Cold in the Earth

by Aline Templeton

  ‘I saw her going out of her flat once or twice, late, just in her pyjamas.’

  ‘Pyjamas? This was – what, December, January? Where did she go?’

  ‘I never saw. It wasn’t long – she’d head down towards that old maze then be back just a wee while later. Ten minutes, maybe.’

  ‘On her own? Just in her pyjamas? No coat?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you never went out to speak to her?’

  He shook his head violently. ‘So help me God, I never.’

  ‘A pretty lassie, outside alone in her night-things and you never went near her?’

  ‘I knew I should have kept my gob shut!’ he cried. ‘That’s what you’ve been at the whole time, trying to bloody trap me. I never touched her. But you’ll not believe me, will you?’

  MacNee’s smile was mirthless. ‘Oh, don’t let it get to you, laddie. We don’t believe anyone at this stage in the game.’

  Laura stood to one side of her window, screened by the curtains. The car park and the little garden in front of the inn were thronged with cars and people, some police but mostly Press and photographers. She felt, as the inspector had said, under siege.

  On the advice of the police Press Officer, she had faced the battery of flashing, rattling cameras – an ordeal in itself – and read out the banal form of words which had been suggested to her. She had even handed over the photo of Dizzy – laughing, vivid – which she’d brought with her to jog memories, when she was still so hopeful of finding her.

  ‘They’ll maybe leave you alone after that,’ the Press Officer had said, though not hopefully, and of course they hadn’t.

  It was partly the fact that all the chief actors in the drama were cooped up in this one place, and the crime scene was still off-limits, although there was a rumour that by tomorrow Chapelton would be declared free of infection and the Masons would be allowed back home, which might take some of the heat off. Only some, of course; the police operation would be based at the inn for an indefinite time, and from the questions the journalists had shouted to her – which Laura hadn’t stayed to answer – they wouldn’t be satisfied until they had some sort of ‘human story’ on her too.

  One way and another, living in the hotel had become something of an ordeal. Despite the pressure Lisa Thomson was under she’d been very good about bringing meals up to Laura so that she needn’t come downstairs, but the little bedroom was beginning to seem like a prison.

  For Lisa, though, it was clear things had taken a turn for the better. She was looking years younger than she had at the beginning of the week.

  ‘I’m real sorry about your sister,’ she said to Laura when she came up with her supper tray, ‘but I have to say this is just a godsend for us. I’ve been that worried about the money but this’ll see us through.’

  Laura seized the opportunity. ‘I’m glad about that. You work so hard to make us all comfortable. I hope you won’t mind, but with all this I’ve been thinking of looking for somewhere else.’

  Lisa nodded understandingly. ‘If you’re having to stay on a bit there’s some nice holiday cottages with no one in them a couple of miles down the road. Quiet, you know – you’d be private and none of that lot,’ she jerked her head dismissively towards the window, ‘would know where you were. I know the owners – they’d be glad to have you. I could give them a call if you like.’

  It looked like the answer to her problems. Laura didn’t want to leave the neighbourhood before she knew more about what had happened to her sister and she had a job to do, too; she’d already got some good material to form the basis of her article. But it would be wonderful to have her own private space where she wouldn’t have to spend her time dodging the press and rebuffing Max. He was becoming very tiresome, over-attentive and solicitous in a way that made her uncomfortable.

  His latest suggestion was that the Minotaur, as he persisted in calling his father, had killed his own mother, then Dizzy: a convenient theory, since the man couldn’t speak up in his own defence. It seemed the police were working on those lines, though: according to Lisa and the new waitress, they hadn’t stopped digging up the field.

  Marjory Fleming yawned and looked at her watch. Five o’clock – perhaps she’d go down to the canteen and have a cup of tea. And maybe a sandwich; she couldn’t remember having lunch so probably she hadn’t.

  Just as she got up she noticed another e-mail arrive; with a sigh she decided she’d better check it.

  It was from the pathology lab, with their post-mortem report as an attachment. Her sandwich forgotten, she clicked it open and scanned it rapidly.

  Then she sat back in her chair. ‘Good grief!’ she said blankly.

  13

  ‘It’s an absolutely brilliant shop – The Band Box, it’s called,’ the large, jolly girl said to her companion as they walked along the narrow streets near Gloucester Cathedral. ‘Designer clothes, a fraction of the price, and the woman who runs it has perfect taste. She can always find exactly the right thing and she won’t let you take anything that doesn’t suit you. There was this orange Max Mara skirt I really fancied, quite short and very fitting—’

  Her companion, built on rather less generous lines, gave her a candid look. ‘If she talked you out of it, she’s your best friend.’

  ‘You’re not joking. I told Jeremy about it and he said it was a deal-breaker – he’s on for the loving and cherishing bit but if tight orange skirts come into it the whole thing’s off. Here we are – oh!’

  She stopped outside the shop. As usual, there was only one item displayed in the window: a beautifully cut coat in silver-grey wool, edged with misty-grey mock fur.

  ‘Ooh, lovely!’ the other woman cooed.

  ‘Yes, but it’s closed! I don’t understand that.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Ten to ten, and it’s supposed to open at nine-thirty, look.’ She pointed to the discreet card giving opening hours fixed to the window, then shaded her eyes and peered in through the glass of the door.

  Inside the clothes hung on their rails, neatly arranged as always. The door to the back office was standing open; there were no lights on and no one was there. Disappointed, she turned away, pulling a face. ‘That’s such a shame! You’d have loved it.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s just running late,’ her friend suggested. ‘We could always come back in the afternoon.’

  ‘Why not? I tell you what – let’s go on to Cheltenham. There’s a really good place in Montpellier. We could lunch there too, and drop in here again on the way home.’

  Laura picked up her suitcase and laptop, checked quickly round to make sure she hadn’t left anything, then squared her shoulders as she left the room. Getting from the hotel to her car was going to be an unpleasant, even frightening experience. She’d checked from the window and they were still there, several men and a couple of women, some with cameras draped round them, hanging about looking cold and bored.

  Inside, it seemed quieter this morning, with fewer policemen around. Lisa had her bill prepared – a very modest one – and Laura was waiting at the desk while her card was processed when she heard a sudden flurry of activity outside. There were shouted questions, the slam of a car door, and a moment later Conrad Mason appeared in the hall, his good-looking face dark with irritation.

  Seeing her, he stopped. The black look vanished and a very charming smile took its place. ‘Laura! You remember we met, very briefly—’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled back, then jerked her head towards the door. ‘How many of them are there out there?’

  ‘Too many,’ he said feelingly. ‘But then, you know what they say about a thousand journalists at the bottom of the sea – a good start.’

  ‘I’m bracing myself.’

  He glanced down at her suitcase. ‘You’re leaving?’

  Laura nodded. ‘It’s been a bit difficult here.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It would be.’ He studied her face; he had hazel eyes with long dark lashes, she noticed. ‘You’ve had a
hard time, haven’t you? I’m sorry.’

  She was finding sympathy very difficult to handle at the moment; it wasn’t easy to say lightly, ‘Thanks. No, it hasn’t been much fun.’

  Lisa came back with the slip for her signature; as she scribbled it Conrad said, ‘Heading back to London, then?’

  ‘No, I’m staying in the area. I’ve been commissioned to do an article on the effects of the foot-and-mouth epidemic so I’ll be around for a little while yet.’

  ‘Where are you going to be?’

  She hesitated; she had had it in her mind not to give out her new address but she’d have to inform the police so it would be simple enough for him to find out. Before she could speak, he laughed. ‘I promise not to betray your whereabouts to the Press even for hard cash.’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t.’ She smiled and told him. Then she paused again. ‘Perhaps you would keep it to yourself, though. I – I’d appreciate a bit of peace and quiet.’

  The corners of his mouth twitched but he said gravely, ‘Absolutely. Changing the subject completely, how’s Max?’

  She burst out laughing. There was no doubt about it, Conrad Mason was a very attractive and amusing man. Still, she said only, ‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ then thanked Lisa and went to pick up her cases.

  ‘No, no, let me.’ Conrad got there first. ‘Now, I’ll give you an escort out to the car. Stick close behind me – don’t get separated.’

  Opening the door was the signal for a renewed burst of activity; a dozen people converged on them and once again there was the rattling click of automatic shutters and the glare of flashes. Conrad’s big frame sheltered her from the worst; she walked blindly behind him as they closed in, ignoring questions, offers and even threats.

  ‘Talk to me, Laura – we’ll make it worth your while!’

  ‘Where are you going now? You might as well tell us, we’ll find out anyway.’

  ‘How do you feel about your sister being dug up? Give us a quote or we’ll make one up!’

  ‘We make them up anyway.’ That raised a laugh, but Laura was in no mood to be amused.

  They reached the car. Conrad opened the door for her, turning so that his bulk blocked the opening. He handed in her luggage then said quietly, ‘It looks as if they might follow you. Position your car so it’s right in front of mine and I’ll tail you out. When we’re on the single-track road I’ll stop and block it. You carry on to your cottage as quickly as you can.’

  Gratefully she nodded and started up her car as he went to his, a silver-grey Jaguar XJ6. A photographer was leaning on her bonnet, thrusting his camera against the windscreen, but she moved off anyway and he jumped back. She could see two or three people hurrying over to their cars but as she drove past Conrad swung the nose of his to within inches of her bumper. He gave her a thumbs-up sign and she accelerated towards the exit. With him right behind her there was no real need for haste but her own sense of urgency prompted her to take to the narrow road at speed.

  Even with a nervously churning stomach, it was wonderful to feel she was escaping. It was a cold, bright morning; by the side of the road the grass-blades were outlined by hoar-frost and the edges of puddles crisp with a glassy skim of ice. The low, windswept trees were etched against the pale sky with the clarity and precision of steel engraving.

  Behind her she could see a couple of cars following Conrad. There was only about another half-mile to go before they reached the wider road, but he still hadn’t stopped; she only hoped he hadn’t changed his mind for some reason.

  She reached the cattle-grid, glancing anxiously behind her, then realised of course what his plan was. With rough ground on either side, there was the risk that the following cars might go off-road to get round him if they saw her escaping. Instead, he had stopped right on the grid, completely blocking the opening; short of breaking through the fence there was no way round. They wouldn’t be pleased, but something told her Conrad would positively relish that. Smiling at the thought, she accelerated away.

  Lisa’s directions had been clear and she had no difficulty in finding Burnside Cottages. A mile and a half along a tiny side road, it was a long, low building gleaming with recently whitewashed harling, which had been divided into four separate units. It was an idyllic spot, with access by way of a little stone bridge over a pebbly stream and a view of evergreen forest and moorland. When Laura stepped out of the car all she could hear was the steely chuckle of water over the stones of the burn. She drew in a long, deep breath. It felt as if she hadn’t been breathing properly for days.

  She hadn’t realised quite how much she’d been feeling oppressed. Even before yesterday’s terrible discovery, the virulent hostility of the Mason family and the unpleasantness of the drunken landlord had poisoned the atmosphere, despite Lisa’s kindliness. Laura remembered, with a shiver, the crow which had flapped in apparent warning across her path before she arrived that night at the hotel; here, in this pretty place, there were no such omens.

  ‘This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air

  Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself . . .’

  She frowned. That was Macbeth too, wasn’t it, and there was something about that speech . . .

  But the owner of the cottages, Mrs MacNab, was coming out to meet her now, a plump and amiable lady who tried for solemnity appropriate to Laura’s sad circumstances, though cheerfulness would keep breaking out. Even the disastrous state of the holiday market didn’t seem to depress her.

  ‘Och well,’ she said comfortably, ‘we’ve had the good times so you just have to thole the bad ones till the good times come back.’

  ‘Thole’ was a new one on Laura but she recognised and saluted the philosophy. She’d have to do a bit of ‘tholing’ herself over the next bit but she could almost believe in that brighter future, here under the benign sway of Mrs MacNab.

  The cottage was simple but comfortable with a kitchen-dining-sitting-room, a bathroom and two small bedrooms at the back. There were brightly checked curtains in red and cream, red covers for beds and chairs, and on the pine table a folded tea-towel which exuded a wonderful warm, sweet smell.

  ‘I just put up a few girdle scones when I knew you were coming,’ Mrs MacNab explained, ‘and there’s a few things in the fridge you’ll be needing. If you’ve any messages you just let me know – I’m a couple of miles further on down the road here so I pass the door on my way into Kirkluce. I could easy pick them up for you at the supermarket.’

  She trotted off, leaving Laura to wonder vaguely what messages could possibly be waiting for her at the supermarket. She sank down on to one of the chairs which faced a window looking out over the tranquil landscape. She should really unpack, but she’d just relax here for a few minutes first. All those tears must have been cathartic; she felt drained and peaceful now.

  Seconds later, she was sound asleep.

  ‘Gored?’ MacNee said incredulously. ‘Gored by a bull? And I suppose it just dug a hole with its hooves and covered her up so no one would know?’

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t point that out,’ Fleming said. ‘I phoned to discuss it and you know how these conversations go with the experts – if you sound doubtful they just shrug their shoulders. All the pathologist would say is that the wound was consistent with the damage a bull’s horn – or a cow’s – would inflict – sharp at the point, wider at the base, and the diameter measures up too. He’d seen one very recently – you remember there was that tragedy a fortnight ago with one of the government vets – and it looked just the same.’

  MacNee was unconvinced. ‘Sounds a gey fishy story to me! I wouldn’t have thought you could tell, after she’d been in the ground fifteen years.’

  ‘Parts of the body were pretty much skeletal according to the report, but it’s peaty ground and the torso was quite well preserved – skin almost tanned, it says here.’ She pointed to the print-out on her desk. ‘She was unlucky, seemingly – if the blow had glanced off her ribs she might have escaped but it went straight b
etween them at an angle to pierce the heart. So – instantaneous death.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Fleming snorted. ‘“Then what’s” aren’t his business. Quite trenchant, he was – “not his job to speculate”. What he did say, though, was that the position of the wound was odd. I mean, what would you do if a bull was coming at you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t stop to ask him what he thought about the next Old Firm match.’

  ‘Exactly. You’d be running away, with your back turned. This was direct and frontal. And the other thing was that with the vet there had been other damage – bones broken by trampling, other goring injuries. He said that the soft tissue had disappeared from other parts of the body so he couldn’t be absolutely sure about flesh wounds. But there were certainly no broken bones.’

  MacNee seized on this. ‘If you ask me, it’s just a fancy theory. It’s been something that’s the same shape as a bull’s horn, like a pole or something, and he’s linking up the two.’

  ‘Maybe. Still, he’s suggested it so we’d better follow it up. Have you spoken to Max Mason?’

  ‘Someone has. There’ll be a report somewhere in there.’ He indicated the computer.

  Fleming sighed. ‘There’s about a hundred reports in there, most of them completely irrelevant, and I’m supposed not just to read them but remember what they said. Away you go and have a word with Max. It was winter when it happened – where would the bulls have been? You could check with the stockman as well.’

  She watched him go with a certain amount of envy. There had been something to be said for the sergeant’s job where you got to go out and talk to people directly. Reading reports about what they’d said was a bit like working one of those fairground machines where you have to use a grab to pick up the prize you want but are constantly frustrated by the clumsiness of the implement.

  She opened one, an interview with a local shopkeeper, but it seemed little more than ‘What I guess might have happened and how I would do your job’. Her mind went back to the report.