Feeling almost physically battered by the onslaught, terrified that the outcome would be what it had so often been in the past with his violent father, Katy shrank back instinctively against the wall of the kitchen. When the door suddenly burst open and Rob appeared she gave a sob of pure relief, despite having told him as usual to leave her alone to deal with her son.
Nat was a well-grown lad but Rob was a big man, thickset and powerful. He was wearing a polo shirt which didn’t conceal the muscles of his chest and upper arms, painstakingly maintained with weight-training, and with his black beard and thunderous expression he was an intimidating figure.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded. ‘Don’t you dare speak to your mother like that! If you think you can bully her because you’re bigger and stronger than she is, just remember who’s standing at her back.’
Nat, cut off in mid-flow, shrank back in his seat, licking lips that were suddenly dry as he recollected other confrontations with a dominant male. ‘If you lay a finger on me, I’ll shop you,’ he whined, eyes narrowed in hatred for his mother’s husband.
Anderson looked down at him contemptuously. ‘I wouldn’t soil my hands. I’ve kept out of this until now because I agreed that your behaviour was to be your mother’s business. But she’s my wife now, and by treating her like that you’ve made it mine.
‘You’re living under my roof and I’m going to spell out what that means. You’re civil to your mother, for a start. You behave decently at school. And if you so much as touch her car keys again, I call the police, whatever she says.
‘Those are the rules. And if you don’t like them, you can go back to your father. As I recall, you didn’t much like living with him before.’
That touched a raw spot. When his mother, fearing for her life, had left, Nat had chosen to stay. But the family home rapidly grew squalid; there was never any food in the house, or money to buy it with unless Nat managed to nick some from his father before he spent it down the pub. Then, without his mother to act as a punchbag, it was Nat himself who came in for the drunken beatings . . . And it could be a good life with just his mother, if it wasn’t for the bastard standing over him, waiting for him to speak, to submit.
Well, he wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. He pushed back his chair and got up, then with a final defiant stare went out of the kitchen and slammed the door.
Katy burst into tears. Rob went over and took her in his arms, patting her soothingly as if she were a frightened child. ‘I don’t know if I’ve made things better or worse,’ he said ruefully. ‘But I meant it, Katy. We’ve tried it your way – waiting for him to come round to me while I look a total prat – and he resents me like fury anyway. He might as well have something to resent me for.’
She was still shaking. ‘It was like one of his father’s rages. I really expected him to come and hit me. I know it’s not working, trying to be non-confrontational and understanding – it just makes him despise me. But Rob, you wouldn’t really send him back to Dave, would you?’
Rob sighed. ‘No, of course not. But maybe I could see if they still have a press gang in the Naval Recruitment section. A spell below decks would do him a power of good.’
Tam MacNee took up his position on the mat, his eyes half-shut in concentration, drew back his hand, then with elegant precision launched the dart to finish the game with a double top.
There was a roar of applause from his fellow-members of the Cutty Sark’s darts team and its travelling support from Kirkluce, as Tam sealed their victory over their counterparts in the Anchor Inn. It was a long-standing fixture, played alternately in these two salubrious venues, and the Anchormen, as they called themselves, had been four up over the series; Tam’s efforts for the Cutty Sark’s Warlocks, demonstrating delicate judgement and a fine restraint unknown to his namesake Tam o’ Shanter on a much earlier festive occasion, had at least done something to reduce the shameful deficit.
The group gathered around the darts board to watch the solemn presentation of the original pound note wagered on the first game, now framed so that it could hang in a place of honour behind the victors’ bar. Gradually they drifted off into smaller groups, talking and guffawing as the air grew thick with smoke and the jugs of beer had to be filled up with a regularity which Katy Anderson, in charge of pulling it, swore would leave her with a sore shoulder tomorrow.
Tam turned aside to pick up the pullover he had stripped off for that final throw. It had been knitted for him by Bunty and he took it to every darts match as a sort of mascot, even if the darts board on the front – a real labour of love and a serious challenge even to a knitter of Bunty’s redoubtable skill – made it sit oddly with his usual sartorial style, which was understated to the point of being laconic.
He was enjoying the evening. It had taken his mind off the problem at work, the first time he’d really fallen out with his boss. He and Marjory went back a long way; he counted himself a friend of the family and had shared many a pleasant wee bevvy down the pub with ‘the hardy son of rustic toil’, as he liked to call Bill. He’d watched uncomfortably last year as the stress of Marjory’s position as a police officer in a hostile farming community took its toll on her marriage and admired Marjory’s toughness, even when, he suspected, she was hurting badly – still was, to some extent, if you asked him. She always got a wee bit tight-lipped when you asked her how things were at the farm.
He’d been friend enough, on a good few occasions since she made rank, to tell her bluntly to her face when there was a problem brewing that was of her own making, and however little she might have liked it she’d been big enough to be grateful. This was the first time he’d ever felt she’d joined the management side, playing bloody stupid games instead of coming at him straight. He didn’t like it, and he’d resented her suggesting he’d have been heavy-handed in his dealings with an English colleague. Even if it was true. OK, especially if it was true, but he didn’t want to think about that now.
A pint was thrust into his hand as he rejoined his teammates, responded to the usual witticisms about ‘banging up’ the opposition, ‘nicking’ the prize and even (from a solicitor who was no slouch with the arrows himself) ‘causing alarm and fear to the lieges’, then slid quietly away. He was looking for someone: spotting his quarry, he moved in.
‘Willie!’ he said, positioning himself with a neat and unobtrusive flick of the shoulders next to Willie Duncan, member of the defeated Anchormen and cox of the Knockhaven lifeboat. ‘Haven’t seen you since the last time we lined up on the mat. How’re you doing, pal?’
Duncan, perched on a high stool in the farthest corner of the bar, shifted uneasily. With the wall to one side and MacNee on the other, there was no escape. ‘Fine, Tam, fine,’ he said weakly.
‘Here – you’re not the man you were with the arrows, are you? I mind you had us by the short and curlies last time.’
The group Willie had been part of was still talking, but its focal point seemed somehow to have shifted. MacNee put his elbow on the bar now with an apparently casual movement which effectively pinned Duncan into his corner. This was piling on the pressure, and he could see his victim start to shift uneasily on the bar stool.
Willie looked down into his beer. ‘We all have our off days.’
The bloodshot eyes hadn’t escaped MacNee. ‘Don’t expect you care as much as you used to, Willie? Don’t expect you care about anything all that much these days? Money, maybe, but not a lot else.’
It was with a visible effort that Willie made himself sound angry. ‘Here, what are you saying, MacNee?’
MacNee gave his trademark, mirthless smile. ‘You’re feeling pretty mellow right now, eh, Willie? Well, get this – when you’re thon way, your judgement’s shot to hell. Suppose that pager in your pocket there goes and you’re on a call for the lifeboat. Suppose it’s a wee thing tricky out there. Suppose you’ve other folks’ lives hanging on your reactions. Still feeling mellow, Willie?’
The shutters came down
. ‘You’re daft, MacNee. Daft or drunk. Don’t know what you’re havering about.’
‘Aye, do you!’ MacNee’s reply was as swift and sharp as his winning dart. ‘Dead men on your conscience, Willie. Think about it.
‘Get this.’ His tone changed. ‘We can turn a blind eye to the occasional joint. But you’re not a fool – you know as well as I do the other stuff that comes with it. You know who brings it in and where it comes from. And there’s lads out there having their lives ruined, lads you’d have had on your boat if there was any fishing left. Don’t think I don’t see why you want to put up two fingers to the system – I’m with you on that, but this isn’t how to do it. Who is it, Willie? Between ourselves – no one has to know. Just a name, that’s all. I only need the end of the thread.’
Tam could smell fear and he knew he was on a loser. ‘I don’t know what the hell you think you mean,’ Willie blustered. Then he got off the bar stool, pushed MacNee rudely aside and rejoined the group, leaving Tam to grimace ruefully. Then he shrugged, finished what was in his glass and went in search of the man with the beer jug.
‘How’s Daisy?’ Bill Fleming demanded, handing his wife a heavy cut-crystal tumbler with half-an-inch of Bladnoch whisky in the bottom. She was sitting in her usual place at this time of night, in the low-ceilinged sitting room which ran from front to back of the Mains of Craigie farmhouse, her long legs curled under her in one of the deep, comfortable armchairs that they were always talking about replacing with something less shabby but somehow never did. Apple-wood logs – almost the last from the old tree in the orchard they’d had to cut down last year – were crackling in the fireplace, scenting the room with their spicy smoke, and Meg the collie, liberated from the cares of motherhood, lay stretched out in front of it, not quite asleep but with her eyes half-closed in blissful relaxation.
Marjory laughed. ‘Oh dear! I don’t think Laura quite understands. She had Daisy in her bed last night – not just on her bed, but cuddled up with her under the blankets.’
Bill wasn’t amused. ‘She can’t let her get away with that! If she doesn’t start the way she means to go on she’ll have a delinquent dog on her hands.’
‘Don’t think I didn’t tell her. Daisy was having a wonderful time when I saw her, on and off the chairs, racing round the furniture when Laura tried to catch her. And of course Laura thought it was terribly funny that she was so cheeky.’
‘And her a psychologist!’
‘Only human. I don’t think her training extended to dogs. I had a little word with Daisy myself and she was a bit chastened after that. I’ve told Laura she’s to leave her in the kitchen no matter how she screams and I’ve told her I’ll be able to tell from Daisy’s behaviour whether she’s done it or not. And I’ve also told her she’ll have you to answer to if she ruins the dog.’
‘Good. I suppose if the worst comes to the worst we can bring Daisy back here for a bit and Meg’ll knock some manners into her.’ Meg, at the sound of her name, raised her head.
‘Look at that, now you’ve upset her. She’s been revelling in her regained freedom.’ Marjory took a sip of her Scotch. ‘Laura’s good about people, though. You know I told you about this new man, Jonathan Kingsley?’
Bill nodded. ‘And you were worrying about how to handle Tam.’
‘Right. Well, I tried to do it in a jokey way, and all I managed to do was put his back up. I was telling Laura, and she thought joking about it might have put the whole thing in the wrong context. If I’d said to him that this guy was going to be an important member of the team and I was worried about how other people might react, I’d have been more likely to get him on side.’
‘We-ell.’ Bill was uneasy. ‘He’s the one who was going to be the biggest problem – we all know that. Isn’t what Laura’s suggesting a bit underhand?’
‘Manipulative, anyway,’ Marjory agreed. ‘It’s a damning word, but isn’t that what management has to be about? The humorous approach was manipulative too, it just wasn’t successful.’
‘So did she have a suggestion for what would work?’
Marjory sighed. ‘20/20 hindsight’s easy, but it’s never as simple as that, is it? It was a help to talk it over with Laura but where you go from where I am now—’
‘If all else fails, you could try saying you weren’t straight with him and you’re sorry.’ Bill finished his whisky and got up abruptly. ‘I’m just going to do the rounds. You’ve shut in the hens, haven’t you?’
With Meg, galvanised into activity, at his heels, he went out, leaving Marjory to stare into the fire where the logs were burning away to ash. That was all she needed – for the man she loved and the woman who had become her good friend to be at odds. But then, of course, it was notoriously hard to forgive someone for doing you a huge favour.
Bill still wasn’t the cheerful, easy-going fellow he had been before the foot-and-mouth epidemic had taken its toll. He was better, much better, so that a lot of the time she could convince herself that everything was back to normal, very nearly. But perhaps ‘normal’ meant something different now, and tonight Bill had almost sounded jealous. And perhaps, since he had always been her confidant and adviser, she had been insensitive in admitting that she had another counsellor.
Marjory sighed. Somehow she’d managed to upset the most important man in her personal life and the most important in her professional life at the same time. Not a good day. She finished her drink, barely tasting it, and got up. The room felt cold now and it wasn’t entirely due to the dying fire.
Anyway, she’d have to see to it that Laura got a grip on training Daisy. Bill would never forgive her if she spoiled a good dog.
4
A breath of fresh autumn air gusted into the reception area of the Galloway Police Headquarters as Marjory Fleming swung open the door on her way into work. It was well into October now and a clear, cold morning with a strong wind blowing and the brown and russet leaves, lying in deep drifts on the pavement outside, were being snatched up to dance in crazy spirals.
She nodded curtly to the desk sergeant and the young constable on duty behind the counter, then headed for the stairs to her office, the heels of her plain, low-heeled court shoes clicking briskly on the tiled floor.
PC Langlands, looking after the tall retreating figure of the DI, now taking the stairs athletically two at a time, pulled a face at Sergeant Naismith. ‘Who’s stolen her scone? Big Marge is usually cheery enough unless she’s on the warpath. And I’ll tell you who else is going round looking like a wet weekend in Rothesay – Tam MacNee.’
Naismith, with fifteen years of police experience, not to mention a fair few Scotch pies, under his expansive belt, was always a reliable source of station gossip. ‘Ah well, you see, there’s this English lad just come as a DC, one of those fast-track, high-flyer types out to make a bit of a splash, no doubt, and show us teuchters where we’re getting it wrong, so Marge has her knickers in a twist about that, seemingly. And Tam’s fallen out with her – he’s not saying why but he’s called her “ma’am” twice in Macdonald’s hearing.’
‘Bad as that, eh? Heavy stuff. Best keep our heads down till it blows over then.’
The sergeant gave the benign nod of a teacher with an apt pupil. ‘Oh, you’re learning, laddie!’ Just as he spoke, the outside door burst open again on a savage gust of wind and a flurry of dead leaves was swept in. He tutted.
‘See that woman – she’s never shut the door properly behind her. Away and close it, Sandy, and try and hoosh those leaves back out. The wind’s fair getting up out there.’
Detective Constable Tansy Kerr, standing uneasily in front of the DI’s desk, bit her lip and studied the twizzled laces of her deck shoes. Under her urchin-cut hair, tinted dark red with a blonde streak at the front, her naturally pale skin was a shade or two paler than usual. ‘Yes, ma’am, sorry, ma’am,’ she mumbled.
‘As somebody said to me once, Kerr, “Damn your sorrow, just don’t do it again.” You weren’t on top of the facts
of the case when you went into the witness box and the defence agent had you for breakfast. There’s the Fiscal snorting flames and we’ve got Hughie Fowler back on the streets. Not only has the cost of a court case been wasted, it’s going to cost police time to bang him up again when he commits his next offence, which should be any minute now. Anything you want to say?’
Tansy Kerr swallowed. ‘No excuse. I was just careless. Sorry.’
Fleming’s stern expression relaxed a fraction. ‘All right, Tansy. We all understand that sort of mistake can happen. Once. Now get back to the coalface.’
‘Thanks, boss,’ she said fervently, and went out. With the door shut behind her, she collapsed against the wall just as PC Macdonald appeared, coming along the corridor escorting a good-looking, fair young man in a city suit.
‘Phew!’ Kerr said. ‘I got out alive. Do the teeth marks show?’
Andy Macdonald grinned. ‘Only round the jugular. This is Jonathan Kingsley, the new DC. Jonathan, Tansy Kerr.’
She regarded him with some curiosity. There had been quite a bit of talk about him in the CID room, with Tam MacNee noticeably tight-lipped. He looked a bit of a stuffed shirt but that was maybe just the suit. They shook hands.
‘Well, good luck,’ she said as Macdonald knocked on DI Fleming’s door. ‘Maybe now Big Marge has had her fix of blood she’ll be sweetness and light.’
Looking at the young man waiting to be invited to take a seat with an air of calm self-possession, Fleming could understand why the ACC, a susceptible lady, had been impressed.
Jonathan Kingsley. His CV was on the desk in front of her: age twenty-six, school in Derbyshire, good degree in chemistry from Edinburgh University, three years’ police service. He’d had an early success, playing an important part in busting a drugs ring by going undercover and passing himself off as a student.
It wouldn’t have been difficult. He looked much younger than his years, being slight and fair, with a sharp-featured, intelligent face; his grey eyes were, at the moment at least, cool and watchful. There was something about the set of the mouth she couldn’t quite read – arrogance, cussedness perhaps? The smart suit he was wearing looked expensive and she could only hope this was in honour of his interview with her. He’d stick out like a sore thumb if he went around here looking as if he was trying to find a Starbuck’s.
The Darkness and the Deep Page 5