Lying Dead (33 page)

    ‘I think you’ll find I can. And if you don’t co-operate I’ll have you for resisting arrest as well.’ She turned away.

    ‘Wait – wait a moment. I’m – I’m sorry.’ From the colour of his face, framing those words might bring on apoplexy. ‘I’m Ronnie Lafferty. Niall Murdoch was my partner. Naturally I’m upset.’

    ‘Naturally.’ Fleming’s voice was icy. ‘You can tell us all about it back at the station.’

    ‘This – this is . . .’ He seemed lost for words, perhaps having appreciated that those which had clearly sprung immediately to mind were unwise. ‘No one treats Ronnie Lafferty like this!’

    ‘It’ll be a steep learning curve for you then, Mr Lafferty.’ She allowed herself to show amusement. ‘Now, let me explain. We can do this two ways. My officers can take you out in handcuffs – which will, of course, give rise to all sorts of unfortunate rumours in Drumbreck – or you can walk out freely to the police car, a public-spirited citizen helping police with their inquiries. The choice is yours.’

    Again, the effort to control himself seemed to be taking a physical toll. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this sorted out and drop this nonsense. I’m happy give you any help I can—’

    ‘Good. I look forward to hearing what you have to say. Later.’ Fleming jerked her head to the waiting constables and walked away.

    She didn’t turn her head until she was sure he would not see her do it, then checked to see what had happened. He was walking ahead of the two policemen, pausing now and again to speak to people in the crowd.

    ‘Putting his spin on it,’ Wilson observed.

    ‘Seen sense, anyway.’ Fleming was grimly satisfied.

    ‘You certainly spelled it out for him, boss.’ Kerr, who had been talking to the constable on duty with the log, was amused.

    ‘Ah, Tansy! You’re not here just to watch the sideshows, you know. We need the dirt on Davina and with so many of the natives handily gathered here you can start getting names and asking questions.’

    ‘See you at Christmas,’ Kerr said, assessing without enthusiasm the numbers involved.

    ‘Andy will be back in a minute. He can help. And I’ll review the situation once we know more about McLeish. I can always call in Jon and Allan if we need back-up.

    ‘I’m just going to go across and have a look at the site of the fire. When the pathologist arrives, send someone to fetch me.’

    Fleming walked past the now-thinning crowd in front of the Yacht Club, which seemed to be doing good business today, then headed along the road which skirted the bay towards the Murdochs’ house.

    There were no signs of activity outside it; the fire investigators must have done their job and gone. She had almost reached it when she became aware that there was someone hurrying after her, and turning round she saw a plump boy with spectacles and dark frizzy hair, about thirteen or fourteen, perhaps.

    ‘Did you want to speak to me?’

    He surveyed her. ‘They said you were who’s in charge?’ he said rather doubtfully.

    ‘Yes. DI Fleming. And your name is—?’

    ‘James Ross. Is it right Mr Murdoch’s been
murdered
?’ he asked, with definite relish.

    ‘It may simply be an accident. It’s too early to say.’

    He looked crestfallen, and she added, following an instinct which had served her well in the past, ‘But was there something you wanted to tell me anyway?’

    ‘Yes. You see, I’m sure he was murdered. And I can tell you who did it, too.’

    She recognized the type. He’d always be the one who sought out the teacher to drop the culprit in it, the school sneak. ‘If you can, James, that might be a great help to us,’ she said gravely.

    His eyes gleamed. ‘His daughter. Mirren.’

    Startled, Fleming said, ‘His daughter? You think she killed him?’

    ‘She said she was going to.’

    ‘And when was this?’

    ‘At the sheepdog trials – you know? Her father was in it with a dog called Moss.’

    She did indeed know, but she had forgotten the connection with Niall Murdoch. As he talked about it, it all came back to her clearly: Murdoch’s humiliation, his unpleasant display of anger with the dog.

    ‘You see, Mirren said he was being cruel to it, and he was going to kill it if it didn’t get it right. And she said, if he killed it, she would kill him. Lots of the kids heard her. She’s completely mental when it comes to animals.’ He had an expression of smug satisfaction.

    ‘And did he kill it?’ This sounded to her just the sort of thing kids said; if they always carried out the threat hardly a day would go by without a child in the dock for patricide. Or matricide, depending on who had said no to clubbing till three in the morning.

    ‘He was going to. She told me yesterday afternoon. There wouldn’t be much point if you waited till after he’d done it to kill him, would there?’

    ‘Do you not think that might be a bit extreme?’

    He picked up her scepticism and flushed. ‘Not with Mirren. She’s like that. But anyway, the dog lived in that shed that got burned up last night in the fire. So it’s dead anyway.’

    No one had told her that. Fleming glanced towards the ravaged shed with some dismay. ‘That’s very sad.’

    ‘Yeah, well.’ James shrugged. ‘So she probably did it for nothing.’

    ‘There are a lot of other things to consider. And as I said, Mr Murdoch’s death may well be an accident. But thank you very much for your help, James. Do you live near here?’

    James indicated a house across the other side of the bay and when she said that if they needed a statement from him, someone would come to take it, he smiled self-importantly. ‘Oh, you will!’ he said, then strutted back to a group of teenagers who, Fleming saw, had been watching their conversation with some interest.

    Not a taking child. Sneaks, like the invaluable police grasses whose information was vital to the clear-up rate, weren’t attractive people, but no doubt in schools they had their uses too. Still, somehow she didn’t think she’d be seeing him as star witness in the trial of Mirren Murdoch.

    But the poor dog! Miserable with its final owner, and then such a ghastly end. She walked into the yard to look at what remained of the shed. She could only hope that Findlay wouldn’t hear the details; he’d loved the animal.

‘Strachan, Macrae and Ingles’. They still had his name on the plate by the door, which surprised Tam. Perhaps they just hadn’t got round to doing something about it; that would figure, with lawyers.

    His warrant card produced raised eyebrows and a silent ‘Oooh!’ from the young receptionist, who then looked thoroughly confused when he asked to speak to Mr Strachan.

    ‘You can’t. He’s dead!’ she blurted out, with a helpless look over her shoulder to the older woman sitting at a desk behind her who rose and came over. She was fresh-faced and neatly and befittingly twinsetted.

    ‘Mr Strachan was the founder of the firm,’ she explained. ‘Mr Macrae is now the senior partner – perhaps you would like me to find out if he could see you now?’

    ‘Fine,’ MacNee said. He had a problem with twinsets; their owners usually seemed to expect all police officers to wear a collar and tie.

    The receptionist, at a nod from her colleague, picked up the phone. MacNee was about to turn away when the other woman spoke. ‘This is to do with Mr Ingles, is it? I just want to tell you he’s done nothing wrong. He’s worked here since he qualified, and he’s a kind, gentle, decent man. The last verdict was a miscarriage of justice, and now it’s going to happen all over again, isn’t it? It’s wicked, wicked!’ There were tears in her eyes.

    She sounded so fierce that MacNee was positively relieved when the girl said, ‘He’ll see you now,’ and got up to lead him through.

    The firm of Strachan, Macrae and Ingles was housed in the main square in Wigtown and Macrae’s office was high-ceilinged, with an elaborate fireplace and moulded cornice. The furniture, though, was surprisingly modern and there was a computer on the desk.

    The man who got up to meet him was just what MacNee had expected – a stuffed shirt, and it was an expensive-looking shirt at that, thick cotton with collar points which lay absolutely flat. Tam found, on the occasions when Bunty forced him into a shirt, that the points always curled.

    Macrae had wiry grey hair and unusually bright blue eyes behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. He did not look particularly welcoming as he waved MacNee to a chair.

    ‘Keith Ingles,’ MacNee said. ‘I wonder if you’d be good enough to give me a bit of background, sir. Did you know he had been arrested?’

    ‘We all know.’ His manner was forbidding. ‘And we heard it with great sadness. If there is anything any of us can do – my colleagues, the staff – which would be helpful to him as witnesses to his good character and probity, then we are happy to do it.’

    A certain closing of ranks was to be expected; this level of enthusiasm was not.

    ‘You think we’ve got the wrong man?’ MacNee asked bluntly and got a wintry smile in reply.

    ‘You’re not one to beat about the bush, sergeant, are you? Yes, you have got the wrong man. Just as you did the last time. Keith could have had no need for a paltry sum like five thousand pounds.’

    It didn’t seem a paltry sum to MacNee. ‘He’d an expensive girlfriend,’ he pointed out.

    Macrae’s lips tightened. ‘Ah yes, Davina. I had to identify her body, you know, along with one of the office staff. She worked here as a secretary – a very indifferent secretary, I may say. Now that was someone who might have found the money
very
tempting.’

    The suggestion was obvious. Decent chaps didn’t do that sort of thing. Blame it on the hired help.

    ‘Come off it!’ MacNee said with deliberate rudeness. ‘There was an eye-witness—’

    ‘Mrs Aitcheson. Oh,
very
reliable!’ The words were loaded with sarcasm. ‘There had been big problems with pilfering from the cloakroom at the Yacht Club and Ingles was asked to tackle her about it. Nothing was proved – though the thefts then stopped – but as you can imagine she bore him a considerable grudge.’

    MacNee didn’t trouble to hide his incredulity. ‘You’re really telling me she’d have lied about the person who nearly killed her, just to land Ingles in it?’

    ‘I know, I know.’ Macrae was silent for a moment, then, leaning forward, he said earnestly, ‘Look here. If Keith had needed money, and were dishonest – which he was not – there were half-a-dozen trusts he administered which he could have bled discreetly for larger sums than that, with very little risk of discovery as long as he wasn’t too greedy.’

    ‘Are you sure he didn’t?’

    Macrae bristled. ‘For the sake of client confidence, we commissioned a forensic audit of every one, and there wasn’t a penny unaccounted for.’

    Very scrupulous. ‘You’ve a point there, I’ll give you that,’ MacNee conceded.

    ‘You’ll say, no doubt, about the murder, that when it comes to a relationship like his with that – that little trollop, you can’t predict how a man will react. But if he did it, in a moment of blind passion, he would confess. And unless he has, you’ve got it wrong. He was set up the last time, and the person you’re looking for is the person who did it.’

    His emotion was such that MacNee almost thought he would see those collar points curl. He left, and could feel Twinset’s eyes boring into his back as he went out of the door.

‘Where is Inspector Fleming?’ Sergeant Christie demanded. ‘I need to brief her on the situation.’

    The crime scene was quieter now: the crowd had mainly dispersed and the owners of boats not within the cordoned area were free to resume normal holiday activity. The detectives, with a couple of uniformed officers, were taking names and statements inside the Yacht Club; the forensic team hadn’t arrived yet and there were three officers on duty by the blue-and-white tapes.

    ‘Over at Rowan Villa, I think, sir,’ one told him, and Christie trotted off self-importantly.

    He found Fleming surveying the blackened debris of the Murdochs’ shed, looking troubled. ‘I’ve just heard there was a dog burned alive in there. Horrible thing to happen.’

    ‘Ah!’ Christie was delighted to find himself in possession of superior information. ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. They sifted right through the rubble this morning, and the fire chief assures me that there was no dog inside. The fire wouldn’t have been hot enough at any time to do more than char the bones and there wasn’t a trace. It must have escaped when the fire started, or perhaps the fire-raiser took pity on the poor brute and set it free.’

    Fleming’s face brightened. ‘That’s good news. Where—?’

    He didn’t let her finish, anxious to proceed to the description of his next triumph. ‘More importantly, we’ve picked up McLeish. He’s only the haziest recollection of his movements last night – I wouldn’t like to guess his blood alcohol count, even now – but it turns out he wanted to buy the flat the Murdochs have been doing up, there –’ he pointed, ‘for him and his pregnant girlfriend. Murdoch laughed at his offer. McLeish sprayed graffiti on the wall on Tuesday – you can still see the red streaks. And now the girl’s broken up with him and yesterday she told him she was getting rid of the baby.’