Carrion Comfort

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Hard to say.’

  Francesca Curran was on the sofa in her mother’s sitting room, painting her nails on the low table in front of her. Her mother had taken away the coffee tray since there was still no sign of Gabrielle.

  She was beginning to think there really might be something wrong with her sister after all. She’d been weird last night, hardly able to finish a sentence and with Mum and David trying so hard to cover up and pretend everything was fine. Even Malcolm had noticed and come over all professionally soothing like he did when he’d some patient that was losing it.

  It gave her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. What if Gabrielle had inherited her grandmother’s gene for early dementia?

  Francesca had been in her teens when it started, when Granny got – well – random. Then it had happened hideously quickly, the deterioration from being smart and self-sufficient to being bewildered and helpless. She’d been scared of her – no, not scared exactly, more so embarrassed it was painful and she’d go to ridiculous lengths to avoid so much as looking at her. She felt ashamed of that, but if Gabrielle went the same way and if it ended up that they were all having to look after her she wasn’t sure she’d cope any better now.

  And Gabrielle’s granny was her granny too. What if Fran started losing the plot herself?

  She had finished painting her nails and waved her hands to dry them. She didn’t really know why she’d bothered; it was her day off but all she had in prospect was going out to lunch with her mother and sister – how sad was that? Suppose she did start forgetting things and getting all withdrawn like Gabrielle, suppose she too had some awful twilight zone ahead of her, without ever having had a proper life, a lover, children – it would be so cruel! Her eyes filled with self-pitying tears and she dashed them away hastily as her mother came back into the room.

  ‘Gabrielle’s on the way. She slept in, I suppose. She just seemed worn out last night. I promised David we’d try to cheer her up today, try to take her out of herself. Sometimes you’re not really as kind as you might be, Francesca—’

  The old feelings of resentment flared up. ‘Why is it always about Gabrielle?’ she cried. ‘Am I supposed to nanny her? All she needs to do is rest and stop stressing. Can’t Malcolm give her a prescription?’

  Lilian sat down on the sofa beside her and reached out to take her hand. Fran drew back with a yelp. ‘No, no, they’re not dry.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ She let her hand drop, but she leant forward to look her daughter in the face. ‘Francesca, I think you need to understand. Gabrielle isn’t – isn’t really well at all. She’s not just forgetful, she’s doing odd things too. Poor David’s worried sick. She was sleepwalking the other night, went right outside onto the road. And there’s other stuff I know he isn’t telling me. She’s just, I suppose, depressed – well, the fire, and losing the baby so soon after Pat died, you know. But we have to look after her really carefully because I think she’s getting closer and closer to despair. Malcolm prescribed something for her, but David is afraid she isn’t taking it. And you know what can happen with depression …’

  ‘Yes, of course I know. I work in a doctor’s surgery, remember.’ She spoke brusquely. It wasn’t something she wanted to hear: there had been a girl at school with depression who’d gone out and drowned herself and if Gabrielle went and did that, she’d have made sure they all ended up haunted by guilt for the rest of their lives. There was a bitter little voice in her head saying, Typical!

  The room at the hotel Taylor had commandeered was a pokey little office at the back of the hotel and its dispossessed occupant was looking flustered as she struggled to gather up papers from the desk, piling them on top of the in- and out-trays. Taylor was standing tapping his foot and the look she directed at him as she went out was withering.

  Clearly, he hadn’t been exactly tactful but at least he’d been effective. Strang took his place behind the desk and gestured Murray and Taylor to the chairs facing him while he set up his laptop. Taylor slumped down looking sulky, signalling irritation that he should have been tasked to do something he felt was beneath him.

  The chief inspector’s lips tightened. Taylor had a lot to learn but right at the moment he had neither the time nor the inclination to teach him. He gave no sign that he had even noticed.

  ‘You’ve had time to catch up on the reports, so you know the background to the case. I’m aware that the introduction you’ve had has been less than ideal but my original plan for a briefing last night fell through, thanks to an important witness statement that meant I had to spend unscheduled time in Aberdeen – time well spent, as it turns out. So, listen up, because you’re going to have to get on top of this fast.

  ‘I’ve requested a formal statement from the neighbour you spoke to and we’ve had evidence from two teenagers that the body was not in the cottage until the day before it was discovered. We now also have a positive identification of the body as Niall Aitchison.’

  ‘I thought that!’ Murray exclaimed. ‘When the wifey next door said he’d been missing since Saturday—’

  ‘Didn’t take a mastermind to work it out,’ Taylor said, his tone patronising.

  Murray glared. ‘Oh? I wasn’t sure you were with me on that, Sarge.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Strang said flatly, and Murray subsided. ‘Morven Gunn, the woman who came in to make a complaint today, is his sister. She appeared completely unmoved when we told her, said that the people who would need to have the news broken gently were “Curran’s women”. We don’t as yet know who she meant – she made a point of leaving and, in the circumstances, we couldn’t detain her.

  ‘I have information that Patrick Curran’s daughter, Gabrielle Ross, is in Forsich at the moment, suffering from some sort of nervous breakdown. If she is fit to talk to us – which she may not be, from the sound of it – she may be able to tell us who the others are. PS Lothian is getting hold of an address for her.

  ‘Apparently we’re spoilt for suspects. Pat Curran had a drainage business here that went bust after he’d persuaded half the village to invest, whereupon he moved to Aberdeen, set up a new, very successful business but didn’t feel he owed any sort of reparation – which technically, of course, he didn’t. Niall Aitchison was the fall guy, as far as I can make out.

  ‘Background is our problem. According to PS Lothian none of the uniforms involved at the moment have connections in the village. So, we need to find a source—’

  Taylor perked up. ‘Mairi,’ he said. ‘She’s a local lassie. I could go and have a talk with her. I bet she can rattle the skeletons in the cupboards.’

  ‘Good,’ Strang said, and became aware that it was Murray who was now looking less than pleased. Liked to be centre stage, did Murray, but he hadn’t any more time for her sensitivities than he did for Taylor’s. At least Lothian showed no signs of being a prima donna – as yet, anyway.

  ‘You go on and see what you can find out from her then, Kevin. Once Lothian comes back, he can take me to see if I can get an interview with Mrs Ross. Livvy, the uniforms have been out knocking on doors and I think one or two witnesses have stepped forward, so you can sift what’s come in and work out what follow-up is needed. All right?’

  ‘Sir.’ She didn’t move, though, as Taylor got up and went out, only bending down to fiddle with her shoulder bag. Once he had gone, she said, ‘Could I just ask about the body, boss? I read the PM report and it said he’d drowned, but then he was found in that cottage. Do we know why?’

  Strang grimaced. ‘Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Livvy. Why indeed? Now, you’d better get back to the hall and see what you can come up with.’

  It was the old story yet again. She was going to be sidelined, kept away from the heart of the investigation. He must be still holding it against her that she’d screwed up in Skye and now he was going to take a uniform along with him when by rights it should have been a detective. Admittedly, she wouldn’t have seniority and if Strang had taken Taylor instead it wouldn’t have
been any better – worse, in fact. It was maddening enough that he’d come up with a source of local knowledge from chatting up the tea lady while he stuffed his face, when that was where she’d hoped to get an advantage by way of her new chum Craig.

  Taylor had waited for her with a bad grace and drove off to Forsich almost before she had shut the door. ‘What were you saying to him after I left?’ he demanded. ‘Get it straight, Murray, I won’t have you undermining me.’

  ‘Perish the thought, Sarge,’ she said sweetly. ‘Your name wasn’t even mentioned.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he grunted. ‘Anyway, you can sit in while I interview Mairi. Got her tongue hung in the middle, that woman – I should be able to get some useful stuff. Watch and learn, Murray, watch and learn.’

  At the hall they found Mairi more than ready to abandon her post and be drawn into a corner to dish whatever dirt she could come up with.

  ‘You can take notes, Constable,’ Taylor said. ‘Mairi knows all about everyone here. Don’t you, pet?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Mairi said, giving Murray a wink. She was a cheerful-faced middle-aged woman who looked as if she had embraced the principle of ‘one scone for you, one scone for me’ in her working life. ‘What I could tell you about this place would make your hair curl, right enough.’

  She beamed as she settled back in a chair, crossing her arms across her ample stomach and preparing to enjoy herself. ‘Hope you can write fast, dearie.’

  ‘Just watch me.’ Murray got out her notebook. Before Taylor could say anything, she asked, ‘Would you know who were “Curran’s women”?’

  Taylor bridled, but before he could say anything Mairi was off. ‘Curran’s women? It’s a bit of a funny way to put it, but there’s his daughters, Gabrielle and Francesca. Kind of fancy names, but that’s Lilian all over. That’s their mother – maybe you could say she was one of Pat’s women, though of course he wasn’t good enough for her. The minute the new doctor came she was all over him like a rash. And he couldn’t believe his luck – she’s a bonny-looking woman if you can take the highfalutin ideas that go along with it.

  ‘But maybe you’d still call her one of Pat’s women too, despite being his ex. He left his mark, did Pat. He—’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Taylor interrupted.

  It stopped the flow. ‘Oh, he just … did,’ she said lamely. ‘You know, he was kind of a character …’

  Murray looked up from her notes to step in before he could mess up further. ‘Lilian and Francesca – do they both live here?’

  ‘Well, of course!’ She seemed astonished at Murray’s ignorance. ‘At Dr Sinclair’s house. He’s got the surgery there and Francesca’s one of the receptionists – and a right sour-faced besom she is too. Told me I was wasting the doctor’s time when all I needed was exercise, as if it was any of her business.’

  Viewing Mairi’s comfortably upholstered figure and double row of chins, Murray conceded that Francesca was probably right, but plain speaking seldom won you friends.

  As Taylor said, ‘So there’s three of them, then,’ Murray spoke across his statement of the obvious. ‘What about the other daughter – Gabrielle?’

  Taylor was going red with irritation. ‘Murray, can I remind you that you’re here to take notes, not to conduct the interview?’ he said, but Mairi, having been offered a juicy topic, was off again.

  ‘Well, now you’re asking!’ she said. ‘She was the one went with her father after the divorce. Like as two peas in a pod – tough as old boots, the pair of them. At least, that was her till he just dropped dead, like that. And then she’d a bit of bad luck down in Aberdeen – I’m not right sure what it was, but she’s back here and some kind of not well, they’re saying. Not the best place to come, to be honest – her and her father’s not popular around here.’

  ‘Now that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,’ Taylor said firmly. ‘Can you pin that down for me – who was involved, what was their problem?’

  Murray groaned inwardly. Could the man not see that she was going to give him the answers to his questions if he just let her talk on, and probably some answers to questions he didn’t yet know needed to be asked? Mairi liked telling it her own way, and now she was struggling to try to fit what she had to say into the template he was imposing.

  From where Murray was sitting, she had a view of the hall door and as it opened she glanced up. Strang came in and it was obvious from his face, and the way he let the door swing back behind him to slam shut, that he wasn’t pleased. Like a schoolchild, she had an automatic guilt reaction, but a rapid review of her recent behaviour didn’t throw anything up.

  He marched across. ‘It seems that DI Hay needs PS Lothian this afternoon. He’s given me directions for the address I wanted so I’m going there now. Oh – I’m sorry to interrupt, madam.’

  He must be in a temper. It looked as if he’d only just realised they were in the middle of an interview. Now he looked from one to the other.

  ‘DS Taylor, you’re conducting this, right?’

  Taylor could see what was coming. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘DC Murray could—’

  Strang went on as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Once you’ve finished, carry on with the review we mentioned. Murray, you’d better come with me. You can take your lunch break later.’

  He stalked off with Murray trotting in his wake, trying to keep the smirk of satisfaction off her face.

  Strang drove along the Forsich high street in silence, his expression grim. He was aware of Murray at his side glancing at him nervously once or twice, but he didn’t trust himself to speak. PS Lothian had been both annoyed and embarrassed about being called back: it was clear this was a quite unnecessary summons and merely part of a power play by DI Hay.

  ‘I’m really sorry, sir,’ Lothian had said. ‘One of the lads must have told him I was taking you round and my boss thinks this should all be done by your guys.’

  ‘That’s not quite the situation now. I can overrule him but that would put you in a very awkward position, wouldn’t it? You still have to work with him when this case is over.’

  Lothian looked relieved. ‘Well, I suppose …’

  They had left it like that, but now Strang really was thrown back on the team that Angie had sent up – and he’d have words with her about that when next he saw her. Taylor was a useless barrel of lard and Murray – he didn’t trust her. She’d landed him in a situation before where he’d been forced, if not exactly to lie, certainly to peddle a cynically spun story. He hadn’t liked doing that and he hoped never to have to do it again. On the other hand, she wasn’t stupid, and she had the sort of lively curiosity that made for a good detective.

  She and Taylor had embarked on a turf war, so he’d have to balance up the tasks to keep the peace. If one of them decided to make a complaint about insubordination and the other one complained of sexism, he’d have no energy left to investigate Niall Aitchison’s murder.

  Murray stole another glance at him and tentatively cleared her throat.

  He seldom stayed angry for long. ‘Yes, Livvy?’ he said.

  ‘It’s just, well, I think I know who Curran’s women are, boss.’ She repeated what Mairi had said and he listened with interest.

  ‘Shouldn’t be hard to find the doctor’s house. We can head over there after we’ve talked to Mrs Ross − if she’s at home. Kevin seems to have got some useful stuff out of Mairi.’

  Murray bridled. ‘Actually, it was—’

  He didn’t let her complete the sentence. ‘It was his idea to talk to her, and his interview. Right?’

  Murray drooped. ‘Yes, sir.’

  They drove in silence again, along past Mowat’s farm. They were right out in country now, moor and bogland stretching on either side with not a house in sight. Strang had just begun to wonder if the directions were right when Murray said, ‘Oh, that must be it.’

  The house she was pointing to had plastered walls painted white, though not recently from the looks of it. There were rust stains aroun
d the drainpipes and the paintwork was blistered in places. Perhaps its inherent ugliness – a two-storey box with windows and a door poked into it in the style of a child’s drawing – had made it unloved. It certainly looked it.

  Strang parked outside and they stepped out into the clammy heat. Opposite the house on the other side of the road there was only blanket bog, a landscape of muted greens and browns under a wide, wide sky. The sun was glittering on pools of stagnant water spiked with rushes and bog cotton and as they looked a huge, iridescent dragonfly drifted languidly across.

  Murray shuddered. ‘I hate insects. You can hear them all the time here and there’s just clouds and clouds of flies over there. How could anyone live here? It’s … creepy.’

  Strang laughed. ‘Not really a country girl, are you? Doesn’t speak to me, either, though I can see it’s got a sort of bleak beauty. Anyway, we may not like it but presumably Mrs Ross does.’

  There was no car outside, which wasn’t encouraging. There was no bell by the front door; Strang knocked, then after a moment knocked again, louder this time. There was still no response.

  ‘Out or just not answering the door?’ Strang walked round to the back of the house while Murray cupped her hand on the glass to peer in the windows, then followed him.

  ‘Can’t see anyone, boss. Furniture’s pretty sparse – no pictures or anything.’

  ‘It looks as if it hasn’t been regularly occupied. The garden’s running wild and the decking’s starting to rot. No sign of anyone in the kitchen, either. Pity. I daresay we’d better leave it for the day.’

  They were walking back to the car when Strang noticed that a little further on there were what looked like drainage trenches, long parallel lines of heaped-up soil, dried out now in the sun.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘It was a drainage project that caused all the trouble with Pat Curran. Maybe that’s why this house is here, out in the middle of nowhere.’

  He walked on down the road. Wide tracks, deepened into ruts by some kind of agricultural machinery, led to smaller tracks and paths out along the drained land, but water had seeped in again and had pooled at the bottom of the trenches. There was a small plantation of trees still in their protective tubing, but they looked stunted and sickly; several had fallen over and been stripped of their leaves – deer to blame, most likely.