Lying Dead (52 page)

    ‘Don’t despair. As he’d tell you himself, a dunt on the head’s nothing to a Glasgow hard man.’

    But as she mounted the stairs to her office, it was a quotation from Tam’s beloved Burns that was ringing through her brain:

‘An forward, tho I canna see,

I guess, an fear!’

‘Did you not hear the news about Tam this morning, Greg?’ Tansy Kerr’s question was pointed when Allan appeared at eleven o’clock.

    He looked shifty. ‘Not – not till later on,’ he said, then gave himself away by adding, ‘Anyway, I thought there’d be plenty people here. You don’t look that busy yourself.’

    ‘I’m checking information received to see what needs following up,’ Kerr said stiffly, though in fact it was true; considering how little there was to go on, they now had saturation coverage. She was also frustrated that it was Andy Macdonald at the sharp end, while she processed useless information from members of the public who were no doubt well-intentioned, those of them who weren’t several cards short of the full deck.

    She’d decided unilaterally that she’d go through everything of Tam’s that she could find, every notebook, every scrap of paper. Not that she was hopeful that it would yield much since Tam did a lot more thinking than writing, but at least she could tell herself she was contributing.

    ‘Did Tam say anything to you yesterday afternoon, about a lead he had? Before he went to the Aitchesons’?’ she demanded.

    Allan, busying himself with trying to look busy, shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not so’s you’d notice. I think he deigned to say hello when he came in, but that was as far as it went.’

    Kerr swallowed hard. She really couldn’t afford to lash out at everyone and she was saving herself for the blistering row she was planning to have with that slimy, hypocritical reptile Kingsley. She had almost worked through the pile of messages when the door opened and a custody officer put his head round it.

    ‘Is there an evidence bag here with a needle in it? We took it off a junkie last night. It was downstairs waiting for printing and it’s disappeared. I thought one of you guys might have been detailed to follow it up.’

    ‘Oh no. No one’s been detailed to do anything, except chase their tails trying to find out who had a crack at MacNee last night,’ Allan said with venom. ‘Murder, mainlining, carry on, why don’t you? We haven’t time to worry about that sort of stuff.

    ‘But don’t let me stop you having a look around. Be my guest.’

    It was only the other officer’s embarrassed presence that stopped Tansy Kerr gouging his eyes out there and then.

If Findlay Stevenson had looked bad yesterday, he looked worse today. He hadn’t shaved, and the checked shirt he was wearing looked as if he had slept in it. As perhaps he had, Andy Macdonald thought as he once again followed Superintendent Bailey into the interview room, with PC Langlands bringing up the rear.

    He’d come from a session with Fleming, when she had forced him to be blunt about the Super’s interviewing technique yesterday. She had then been equally blunt about what he had to do today.

    ‘You’ve got to push Stevenson. It’s vital. We could be talking about two murders and one attempted murder here. I’m haunted by the thought that if I’d been grilling him yesterday, Tam might not be in theatre as we speak.

    ‘Maybe I flatter myself. But when you come out of there you’ve got to be able to tell me you know you’ve wrung him dry. OK?’

    Though Fleming’s black eye had faded to sickly yellow and the scratches on her face were less angry-looking, she was so strung-up that he could see her neck cords standing out. He’d never seen her like this before, never known her less than professional about her superiors. But everyone knew that she and Tam went back to the dawn of time, and he promised to steam-roller the man who had police promotion in his gift, feeling that not to promise would leave him in danger of grievous bodily harm.

    Bailey, in his turn, cautioned him as they walked to the interview room. ‘What you must keep at the forefront of your mind, Macdonald, is that this man could be a serial killer. There are two murders we are investigating, as well as this attack on MacNee. It would never do for the public to gain the impression that we are more concerned about the latter. I intend to emphasize that in my broadcast.’

    ‘Then you’d better not let the lads hear you.’ He didn’t say it of course, but one of the things that kept you doing the dangerous job was that any attack on you would mean a fuss out of all proportion to the equivalent attack on Joe Public.

    Bailey led off. ‘Now, Mr Stevenson, we were very grateful for your co-operation yesterday.’

    He paused for breath, and Macdonald cut in, ‘Where were you last night, Stevenson? Because I have to tell you we weren’t much impressed with what you told us yesterday.’

    Stevenson looked shocked, but hardly more shocked than Bailey, whose mouth was half-open, staring at his subordinate.

    Taking advantage of that, Macdonald pressed on, ‘You see, we’ve only your word for it, haven’t we, that you found the bag among your wife’s belongings. And we’ve such nasty suspicious minds that it occurred to us that this might be quite a clever way of shifting the blame. Comment?’

    Stevenson struggled for words. ‘I – I – last night,’ he seized on the concrete question, ‘I left here and went back to the Balmoral Guest House, where I have a room.’

    ‘Straight there?’ Macdonald refused to catch Bailey’s eye.

    ‘Yes. Straight there.’

    ‘And what did you do after that? Go out to eat?’

    ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

    ‘So you claim you didn’t leave your room after – what – seven o’clock?’

    ‘Earlier, probably. I didn’t check.’ Stevenson was looking at him with dislike. ‘I don’t understand – what is this about?’

    ‘Can anyone verify that for us?’

    ‘No, of course not. I hadn’t anyone in my room.’

    That was good; he was getting angry, always useful. Anger meant loss of control. Oblivious now to Bailey, sulking with his arms folded, Macdonald went on, ‘And what is the set-up at the Balmoral? If you leave your room, do you have to pass a reception desk with someone in attendance?’

    ‘It’s a guest house, for God’s sake!’ Stevenson burst out. ‘Of course not! You have to ring a bell to get attention.’

    ‘But you wouldn’t ring a bell, would you, if you didn’t want anyone to know you were going out?’

    ‘Why the hell should I care?’ Anger, tinged now with uncertainty. Excellent!

    Macdonald switched tack. ‘Do you own a dark rain jacket with a hood?’

    ‘A
rain jacket
? I’ve got a green oiled jacket, but that’s all.’

    ‘Can we check your room and your car?’

    ‘If you want – I’ve nothing to hide, but I would like to know what this is all about.’

    ‘Had you any dealings with DS Tam MacNee?’

    ‘MacNee – no.’ It took a second for Stevenson to make the connection. ‘Oh my God! That’s the one who was attacked? You think I did it!

    ‘I didn’t. I promise you that I don’t even know what the man looks like. I had no contact with him at any time. I’m simply bemused by what you’re asking me.’

    Macdonald gulped. In this game, the common currency was distortions, evasions, half-truths and downright lies. Your professional skill was in sifting them for the tiny nuggets of fact which might be, with a certain amount of luck, concealed within them.

    Simple, straightforward truth was different. Contrary to popular belief, when it came your way – which wasn’t often – it was unmistakable.

    ‘Right,’ he mumbled, as Bailey said ominously, ‘Shall I take over, constable?

    ‘Now, Stevenson, we will have to go through your movements on each of the days in question. It will help if you can think of anyone who might be in a position to corroborate any statement you make, and we will of course be instituting a very thorough investigation to see whether accepting your account is contra-indicated.’

    As they went back to the Thursday of Davina Watt’s death, Macdonald was left to his own bitter reflections. Thanks, boss – it could be years before he made sergeant, after this performance.

‘He’s not our man, Marjory.’

    The wait had been interminable, and to get this news at the end of it was another blow. She’d been kept busy with progress reports – or rather, lack of progress reports – but the one useful piece of information that had come in had left her pinning her hopes on this.

    ‘Young Macdonald gave him a bruising, but what emerged was an honest man. No alibis, but no attempt to pretend he did. No sensitivity about Davina Watt – it was patent that he felt he’d had a narrow escape, though from the sound of things it was from the frying pan into the fire. No quarrel with Murdoch either, once he’d retrieved the dog. And before you ask, Marjory – Macdonald agreed.’

    Fleming had never thought him as much of a fool as others did, and she coloured at his knowing look. It was only then that it occurred to her what her demand to Macdonald that he override the boss might have done to his chances of promotion when a sergeant’s job came up – which, please God, it wouldn’t this very day.

    ‘So I think we’re back to considering the wife, don’t you?’

    ‘I’ve had bad news on that, Don. They’ve fingerprinted the bag, and they’ve found Davina’s fingerprints there, and Findlay’s – as of course they would be, by his own account – but there’s no sign of Susie’s. And while she’s not small, I doubt if even in a concealing jacket she’d be mistaken for a man by several people.’

    He hadn’t considered that. ‘No, I don’t suppose she would. I suppose, too, that the fingerprints would point to Findlay again – no knowing when they got there . . . but as I said, Marjory, he struck us all as a transparently honest man.

    ‘Maybe you should rope in Kingsley again. See what he thinks, on the basis of what we have. He’s done well before.’

    ‘He and Greg Allan were responsible for charging Keith Ingles,’ she pointed out sharply.

    ‘True enough. But that was a young man’s mistake – over-eagerness, compounded by his sergeant’s incompetence. I still see Kingsley as a very able fellow.’

    Poor Andy! Fleming agreed hollowly, then, as so often, Bailey surprised her by saying, ‘But young Macdonald, there – good chap, too. Stood his ground, much as you do yourself, Marjory.

    ‘Any more word from the hospital?’

    ‘Not since we heard they were operating. The odds are in his favour for a full recovery.’

    Bailey studied her face. ‘Good odds?’

    ‘Not – brilliant. Two-thirds, one-third.’

    He got up. ‘Better than the other way round. But where do we go from here?’

    The only truthful answer she could think of was, ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ She didn’t think that was tactful.

    ‘Usual lines of inquiry,’ she said, which was code for the same thing.

    It was only after he had left that she remembered she had wanted to question Greg Allan, but by that time he had gone to lunch.

‘Are you remembering about taking Janet to see your father this afternoon, Marjory?’

    Of course she wasn’t. Taken up with her worries about Tam and the hunt for his attacker, personal commitments had gone out of her mind. ‘Oh Bill, I don’t see how I can,’ she said, not allowing herself to consider that the machine could grind on without her to turn the handle, since she was unable to bear the notion of not being on hand for any new development.

    His immediate understanding shamed her. ‘Of course you can’t. I’ll take her – Janet won’t mind.’

    She would, of course, but only a little. Marjory accepted the offer with gratitude and guilt, then added, ‘Why don’t you phone Laura, see if she’d be able to go with you? That would help.’

    Bill’s voice warmed. ‘Of course it would. Actually, she’d probably be much more use than either of us in supporting Janet.’

    ‘Of course she would,’ Fleming agreed heartily. Her emotions, as she put down the phone, were so confused that she was glad when Allan’s knock on the door prevented her from having to examine them.

    ‘Greg, come in. I just wanted to ask you about Tam, yesterday afternoon,’ she greeted him. ‘Tansy said you were in the CID room when he came back from Glasgow.’

    ‘I told her.’ Allan looked positively resentful at having been summoned. She really was going to have to do something about the man, once the immediate crisis was over. ‘He said hello and that was it. Then later he left without saying anything, except to tell Tansy where he was going. Just about knocked her over in his hurry. He’d knocked over his chair already.’

    ‘Really? What was that about?’

    ‘No idea.’

    His bored tone annoyed her. ‘Allan, I shouldn’t have to ask you for maximum co-operation. I don’t feel you’re trying. What was he doing that might have prompted him to leave so hurriedly?’

    ‘How should I know?’

    This wasn’t merely verging on insolence. She got to her feet. ‘Stand up, sergeant. Stand to attention.’