time. Didn’t know what to do.’

‘You could have phoned home,’ Bill began, then catching sight of her face, went on, ‘but of course you were angry with your mum, weren’t you? Was part of this a sort of “That’ll teach her”?’

Cat didn’t meet his eyes.

‘You did a good job of it. She’s in pieces over this. But cutting off your nose to spite your face isn’t cosmetic surgery, is it?’

Cat mumbled something that could have been ‘Suppose not.’

‘Right, lecture over. Next thing – what happens now?’

Cat looked up, her face tragic again. ‘I don’t know!’ she wailed.

‘I’ll tell you. Before supper, you’re going to get paper and a pen and write down everything you can think of that might help to set things straight, and I’ll think too.’

‘Well … I could try,’ Cat said doubtfully. ‘I know you want to help.’

Bill stopped on the way to the door with an exasperated sigh.

‘Lassie, your mother has put up with a lot more from you than I ever would have. I can tell you, she’ll have been worrying herself sick about you all day, even while she’s doing one of the most important jobs there could be.’

Having seen Matt Lovatt safely into the Smugglers Inn, and ordered a uniform patrol for later, DI Fleming and DS MacNee got back into the car. The media presence had thinned out considerably and she discouraged the stragglers with a curt, ‘No comment.’

‘What now?’ MacNee said. ‘There’s quite a lot of the lads detailed for the night shift – back to Kirkluce? You look as if you could do with getting home.’

‘Getting home!’ Amid the stresses of the day, Fleming realised she had hardly given a thought to the situation at home. ‘Oh yes,’ she said glumly, ‘I suppose I ought to, really. Cat … well, she’s got a bit of a problem.’

MacNee looked encouraging, but she didn’t want to talk about it. And, now she thought about it, she had neither the strength nor the inclination to go back and let her daughter use her as a punchbag all over again. Cat had made it clear she didn’t care what her mother did – well, fine. There were better things to do than worry herself sick about her daughter’s attitude.

‘No, I’ve decided,’ Fleming said. ‘I’ll just phone Bill and tell him I don’t know when I’ll be back. Let’s get along to the incident room now. I’m too edgy about the whole situation to leave at the moment.’

‘You’ve set a watch to see no one has another go at Lovatt,’ MacNee argued. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to him tonight.’

‘I know, I know. But Tam, suppose we’re looking in the wrong direction? Has the business with the stag distracted us? It could be Lissa who was the target, not Matt at all. It’s possible. We know absolutely nothing about her, so we haven’t an idea what is in the killer’s mind. Anything could happen—’

MacNee interrupted her. ‘That’s paranoia. It’s lack of sleep talking. There’s plenty of cover – in fact, there’s Andy and Ewan now.’

Their car was coming towards them down the little street. As they drew level, Macdonald put down his window.

‘I was looking for you, boss. A query—’

‘Go along to the incident room. I’ll see you there.’

Cal Findlay’s foot had gone to sleep; he staggered slightly and had to grab at the chair he’d been crouching behind to stop himself from falling.

He didn’t have much time. They would be back before long, and in a way that was a good thing. He’d spent far too much time already agonising over what he had to do; he knew what it was, and he knew that he should have done it before, long before.

It was dark now, but he didn’t switch on the lights. He couldn’t be sure both men had left and he wasn’t going to advertise his presence. Anyway, he could have found his way around the familiar house with his eyes closed. The hall, the passageway, the kitchen door, four steps to the drawer beside the sink. The right-hand side of the drawer.

His hand found the kitchen knife and tested the blade. That would do – yes, that would do. He picked it up, then went back into the hall to pick up a concealing coat from the hallstand.

‘Help me! Help me! The wickedness …’

For a moment he paused, hatred filling his heart. It was her fault, all her fault. Her life for the life she had taken from him?

Yet he knew he couldn’t. When it came to the moment, disabling memories would rise: a birthday cake, a story – kiss, even. His throat prickled. No, he couldn’t.

The other death, though – that was different.

‘Bill?’ Marjory Fleming said. ‘Just to warn you – I’ve no idea when I might get back. It’s all a bit tense.’ She was standing in the street outside the incident room beside the throbbing generator truck as she made her call.

Her husband sighed. ‘You’re going to keel over if you’re not careful. Still, I’ve learnt enough to know there’s no point in arguing.’

Fleming laughed. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Anyway—’

‘I’d a good chat with Cat this afternoon.’

‘Did you?’ Fleming didn’t mean her voice to sound cold, but she couldn’t help it.

Bill obviously picked it up. ‘She’ll be fine, you know, given time. Do you want to speak to her?’

‘No, I don’t think I do, actually. I’d better go.’

She heard her husband groan, ‘Oh, for God’s sake!
Women
!’ as she switched off the phone.

Not driving his own Mercedes had meant that he had been able to follow Elena unnoticed, but now, as he shifted from one buttock to the other and stretched his legs across to the passenger side to ease his cramped position, Eddie Tindall thought longingly of the legroom and deeply padded leather seats in the Merc.

He’d only just got himself into position outside the empty chalet two down from the one Elena was staying in when he heard the bolts on a gate being drawn. He ducked down below the dashboard – not the easiest of manoeuvres in this confined space – and waited till he heard a car go by before he looked out.

Yes, it was hers. So she was back – it had obviously been some minor errand. If she’d gone to meet a man she’d hardly have returned so soon. Perhaps she really was just having a quiet holiday, like she said. He could go back and have his dinner at the hotel – he was starting to feel ravenous, despite the scones – and drive back quietly to Salford after a good night’s sleep. She would never have to know.

Or perhaps, argued the suspicious inner voice he had come to hate, she had gone to leave a note to arrange a meeting? Perhaps he should wait just a bit, to be sure.

‘Dad?’ Steve Donaldson called as he opened the door of his father’s house. ‘Are you not wanting your tea?’

The hall was dark; he stepped forward to grope for the switch and his foot touched something on the floor, something soft. He was already saying, ‘Dad! Dad! Are you all right?’ before he managed to put on the light.

Steve fell to his knees, put his hand on his father’s chest looking for a heartbeat, but the glazed, wide-open eyes had told him immediately that he wouldn’t find one.

He stood up shakily and went to the phone. ‘Josie? It’s my dad.
He’s had a heart attack. He’s dead.’ He listened for a moment to her exclamations, then said, ‘No need for 999. There’s dozens of the buggers down in the village. I’ll away down and get someone there.’

The incident room had been set up in the disused church, as the only building both large enough and empty. Despite the space heaters that had been brought in, the grey stone walls bloomed with a sheen of damp and it had a dank, fusty smell. The old pews had been taken out and sold as smart hall furniture long ago, and with the harsh temporary lighting concentrated around the desks and tables that had been brought in, the gothic arches of the roof were hidden in gloom and the people moving about cast flickering shadows on the walls. Old churches accumulate their own particular atmosphere but once the prayers and praise have stopped the emptiness creates an ambience of its own.

Even with the rumour of sandwiches available, Campbell hesitated on the threshold, reluctant to step inside. Macdonald gave him a shove in the back.

‘Hieland sensitivity’s one thing, keeping me from my tea’s another. If there’s a ghoulie or a ghostie makes a move on you, I promise to arrest him.’ Then, as Campbell gave a reluctant grin and stepped inside, he added in a sepulchral voice, ‘
Just stay out of the shadows, that’s all
.’

Fleming was making a phone call. ‘Louise? You left a message to call you.’ She listened, then said, ‘I agree it’s reaching a bit, but at least it’s a new approach. We’ll kick it about a bit. Thanks.’

Macdonald stepped forward as she finished her call. ‘Boss? Wanted a word about Calum Findlay. No answer, but the car’s outside the house. We looked in the downstairs windows but couldn’t see anything apart from the mother who’s – well, you know, not all there, crying and carrying on. He could be upstairs, avoiding us. There’s no
sign of him around, we checked he’s not at the pub and apparently he doesn’t have friends in the village he’s likely to be with. I think he’s got important stuff to tell us – do we force an entry?’

‘Hmm,’ Fleming was saying, when MacNee interrupted.

‘Crying and carrying on, did you say? Well, boys, it’s your duty to rescue the poor old soul, isn’t it?’

Macdonald grinned. ‘Right enough,’ he said. ‘Angels of mercy, us. Come on, Ewan. Ewan!’

Campbell was at the far end of the chapel where there was an urn and a food tray; he was holding a pork pie in one hand and a bag of crisps in the other. At Macdonald’s summons, he put down the crisps reluctantly and crammed the pork pie into his mouth. ‘Coming,’ he said indistinctly.

Before they could leave, Steve Donaldson appeared, in a condition of obvious distress. All heads turned, and a silence fell as he said, ‘I’m … I’m needing someone up at my dad’s house. He’s dead.’

There was a freeze-frame moment, then Fleming was at his side. ‘Sit down, Mr Donaldson. You’re clearly shocked. What’s happened?’ She clicked her fingers and a uniform brought a chair forward.

Donaldson sat down heavily. ‘Heart attack. He was just lying there, in the hall. The doctor warned him last week about forgetting to take his pills.’

There was a collective sigh of relief. Fleming said gently, ‘Take your time, but we’ll get someone up there with you to sort things out when you’re ready. Do you want a cup of tea?’

Donaldson shook his head. ‘My wife’s up there with … with him. I better get back.’ He got up again and at a nod from Fleming a female constable came forward and took his arm.

‘Must have been a terrible shock,’ she was saying as she led him out.

Fleming sank down on to the chair he had vacated. ‘Phew! I thought we’d another one on our hands for a minute there.

‘Right, you two. Go and see if you can collar Findlay. If he’s in the house, arrest him for obstruction – I’m not amused by people who think they’re playing hide and seek.’

As Macdonald and Campbell left, she looked up at MacNee, and put a hand to her head. ‘There was something I was going to discuss, but that’s put it right out of my mind. What on earth was it?’

‘Why don’t you grab another of your “power naps”?’ he suggested. ‘You’re not muckle use if you can’t think straight.’

Fleming grimaced, then yawned. ‘You could be right. Ten minutes, and I’ll be fine.’

She staggered slightly as she stood up and MacNee watched, shaking his head, as she found a quiet corner and shut her eyes.

Cal Findlay stood by the front door, listening intently. Could someone still be lurking out there, reckoning he would make a move? He should wait, say, ten minutes, until he could be sure that any watcher would surely have had to move or make some small sound.

Ten minutes seemed interminable. He began to worry more about how soon they might come back, and he risked it after seven, slipping out of the house, pressing himself against the wall, holding his breath.

No sudden movement. Nothing – except the hit of the frosty air. As he breathed again, a cloud of condensation formed and there were ice sparkles on the drive under his feet. The trouble was, he had to go along the lighted main street to reach his objective. Going over the back would involve hills, fences, boggy ground – and time. The clock was running.

They might be on the lookout for him. On the other hand, apart from the officer who’d interviewed him, no one would know what
he looked like, and as he reached the street he saw a man he knew walking along. That would be good cover, so he speeded up to catch him and fell into step.

‘Off to the pub?’ he said.

‘Aye. Plenty to talk about tonight, eh? Have you heard the skeleton’s Drew Lovatt? And they’re saying Matt’s to be arrested for it tonight – that’s why there’s so many polis around. You wouldn’t think a man could do that to his own father.’

‘No,’ Findlay agreed hollowly. ‘No.’ He stiffened as they reached the old church, light spilling out from its leaded panes; a generator van rumbling away in the gateway to the graveyard. The car he’d seen in the afternoon was parked just outside. If they came out now …

The door remained shut, and when he glanced casually over his shoulder he saw only Steve Donaldson coming along, looking as if he was in a hurry. There was, though, he saw as he approached the pub, a police car in the car park with a uniformed officer inside.

He didn’t seem much interested, as they walked past. On the threshold, Findlay stopped and slapped his hip pocket. ‘Damn! Left my wallet behind.’

The man beside him grinned. ‘Fine excuse, eh? Och well, I’ll stand you a pint. You can do the honours tomorrow.’

It wasn’t easy to look suitably grateful. ‘Thanks for the offer,’ he managed, ‘but I’m owing Georgia. She was short of change last time and she put it on the slate. I’d better go back in case it turns out to be a long night.’ How long it would be, his companion couldn’t begin to imagine.

The man shrugged and went in to the pub. Findlay waited a moment, then turned left instead of right. Glancing back towards the church, he saw two men come out, one tall dark man, the other with hair that glinted red under the street lamps. He knew the dark
one, and he knew where they were going. He hadn’t left a moment too early.

There was the track up to the chalets now. He was starting to feel sick, and his knees felt shaky. He braced them as he crossed the road and started to walk up, his hands clenched into fists so that the nails bit into his palms. There was no room for weakness now. He knew what he had to do. There was no other way.

Eddie, dozing in his car, heard the sound of the bolts on the gate and came awake immediately, with a groan. He was frozen stiff; he couldn’t leave the engine on for more than a few risky minutes at a time and it was deathly cold.

That was the second gate. He sank down in his seat once more, but now it was dark he risked peeping above the dashboard. There was the sound of approaching footsteps, and then someone appeared, silhouetted by the glow from the street lamps below. He was tall, slim, fit-looking and he walked as if the steep gradient was level ground.

He looked all the things Eddie wasn’t. A dry sob escaped him, and he bowed his head. He’d known there must be somebody. What other explanation could there be? It was what he’d wanted to do – find out the truth. He’d wanted that, and now he’d got it. They always said you should be careful what you wish for.

Crushed with misery, Eddie tried to think. He’d always told himself he didn’t care what she did, as long as she came back to him afterwards. After all, her past had never worried him, as long as he was in her present.

Right from the start, though, this time had been different. She had covered her traces so that he couldn’t find her. She’d stopped speaking to him on the phone. And now he’d seen the man, he couldn’t think why she would want to come back to him – fat, balding, aging Eddie.

He could go up to the chalet right now, confront them, discover the worst. But then the slim chance that Elena would return once this had played itself out, return for the money, the luxury he could give her, would be totally gone.

He could go up and just look, though, try if he could see what was happening – but being caught as a peeping Tom would finish everything.

No, Eddie simply didn’t have the courage. He’d wait here a little longer until he was sure the man was staying, then he’d drive back to the hotel. At least it would be warm there, even if he did feel as if the temperature outside wasn’t the worst of it.

It was a beautiful, beautiful night. Elena Tindall stood by the picture window of the chalet, looking down over the charming little bay, its curve marked by the string of street lamps. The sea was inky, mysterious, with a silvery surface sheen and above glittered the diamond points of stars and the pale, thin crescent of the new moon. The sky was a deep, soft blue-black; she’d had a silk velvet evening dress once exactly that colour.

And there was the island, no more than a dark shape, but when she looked at it she could see its details in her mind’s eye as if it were clear as day. When she arrived, she’d hardly been able to look at it. Now – ah, now!

She had been right all along. She had known what she needed to do to quieten the demons that had raged inside her. She held up the glass she was holding and challenged them now. Nope! Not a sound. The voices that had tormented her, day and troubled night, for almost thirty years were silent now. As she brought the glass to her lips, her chunky silver bangle slipped back and she noticed the healing scar across her wrist. She wouldn’t need to resort to the little silver knife
in future. She was – invincible, that was the word.

Elena sipped at the vintage Cristal, frowning a little at the contrast between the cheap glass and the delicate golden sophistication of the champagne. It tasted good, though – or perhaps that had something to do with her own exultant mood.

The bottle had come from Eddie’s cellar, for her private celebration afterwards. It was perhaps a little premature to open it, when there was still one more little thing to do, but she wanted to sip it slowly over the evening, savour it. And anyway, what she still had to do would be a sort of treat in the middle, before she came back and finished the bottle.

She’d been a good girl, doing the bread-and-butter stuff first. What was left to do would be like eating not just the cake, but the big, delicious cherry sitting right on the top. Elena gave a little giggle as she thought of it.

It was amazing what you could see from this vantage point. For instance, she had seen Matt Lovatt being escorted back from his fire-wrecked house and into the pub, and then the badged car, clearly there to protect him, station itself in the car park. It was disappointing: she’d had it all worked out for tonight before that, and it would be annoying to have to wait. She’d been looking forward to the champagne.