by M. B. Shaw
Haley glanced at Roebuck, who gave an imperceptible shake of his jowly cheeks.
‘I’m afraid I can’t expand on that at the moment.’
‘You can’t expand on much, can you, detective?’ a female reporter from Radio 4 shouted out from the back of the hall. ‘Isn’t it true that it was actually a private Facebook page belonging to the portrait painter Iris Grey which led to these women being identified and, ultimately, to this morning’s arrest? And that it was nothing to do with ‘diligent police work’ at all? Should we be going to Ms Grey for information, the same way we had to after Dom Wetherby’s murder last year?’
A ripple of agreement spread audibly around the room. Haley could practically hear the chief constable sweating.
‘It’s certainly true that we owe Iris Grey, and other members of the public, a huge debt of gratitude for keeping interest in this case alive,’ replied Haley, with the straightest face he could muster. He knew that Iris would be as unhappy about having her name dragged into this on television as Roebuck was, and he wanted to do his best to shield her from the inevitable press intrusion.
‘I’d say it was more than that,’ the Radio 4 woman scoffed. ‘Isn’t it also true that Banffshire police completely abandoned this investigation, shutting it down when it had barely begun, under pressure from the MacKinnon family?’
‘That is categorically untrue,’ boomed the chief constable, looking as if he’d swallowed something large and unpleasant. Not for the first time, Haley wondered what hold Jock MacKinnon had had over Roebuck. He’d come through in the end, to everyone’s surprise, and allowed them to effectively reopen the case at the eleventh hour. But up till that point, getting him to cooperate had been like pulling teeth. Haley strongly suspected it was only the advances that Iris and the Italians were making that had forced his hand, and helped him find the balls to stand up to the baron.
‘Deciding which investigations to devote resources to at any given time is a complicated process,’ Roebuck went on pompously, ‘one that takes into account a wide variety of factors.’
‘Including the patronage of wealthy members of the establishment?’ the journalist pushed him. ‘Even ones who may well be implicated themselves?’
‘In this case, we were lucky enough to have the support of our Italian colleagues,’ Roebuck ploughed on, ignoring her. ‘Together, we have succeeded in bringing a very difficult investigation to a satisfactory conclusion. That’s what we’re here to focus on today.’
Haley raised his arm to single out another journalist, but Sir William shook his head with vehement finality.
‘No more questions,’ he announced to the packed hall below, to loud protestations as he clattered to his feet. ‘Thank you all for coming.’
Afterwards, in a private anteroom, he turned furiously on Stuart Haley, as if the difficult questions had been his fault.
‘What the fuck was that?’
‘I did try to warn you, sir.’
‘Jesus Christ! We solved the case, we got our man and still they’re not happy? What do they want, blood?’
‘I believe they want details, sir. A story. They’re journalists. That’s their job.’
‘Well, it’s not our damned job. This isn’t bloody entertainment. It’s a murder inquiry. And I tell you this,’ Sir William jabbed a fat finger in Stuart Haley’s direction, ‘I’ve had it just about up to here with that bloody painter friend of yours. If she goes shooting her mouth off to the press, giving interviews…’
‘She won’t, sir. Iris enjoys the challenge but she hates the attention.’
The chief constable shot Haley a look that would have melted the skin off a lesser man.
‘Hates the attention? Are you blind? Dear God, she’s got you where she wants you, hasn’t she, Haley?’
‘Sir?’
‘Make a fool of yourself, if you want to, Stuart,’ the finger jabbed again, ‘but make a fool of this force and I’ll see you finished in Scotland. Finished.’
* * *
Up at Pitfeldy Castle, Jock, Emma and Fergus all sat huddled around the ancient television set in the small sitting room off the kitchen, glued to the screen.
‘They must be very sure of themselves, if Bill Roebuck’s making the statement in person,’ Emma observed smugly, unable to conceal her relief at the morning’s developments. Not only had her father been released without charge, but Angus Brae – the perfect, do-no-wrong gillie whom her father had always inexplicably favoured over her and Rory, had turned out to be a murderer. Apparently, he’d turned himself in at the police station and confessed.
Emma didn’t know the details. None of them did. But she didn’t really care. What mattered was that Angus was guilty of something awful and that he’d be carted off to prison, disgraced and forgotten about, and that Jock would finally be forced to transfer his affection to his own children. Or at least to Emma. It might be a while before he forgave Rory for killing Kathy’s dogs, and finally (it seemed) driving her away.
That was the other good news. Vile Kathy had moved out of the castle and was apparently staying with Iris while she decided what to do next. Fingers crossed that would be flying back to America, never to return. But either way, judging from her father’s depressed mood, Emma assumed the wedding was off.
‘Of course they’re sure,’ Fergus added, pushing a greasy strand of reddish hair back from his pale forehead before clasping his wife’s hand. ‘When a chap confesses, that’s all there is to it.’
‘Well, I know,’ said Emma. ‘But then why won’t they mention Angus by name? I mean, it’s not as if it can compromise his trial. There won’t be a trial if he’s pleading guilty, will there?’
‘Quite,’ said Fergus. ‘And everyone in Pitfeldy knows who it is by now anyway.’
While the Twomeys continued their commentary, Jock sat stock-still and poker-faced, too gripped by what he was watching even to register what they were saying. Once it was over, and Emma turned the TV off, he continued to stare into space, lost in thought.
‘Are you all right, Daddy?’ Emma asked, belatedly noticing his stunned reactions, and putting her hand over his. ‘I couldn’t believe the things that ghastly woman from the BBC was saying about you, implying that you’d somehow pressured the police. I mean, the nerve.’ She squeezed Jock’s hand supportively. ‘We should speak to John Mills right away. Don’t you agree, Fergus? After all, how can it be all right for them to protect the identity of a known murderer, but to smear Daddy’s good name? I think we should –’
‘Be quiet, Emma.’
They were the first words Jock had spoken, the first sound he’d uttered, in fact, in over an hour. Despite them being delivered with uncharacteristic quietness and calm, they had an immediate effect. Emma’s mouth slammed shut like a trap door and she sat there looking hurt and awkward.
‘Come along, darling,’ said Fergus, for once accurately reading the signals that his wife had missed. ‘Let’s leave your father in peace. It’s a lot to take in, for all of us. We should pack.’
‘Pack?’ Emma shot him a confused expression. ‘Don’t be silly, Fergus. We can hardly abandon poor Daddy now that Kathy –’
‘Really, Emma,’ said Fergus, with rarely shown firmness. ‘No one’s abandoning anyone. But Jock needs some space.’
It was the first time Jock could ever remember respecting his son-in-law.
After Fergus and Emma left the room, he sat for a long time, alone at last, staring at the now-blank television screen. The longing for Kathy was dreadful, like a gunshot wound to his chest. But that wasn’t the worst pain he suffered.
Angus had confessed to the murders.
Angus – his Angus, the one wholly good thing he’d ever done in his life – would go to prison. Prison!
Tears welled in his eyes and he felt every one of his seventy years.
How on God’s green earth had things come to this?
* * *
Iris stood on Stuart Haley’s doorstep in the same full-length puffa
coat she’d been wearing yesterday, hopping from foot to foot with cold like a penguin.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’ Haley stood back from the door, allowing Iris and a blast of Siberian air into his narrow hallway. ‘How’s Kathy?’
‘Still in shock, I think,’ said Iris, following him into the living room, her words muffled by the various layers of coat, scarf and sweater she was pulling in turn over her head and dumping unceremoniously on Stuart’s sofa. ‘It doesn’t help having half the Scottish press loitering outside my place, begging me for an interview as soon as I show my face at a window.’
‘Aye. I’m sorry about that.’ Haley grimaced. ‘But I didn’t have much choice. I take it you saw the press conference?’
‘Kathy and I watched it together,’ said Iris. ‘I assume the chief constable forced you into it?’
‘He did, as it goes, but what makes you say that?’
Iris smiled. ‘No offence, Stuart, but your poker face could use some work. You looked like you’d been marched in there at gunpoint.’
Haley shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, that’s because I had. You know, one minute Roebuck’s shutting us down and insisting I walk away from the case. And the next, I’ve got Angus Brae turning up at the station and confessing, and all of a sudden the fat bastard wants to shout about our “successes” from the rooftops and take the credit for a job well done.’
‘And I take it you don’t, because you aren’t sure about Angus’s confession?’ Iris surmised.
‘That’s the problem,’ Haley said wryly. ‘I am sure about it. I’m sure it’s complete bullshit.’
‘Thank God you said that,’ Iris exhaled. ‘Angus didn’t kill the Contorinis. He loved Beatrice.’
‘I agree,’ said Haley. ‘His statement’s got more holes in it than my nan’s crocheted blanket. I warned Roebuck, told him straight he was going to end up with egg on his face if he went public with Angus as our man,’ said Haley, ‘but he didn’t want to know. He didn’t actually name him, which is something, I suppose.’
‘Someone’s going to, though,’ said Iris. ‘One of the papers. The whole village already knows, and the Fisherman’s Arms is heaving with reporters as we speak. I’m sure his name’s already out there online.’
‘Course it is.’ Getting up, Haley walked into the kitchen and returned with two small cut-glass tumblers of whisky. ‘The whole thing’s a mess, to be honest with you,’ he told Iris, handing one glass to her.
‘What was it about Angus’s confession that troubled you?’ she asked him.
‘All of it.’ He sank back down into his chair with the drink in his hand, looking more exhausted than ever. ‘The timing: right after Jock MacKinnon’s arrest.’
‘You think he’s protecting Jock?’
‘He’s protecting someone,’ said Haley. ‘Either that or he’s afraid of someone. Plus, you know, just his entire personality. You and I have talked about this before. I’ve been a policeman for a long time, Iris, and I’ve met many different kinds of killer. The evil, sadistic ones; the softly spoken “driven to it” ones; some are violent by nature, others crack under pressure and lash out just the once. But none of them, not one, was even remotely like Angus Brae.’
‘All right,’ said Iris, who didn’t disagree with this assessment, but felt that at this point they needed more than just a hunch about Angus’s character. ‘But what did he actually say that sounded off?’
‘Well, he didn’t say that much. Which is another red flag, by the way. By the time killers are ready to confess, they’re usually keen to get everything off their chests. Either out of guilt or because they want to boast about what they’ve done. So they tend to share a lot of detail. Angus gave me almost none. But his basic story was that he killed Beatrice by accident after an argument.’
‘He admits she was his girlfriend, then?’
‘Yes, he does admit that,’ conceded Haley. ‘He confirmed that he met her on the school trip, like we thought, and that they fell head over heels in love. He said she followed him to Edinburgh a few months later.’
‘Did he admit he’d got her pregnant?’
Haley nodded. ‘According to him, things went wrong after she lost the baby. They’d been fighting a good bit due to her grief. Then when his dad came up to Edinburgh to have it out with him, and Angus agreed to go back to Pitfeldy, he says he broke things off with Beatrice of his own free will.’
‘OK,’ said Iris, listening.
‘But Beatrice wouldn’t accept him leaving her, so she followed him to the castle. They got into an argument, and he pushed her. According to him, she fell and hit her head and never got up.’
Iris was silent for a moment.
‘Where did he say this happened?’
‘At his cottage.’
‘Hmmm.’ Iris mulled this over. ‘So he continued living in the house where he killed her? The first true love of his life? He has breakfast with Hannah every day, feet away from where Beatrice died?’
‘That’s what he says,’ said Haley. ‘I’m not buying it either. He’d move, wouldn’t he? There must be half a dozen cottages at least on that estate. He wouldn’t stay there.’
‘Does his story about Beatrice hitting her head fit with what the forensic pathologist told you? About the injuries to the skeleton?’
‘It doesn’t not fit,’ said Haley. ‘Blunt-force trauma to the skull was the likely cause of Beatrice’s death, if you remember. But that could mean anything from a hard fall to a whack with a hammer. Anyway, it’s the next bit that I really can’t swallow.’
‘Go on,’ said Iris.
‘So his version is, he’s killed Beatrice accidentally. He panics, and buries her up at the bothy in the woods, by himself. But then about six months later, her mother turns up at Pitfeldy Castle, asking questions. Paola knows about Angus and Beatrice’s relationship by this point.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t know.’ Haley sipped his drink. ‘Angus just said she knew her daughter left Venice to be with him, and that she followed him from Edinburgh to Pitfeldy when he dropped out. And that no one’s seen Beatrice since.
According to Angus, Paola tells all this to Jock MacKinnon, who refuses to believe Angus would have harmed her daughter, but nonetheless allows Paola to stay up at the castle while she tries to trace her.’
‘So Mrs Gregory was telling the truth?’ Iris asked.
‘According to Angus’s version, yes,’ said Haley. ‘Meanwhile, Angus, terrified that Paola will eventually learn the truth, and/or turn the baron against him, jumps her one night when she’s walking back to the castle from town. Kills her.’
‘Kills her how?’
‘He says he dragged her into the undergrowth and strangled her.’
‘And then buried her too?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘On his own?’
‘That’s what he said.’ Haley took another long sip of whisky. ‘I mean, even if he’s telling the truth and he did kill Beatrice, like he said. Which I don’t believe for a second, by the way, but let’s just say that’s what happened. That’s an accident. He pushed her, she died, he panicked. But what he says happened with Paola, ambushing her, strangling the woman in cold blood?’ he shook his head. ‘No way. He doesn’t have it in him. He’s protecting someone. Presumably the baron.’
‘I assume you pushed back?’ said Iris. ‘Cross-examined him?’
‘Well, sure, I tried,’ Haley said ruefully. ‘I dropped every bomb on the kid I could think of to get him to rethink his loyalty to MacKinnon. I told him that Jock might be his father.’
‘You didn’t!’ Iris gasped.
‘Aye, I did. Told him that Jock had had an affair with his mum. Betrayed Edwin, his oldest friend. Wrecked his marriage, then let Edwin believe he was to blame when Linda ran off.’
‘How did he react?’
‘He didn’t,’ said Haley, exasperated. ‘Blank bloody face the whole time. I don’t know whether he simply didn’t believe me, or
he already knew so he wasn’t bothered by it. I told him there was a chance Jock was Beatrice’s father, too – that he and Beatrice might have been brother and sister. But even that didn’t get a rise. He didn’t even flicker, Iris. Just kept looking at me. Looking through me. It was almost like he was brainwashed. Like he was part of a cult or something.’
Iris finished her drink, her mind whirring. If Angus Brae stuck to his confession and pleaded guilty to the charges against him, he would spend the rest of his life behind bars. What hold did Jock MacKinnon have on the boy that would make him do that? Make him give up his life, his freedom, make him walk away from Hannah, whom he clearly loved, and their future together?
‘He’s guilty,’ she said aloud, as much to herself as to Haley.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He’s guilty. Maybe not of killing the Contorinis. But he’s guilty of something, Stuart, at least in his own mind,’ said Iris. ‘He wants to be punished. To atone.’
‘Yeah, well, he can atone all he likes,’ Haley muttered bitterly. ‘But those poor women, Beatrice and Paola? They deserve justice. We can’t just let Brae take the fall for two murders he didn’t commit.’
No, thought Iris, we can’t.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she was beginning to formulate a plan.
Chapter Thirty-five
Jock MacKinnon gripped the head of his walking stick tightly as he trudged through the snow, his breathing tight and shallow in the bitter air. It was three o’clock in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, and for the first time he could remember he was alone at the castle. Completely alone. Mrs Gregory had gone to her sister’s in Elgin for Christmas and the rest of the staff had also been given the week off. Emma and Fergus had mercifully returned home, and Rory had disappeared without a word since his release on bail. Scuttled back to London, Jock presumed, or to his mother in Edinburgh. Fiona never could see any faults in the boy and would no doubt welcome him with open arms.
As for Kathy, his angel, his saviour, his hope through despair – she was gone. Gone for good. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve the pain. He did, and in a way, he almost welcomed it. It was more that he didn’t yet know whether he had the strength to bear it. Each day, each hour, seemed harder than the last. Like a death.