Carrion Comfort

by Aline Templeton

  Murray did as she was told, but as Ross was escorted through the hall she stepped forward to intercept Hay. ‘Sir, I think there’s some things you should know about this.’

  He glared at her. ‘While I may not have enough experience to be considered competent to investigate a case of murder, I have ample experience of domestic violence – thirty years of it – and it has trained me to recognise it when I see it. He’s a plausible-looking fellow and it’s easy for someone as young as you are to be taken in.

  ‘And perhaps you can inform the DCI that this has nothing to do with him. I am still in charge of local affairs and I will be handling it.’

  ‘But, sir, I think it’s linked to Niall Aitchison’s murder.’

  ‘When I want your opinion, Constable, I’ll ask for it and you may have to wait a good while. You can give my officer a lift back to the station.’

  When they had gone, the constable looked round about him helplessly. ‘How’m I supposed to secure it? Haven’t any crime scene tape or anything.’

  ‘Just lock up and take the key in to DI Hay,’ Murray suggested. ‘I’ll write a note to put on the door.’ There was a big question mark over whether it was legal to deny Ross entry to his own house, but it looked as if details like that didn’t bother Hay a lot.

  As she drove back to Thurso she tried to pump the constable for information, but he was a stolid young man and his most revealing admission was that Hay was a pretty tough boss.

  Then she had waited in the foyer. And waited. Eventually she had asked at the desk when she might be able to speak to DI Hay and was told to make an appointment for the following morning. She was in a thoroughly depressed state when she phoned DCI Strang.

  After the drink with his sister Kelso Strang had gone home to the fisherman’s cottage by the harbour in Newhaven. He was tempted to go along to the nearby pub for a meal, but he’d eaten so much junk food lately that instead he went across to the fishmonger’s by the harbour. He liked to cook, and he’d savoured the sea bream with chilli lime butter, eaten by the window looking out towards the sea. The peace of the silent house was soothing; it was only occasionally now that he felt oppressed by its emptiness.

  He was worried about Fin but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment and his mind turned inevitably to the investigation. He spent some time working on the press statement; when he was as satisfied with it as he was likely to be, he sat back and looked across the Forth, past the slim white column of the lighthouse at the end of the pier to where the lights on the Fife shore were just starting to come on in the dusty rose of gloaming. The rain sweeping across Caithness hadn’t reached this far south and it was a pleasant evening. A good view to think to.

  When he had been talking to JB about Chris Brady, he’d been aware that there was something he had subconsciously registered. He’d assessed the man as both unprincipled and, if necessary, ruthless – an obvious suspect. Yet he’d felt he wasn’t, somehow. Why?

  The answer came to him suddenly – of course, a man like that would have called in his lawyer at once if he’d anything to hide, yet he hadn’t. And there had been something else he’d noticed too, later in the interview. It was irritating him now – what had it been?

  That was when the phone rang. He listened in dismay as Murray poured out the story. He assured her there was nothing more she could do except get something to eat and go to bed.

  Now he had his own phone call to make. JB would not be happy. She had summoned him because she was fussing about the PR slant for the press statement and the result had been that it was shaping up to be a disaster that wouldn’t have happened if he’d been on the spot. Having to tell your boss that she’d got it badly wrong wasn’t a comfortable position.

  DCS Borthwick was still at her desk, though it was well after ten o’clock. She sounded weary and the silence that followed his report was eloquent.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he offered nervously.

  She gave a sigh. ‘No need. I’m justly punished – management by media reaction is bad management. I’m in your hands over this, Kelso. I can make time and come up tomorrow myself, but would that make things better or worse?’

  It was at times like this that Strang realised how fortunate he was in his boss. ‘Let me check out the situation first,’ he said. ‘If you can authorise a chopper for 6 a.m. I can be up there before anything further happens. If Murray’s right, Hay’s making a terrible mistake and I may be able to get him to see that before real harm is done. Checking out the husband in a situation like this is standard, but from the sound of it he’s handled it very badly. The main problem may be to stop Ross going to the newspapers—’

  Borthwick gave a short laugh. ‘There we go again, being jerked around. The trouble is, we can’t afford to ignore it. Yes, of course – I’ll put the authorisation through now. Do you want more manpower up there?’

  Strang paused to think. ‘Again, let me see how things stand. It all depends on the poor woman’s condition – not good, according to Murray. I certainly have a prime suspect for the attack and we may get that wrapped up fairly quickly.’

  ‘That would take a lot of the pressure off, certainly. Is it too much to hope that we might be able to kill two birds with one stone?’

  ‘Mmm. “Blessed is he who expecteth nothing for he will not be disappointed,”’ he quoted, and she laughed.

  ‘Isn’t that the truth! Thanks, Kelso. I’ll wait to hear from you.’

  Strang ended the call with a mixture of relief that he wasn’t being hung out to dry and concern at what would be facing him tomorrow morning. He put in a call for a taxi at five and went to bed, hoping that the soldier’s gift of falling asleep whenever the opportunity offered was still operational.

  It was almost midnight when David Ross was dropped off at Caithness General Hospital. Hospitals at night were strange places, without their bustling daytime atmosphere. Empty corridors loomed dark and empty on either side as he went through to the ward they had indicated. Not intensive care, then. He had thought it possible she might not even be there, but airlifted off to Inverness or even Aberdeen.

  When he reached it, a sympathetic nurse directed him to a small waiting room. ‘The doctor’s with her just now but he’ll be in to speak to you shortly and then you’ll be able to see her. Her mum’s here already.’

  Ross had phoned Lilian while he was waiting at Hay’s pleasure to be interviewed. She was alone in the room and jumped up to embrace him. ‘You poor boy! You’re looking absolutely shattered!’

  He hugged her back. ‘God, what a nightmare,’ he said. ‘Oh, Lilian …’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Sit down, love. Malcolm’s here – he’s just gone to get some coffee from the machine. He’ll be back at any moment—’

  The door opened as she spoke, and Sinclair came in carrying two plastic cups. ‘Looks revolting,’ he said, then, ‘Ah, David! They’ve let you go at last – what a shocking thing!’

  He nodded. ‘How is she?’

  ‘I’ve had a chat with the registrar. Not as bad as it looks, apparently. You can go in to see her in a bit. They’ll be monitoring her closely tonight, of course, but they seem to think no lasting damage, though concussion’s a funny thing.’

  Lilian looked anxiously at her son-in-law. ‘What happened? Malcolm was asking me for the details and I had to tell him you were too upset to explain.’

  Sinclair sat down beside Ross and handed him one of the coffees. ‘Here, take mine. Not sure I fancy it, anyway. So – she’d been attacked when you got back home?’

  Ross shuddered. ‘Lying there against the fireplace, head all bloody. There’d been some kind of a struggle and her face had been scratched. There was a ruddy great bruise on her forehead too – the Gunn woman had obviously hit her again once she was on the ground. Probably thought she’d killed her.’

  ‘Ah well, tough cookie, Gabrielle,’ Sinclair said heartily. ‘Chip off the old block.’ Then, encountering a look from his wife, he added hasti
ly, ‘Sorry, darling. Didn’t mean to be flippant. But she’s going to be all right, you’ll see.’

  ‘But don’t the police understand?’ Lilian said to Ross. ‘How could they possibly imagine it was you?’

  ‘God knows,’ he said bitterly. ‘The man was deaf to reason of any kind. I told him I could prove the time I got back but he just paid no attention – and now I’m locked out of my own house, apparently. And without a car.’

  Lilian leant forward and took his hand. ‘That’s outrageous. You’ll come home with us, of course, dear.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sinclair echoed. ‘And we’ll get a complaint in first thing. Pity we don’t have a chief constable any more. I knew the last one and he wouldn’t have stood for this sort of nonsense.’

  ‘No control at all now, that’s the problem,’ Ross said. ‘Mind you, the girl who arrived just after I did – the PC—’

  ‘Murray,’ Lilian supplied. ‘What about her?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure she was trying to tell him it wasn’t me. And I’m not worried, not really. As long as Gabrielle’s all right, she can tell them herself.’

  ‘Always supposing she remembers,’ Sinclair cautioned. ‘With head injuries, you know …’

  ‘She was unconscious when you found her, though? She wasn’t able to say anything?’ Lilian asked.

  Ross shook his head. ‘Thought she was dead.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘How soon can I see her? I have to say, I’m ready to get my head down.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Lilian said. ‘Malcolm, can’t you hurry them along a bit?’

  Sinclair got up. ‘See what I can do.’

  But just then the door opened, and a nurse appeared. ‘Mr Ross? You can see your wife now, but we’re keeping her very quiet and she’s sedated at the moment. Just a look in – don’t talk to her.’ Ross followed her out.

  Lilian gave a little sigh. ‘I’d have liked to see her too. She is my daughter, after all. And I’m just wondering whether the head injury will, well – tip her over. You know how bad it’s been. We may have to be braced for that.’

  Sinclair put his arm round her. ‘No need to assume the worst yet, so let’s not worry about it now, my love. You need your rest too. Tomorrow will be a difficult day.’

  ‘It will unless the police manage to get their act together and arrest that dangerous woman,’ she said sharply. ‘Gabrielle may have been lucky but poor Niall wasn’t. Who’s she going to go for next?’

  There was a brisk east wind blowing but at least it wasn’t raining as DC Murray waited on the helipad at Dounreay for DCI Strang’s flight to arrive. She’d been roused at an hour she preferred to approach from the other end and she was shivering; it was hard to believe that only a couple of days ago she’d been wearing short sleeves and still feeling sweaty.

  It clattered in just before six-thirty and they were on their way to Thurso ten minutes later.

  ‘It’s the only way to travel,’ Strang said. ‘No in-flight refreshments, though. Is there anywhere that might be open?’

  ‘There’s a wee caff in one of the backstreets does breakfast from seven,’ Murray said. ‘Went there yesterday when I couldn’t face the hotel breakfast. I could murder a bacon buttie now.’

  ‘Make that two, and don’t hang about.’

  ‘Blues and twos?’ she said innocently.

  ‘Don’t tempt me! But on the whole, I think waking up the entire town might be a mistake.’

  ‘Do you know how Gabrielle is, boss? That’s a wee bit crucial.’

  ‘It certainly is, for all sorts of reasons. I called the hospital this morning and they’ll be taking her for a CT scan today. They’re fairly satisfied with her, though.’

  ‘When I saw her last night, I reckoned she’d had it, to be honest.’

  ‘Assuming they’re right, it’s assault not murder. And unless we can link it to Aitchison’s murder that’s DI Hay’s territory.’

  ‘Even if he’s got it backside foremost?’ Murray was indignant.

  He smiled. ‘Tact,’ he said. ‘Wading in with all guns blazing won’t help. Oh, is that your caff now? Looks promising.’

  The cafe was still quiet, and they had no difficulty in finding a discreet corner table. As their coffee arrived and the tempting smell of frying bacon filled the air, Strang said, ‘Right. What have we got?’

  Murray waited for him to go on, but it seemed he was waiting for her. She assembled her thoughts. ‘Right – we can’t get in to the house. It was locked up and DI Hay will have the key. He’s planning to send them in for fingerprints first thing but that probably means after nine.’

  ‘You saw it last night so you’re my eyes. What would I be looking for, if we could?’

  She screwed up her eyes, trying to visualise it. ‘Evidence of a struggle. There was a table knocked over – and now I think of it, there was a rug wrinkled up as well. The rest of the room was fine.’

  ‘Any sign of a weapon?’

  ‘Not lying on the floor or anything. Usual stuff in the room that could be used, probably, but nothing looked to have been disturbed and you’d hardly put it back neatly – more likely chuck it away outside.’

  ‘Are you reading it as an assault, then a further spur-of-the-moment attack?’

  ‘Yes. Say it was Morven Gunn, OK?’

  ‘For the sake of argument.’

  ‘She’s been bottling everything up. She arrives at Gabrielle’s, loses it completely. Morven goes for her, shoving her over and clawing at her face. Gabrielle falls. Morven’s still in a rage, grabs whatever comes to hand then hits her on the head. Gabrielle’s unconscious. Morven probably thinks she’s dead – I did at first, right enough. She scarpers.’

  She looked at Strang for approval. He was studying her, his elbows propped on the arms of his chair and his chin on his hands. He said only, ‘So what do we do first?’

  ‘Pay Morven a surprise visit?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll square it with DI Hay later. Well, I’ll do my best. If all else fails, pull rank.’

  The bacon rolls arrived and Strang stood up. ‘We’ll take these with us. Let’s go.’

  DI Hay had summoned an uncharacteristically early meeting, calling in detectives with crime scene experience from Wick along with PS Lothian and another couple of uniforms. He was definitely twitchy.

  ‘This is one we have to get absolutely spot on, lads,’ he said. ‘Their fancy SRCS hasn’t done much about the murder – let’s show them how it’s done with a good old-fashioned squad. Maybe that might get them to bring our team back up to strength.

  ‘The woman’s going to be all right, fortunately, otherwise we’d have Strang muscling in. Lothian, I want the room searched and fingerprinted first thing – not that I think we’ll find anything except Ross’s prints, and he’ll claim they don’t prove anything. Concentrate on what he might have used as a weapon – that constable obviously disturbed him, and he can’t have had much time to cover his traces.’

  ‘Sir,’ Lothian said, ‘should we check his alibi first? He claims—’

  ‘I know what he claims, Lothian,’ Hay snapped. He harboured dark suspicions about him – far too keen to dance attendance on Strang. ‘We’re going to do this right.’ He turned to one of the detectives. ‘I want you waiting at the hospital to interview the woman the minute she’s fit. We could have this wrapped up before nightfall.’

  Lothian was looking unhappy. ‘Isn’t there anyone else in the picture, sir?’

  Hay glared at him. ‘If, when she comes round, the woman says she and her husband are happy as the little birds in the trees and he didn’t touch her – I said “if” – then we’ll look further afield. Not that I’d necessarily believe her,’ he added darkly. ‘When you’ve had as many years’ service as I have you’ll know how many wives refuse to admit their husbands laid a finger on them. So, you don’t take the first answer. Sometimes not even the second.’

  The sergeant subsided. ‘So, after we’ve checked the room—?’

  Hay looked taken
aback at the question. ‘Well – do that first and then we’ll take stock. Depends what you find. And if that DC comes whinging around, send her away with a flea in her ear. Same goes for Strang – only make it polite or he’ll go and clype to headquarters.’

  He looked round the room. ‘So, what are you waiting for? Get out there, and I’ll be along shortly.’

  Francesca Curran woke up with a start, as if something had prodded her into wakefulness. It took a moment but then she remembered: she had gone to bed last night not knowing whether or not Gabrielle would survive the night. Yet she had slept soundly; were the Sinclairs still out at the hospital?

  She got up and went to her bedroom window and looked down. Yes, there was Malcolm’s car, so she must have slept through them returning. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? She flung on a dressing gown and went out of her flat onto the top landing.

  There was the sound of someone walking across the hall below and she looked over the banister. Malcolm had just come from the direction of the kitchen and was going to the surgery door. It must be quite late; she hadn’t set her alarm. She shrank back out of sight. He’d been a bit short with her about not going to work but the news about Niall’s will would be all over the place by now and she couldn’t stand the thought of being there at the desk with everyone looking at her and talking about her behind her back – making fun of her, no doubt. She’d never been popular.

  Once the door had shut, Fran went on downstairs in her bare feet. She was feeling almost dizzy with her inner conflict. How would she feel if they told her Gabrielle was dead; Gabrielle, with whom she had warred for so long; Gabrielle, who had thwarted her dearest hopes? Did it make her a bad person that it crossed her mind that David would be a widower? Yes, of course it did. She banished the thought and went across the hall to the kitchen. She could hear the low murmur of voices; someone must be with her mother – David, maybe? No one was, well, crying or anything.