Lying Dead (41 page)

    ‘I’d love to talk it through with you – might help to clear my mind, which is feeling like a junk shop where everyone has parked bits of furniture they don’t want any more. But I’ve no idea when I’ll finish tonight. I have to go off to Drumbreck now—’

    ‘Look, you pass my door. Come in on the way back and have a cup of coffee.’

    ‘I’ll have to look in on my mother first, but I’d like that. I could get to you around six, say. I’ll call you if I’m running late.’

    Talking to Laura would be a good idea. Even if she did have something going with Jon Kingsley, she was reliably discreet and she had a talent for seeing clearly what Marjory, too close to the action, had missed. She just had this feeling that she was constantly being deflected in her thinking: whenever there was a lead to follow, another seemed to appear, turning her back and bouncing her off in a different direction. Smoke and mirrors, as she had said to Bailey.

    The answer was, as ever, to keep going, to plough away at the routine. But in this case, where they had as yet no definite list of suspects even, relying on the process of elimination could take months and Bailey’s patience was running out already. This was when you had to think, and think hard, to come up with the angle that would link it all together. She certainly hadn’t managed that so far.

    She had just got up to go when the ‘ping’ of an incoming e-mail brought her back to check it. Reports were coming in fast at the moment; she’d read them later, but if it looked urgent she’d pick it up before she went.

    It was another message from DCI Chris Carter. She sat down again, and opened it.

    It was short, just, ‘How’s it going? Has Tweedledee come up with anything? And how about the dreaded Susie? I want the next instalment. Chris.’

    She reached for the mouse to click on ‘Reply’. It would be therapeutic to tap into the sympathy and understanding she knew she would get from him.

    Therapeutic, and dangerous. No, if she needed therapy, she had Laura. She took her hand off the mouse again. Tiffs and squabbles got resolved, and blew over, if you let them. And if there wasn’t an alternative.

    She’d reply to Chris tomorrow, when she wasn’t feeling quite so bruised.

Chapter 20

There was no one around. Drumbreck had suddenly become a ghost town, with houses blank-faced and empty-looking and hardly a car in sight. There had been several occasions, on the last stretch where the road was single-track, when Marjory Fleming had had to duck into a passing place as cars drove out, often in convoy: Dad in front in the BMW or Mercedes, Mum and the kids behind in the Chelsea tractor. When she reached the Yacht Club and got out, blinking in the bright spring sunshine, there were just two or three cars she didn’t recognize as police vehicles, and out in the bay she could only see a couple of sails. There wasn’t even any sign of a Press presence.

    She went into the deserted Yacht Club, past the bar with its shutter down and on to the area which had been converted into an incident room, with three tables surrounded by screens for interviews and one with a couple of phones. The Force Civilian Assistant who was manning them was filing her nails and DC Wilson was sitting on the edge of one of the tables, swinging his legs and eating a sandwich as he talked to a bored-looking PC.

    ‘Was it something you said?’ Fleming asked, and Wilson grinned.

    ‘Either that or a problem with personal freshness that no one’s liked to tell me about, boss. It’s been like this all morning. The exodus started about ten. Tam came in half an hour ago and said he’d walked right round the bay, ready to knock on doors, but he’d only found a couple of families still there, and they were packing up.’

    ‘Any joy from them?’

    Wilson shook his head. ‘According to Tam, you’d think they’d agreed what to say. Totally shocked, terrible thing for his wife and child, but of course they’d barely known the man himself and hadn’t set eyes on him for days. They were only leaving early to have the weekend to get the kids ready for school on Monday.’

    ‘He’s probably right. A chat over drinkies the night before about the party line, shouldn’t wonder. Where’s Tam now?’

    ‘Across at the Murdochs’ house with the team going through his effects.’

    ‘Right.’ Fleming surveyed the empty room. ‘I have to admit, it’s disappointing – I’d been naive enough to think that all these public-spirited people would have been queuing up to pass on any information they thought would help.’

    Wilson snorted. ‘Public-spirited, until the polis start asking awkward questions about them and their little chums, and then they scarper faster than a kid on a stolen moped.’

    ‘So nothing useful come in here at all?’

    ‘There’s a couple of our lads in the marina office, looking through the books and papers,’ the PC offered, and Wilson added, ‘The staff were here earlier, but there was nothing doing at the marina and the sailing lessons had been cancelled, so after we’d taken their statements they shut up shop and went home. There was to have been a kids’ disco this evening but that’s been called off, and there was no other trade so the barman’s given up and left as well.’

    ‘Had they anything to say?’

    Wilson pulled a face. ‘Bit vague. The instructor girl – fit wench, Murdoch obviously knew how to pick them! She said she’d spoken to him round five when she finished a class. He was outside the boat shed holding some tackle but she didn’t know what he was doing with it – taking it to a boat, probably – and she didn’t think she’d seen him after that, but couldn’t be sure. The barman thought he might have seen him in here around eight, but couldn’t swear it wasn’t the day before. The guy who’s the other instructor and the one who works on the boats saw him around in the afternoon but couldn’t recall when.’

    ‘And no one noticed a boat coming in at the end there, any time after seven?’

    ‘You wouldn’t see it, unless you had a reason to go past the boat shed and round the corner to those end pontoons. The staff said it’s always pretty quiet between six and eight – kids back home for their tea and adults changing for the evening. Maybe someone might have noticed something as they passed if they were coming in from sailing after seven, but all the owners who don’t live nearby have gone back to Glasgow or other points north, so we’ll have to track them down if we want to find out.

    ‘We did try to get a list of yachties they’d seen around that afternoon, but that wasn’t realistic – just too many comings and goings.’

    Fleming was, as she had said, disappointed. She’d expected to have a problem with too much information, not too little, and she sighed. ‘So – not much point in this set-up, then, is there? I’d better arrange for it to be taken out again. I’m going across to the Murdochs’ to talk to her and I can find out when they think they’ll be finished there – and the lads in the office as well. Mmm.’ She looked round, contemplating the hole this would have made in the budget, and noticed Wilson’s sandwich. ‘Where did you get that?’ she demanded. ‘I could do with a bite of lunch.’

    ‘They delivered a box – there.’

    He indicated, and Fleming was sorting through what was on offer when Tam MacNee appeared.

    ‘Saw your car, boss, so I thought I’d check in before I went back to HQ. Not much doing here. The McConnells have gone – at least, when I went round he had left and she was packing up the 464 by herself and swearing.’

    Fleming had found a ham sandwich. ‘Any luck with Mrs Aitcheson?’

    ‘Closer than a clam.’ MacNee joined her to investigate the box, coming up triumphantly with a bag of salt and vinegar crisps. Between crunches he told her that he suspected the cleaner had been given her orders by Lafferty. ‘When I said I was going to speak to her, Gina got a bit antsy, but he wasn’t fashed about it. Anyway, Euphie, as her friends don’t call her, would only say she’d nothing to add to what she’d said in court and implied that the lovely Gina was pure as the driven snow and anything else I’d heard was just lies. If you ask me, she’ll give Brian laldie for what he said to me when she gets home.’

    ‘And what about the Laffertys themselves?’

    MacNee frowned. ‘Hard to get a handle on that. Stated they were together all evening, and I was inclined to believe them – as we said before, Lafferty wouldn’t necessarily need to soil his hands. But he was prepared for every question I asked him. I wouldn’t gasp and fall over backwards if you told me he’d plenty practice talking to the polis.

    ‘He admitted Murdoch was owing him money. He’d borrowed from the firm to buy the sheepdog at a daft price – £5000, would you credit it? And here’s me with a couple of dogs at home I’d pay you to take away. But I believed Lafferty when he said the cash wasn’t an issue. Maybe the principle might be, but there seem to be a lot of folks round here who think £5000’s small change.’

    ‘All right for some,’ Wilson said with some bitterness. ‘If they’d like to give it to me instead, I could buy a boat and be down here every weekend. And still have change to get the wife a new handbag.’

    MacNee had finished his crisps and was tipping the packet up to get the last of the crumbs when the phone rang. They all jumped; the FCA, who had rapidly stopped her manicure when the DI arrived, answered it and scribbled down a message, which she handed to Fleming.

    She read it. ‘That’s interesting. There’s a licensee in Whauphill – you know, around six or seven miles on the road to Port William – and he says he had Davina with a man in his pub last week. Saw her photo on the telly and recognized her.’

    ‘Right.’ MacNee was quick off the mark. ‘I’ll cover it.’

    ‘Toss you,’ Wilson offered. ‘I’m fed up, sitting here.’

    ‘No, no, laddie,’ MacNee said. ‘Too much excitement’s bad for the young. I’m sure there’s a report you could be writing. Or maybe you could borrow a nail file.’

    Fleming stepped in. ‘Will, you take it. Tam, you can come with me to talk to Mrs Murdoch. How’s the team getting on at the house?’

    ‘Hadn’t found anything significant when I left, but they’re still going through the personal things. Macdonald was hoping to get permission to check out the computer later – he understands these things. I don’t think he reckons they’ll be long.

    ‘He said the daughter’s been to and fro all morning, away out calling for the dog, then coming back in tears. You’ll be telling her it’s safe, will you?’

    ‘Just check that one out for me, if you would,’ Fleming said to the FCA. ‘DC Kerr or DC Kingsley – doesn’t matter which. Ask if they can confirm that Findlay Stevenson had Moss.’

    Wilson was putting on the denim jacket that had been draped over the back of a chair, ready to leave.

    ‘Have you Davina’s photo?’ Fleming asked. ‘Just to make sure the man has it right.’

    ‘There’s one here,’ the PC said. ‘There’s one of Murdoch too – do you want that as well?’

    Wilson shrugged, but took it anyway, and left with the air of a man anxious to escape before something happens to stop him.

    ‘Ma’am,’ the FCA said, ‘DC Kerr says Stevenson has admitted stealing the dog and he’s been arrested and charged. And she asked me to say, “What do you reckon to Susie?” and that DC Kingsley’s following it up.’

    ‘Susie?’ Fleming said blankly. ‘What does she mean?’

    ‘That was all she said.’

    ‘You’d better call her back,’ MacNee advised. Then he said, ‘Hang about. I see what she’s getting at.’

    ‘Oh—’ She looked aghast. ‘Surely not!’

    ‘You can’t get involved, whatever. Leave it to Jon – he’ll do what’s needed. You’re going to see Mrs Murdoch, remember.’

    ‘Yes, of course,’ Fleming said mechanically, but her mind was neither on the interview ahead nor on the likelihood of Susie Stevenson’s guilt. She could only dread the domestic reaction to the sort of interrogations that lay ahead.

‘Mrs Murdoch, first of all, may I say that we’re very sorry for your loss. We’ll do our utmost to bring the killer to justice as soon as possible.’

    Jenna Murdoch nodded, but did not speak. They had tracked her down to the new flat after Fleming had checked with Macdonald for progress – none so far. Jenna had been painting; it seemed a curious thing to do at a time like this, but people had different ideas about what constituted therapy. She had led them down an uncarpeted flight of stairs into a shabby sitting-room with an unlived-in feel.

    ‘Can I take you through the events of the past few days?’ Fleming went on. ‘I do appreciate this may be distressing for you, but—’

    ‘No, carry on. You have a job to do.’ She seemed quite composed.

    ‘You last saw your husband when?’

    ‘After breakfast he left the house. He didn’t come home for lunch and then he phoned to say he wouldn’t be in for supper either.’

    ‘Did you notice what sort of mood he was in?’

    ‘He’d been in a bad mood for the last bit – the trouble with the dog, perhaps, I don’t know. But he wasn’t so bad the last day or two, and that morning over breakfast he was almost cheerful. It wasn’t like him, actually.’

    ‘Why did you think that was?’ MacNee asked.

    ‘I didn’t think about it really. Probably if I had I’d have assumed he’d a new girlfriend.’ She looked at them challengingly as she said this, but MacNee didn’t follow it up.