The Merciless Dead

by John Burke

Or not so feeble. An old man still keeping a strong grip on the purse strings. A lovely old phrase. When did any of us last have a purse with strings on it?

  ‘You are smiling, Lady Torrance.’ Jacques Hunter was warm and attentive.

  ‘Thinking of the panic in the office when the pressure comes on,’ she said quickly.

  The proclamation resounded in the air around them. Red carpets had to be found and rolled out. Mr Ross would soon be coming.

  *

  On Monday morning, Simon Ogilvie was less adept at keeping his feelings throttled down than Morwenna had been. Lesley could hear him holding forth to an audience of one, as she went into the library and saw Beth nodding with weary politeness.

  ‘First we have Mrs Ross to take charge. Then Mr Hunter shows up to override her and me. Can’t I be trusted to do my job any more? And as to what that couple may be up to, between them —’

  He gulped, stopping himself in midsentence as he realized that Lesley was in the room. A moment later they were joined by Luke, breathless.

  ‘You’ve heard the news?’

  ‘That Mr Hunter himself has come to join us. Oh, yes, we’ve heard.’

  ‘No. About that Ferguson character.’

  ‘Ferguson?’

  ‘Sholto Ferguson. That bossy bastard who made threats to us at Achnachrain. It’s just been on a local news flash. He’s been murdered.’

  ‘Near our properties?’ Ogilvie was immediately shrill, ready to accuse or throw up defences. ‘There hasn’t been some sort of confrontation on site? He wasn’t trying to —‘

  ‘At home,’ said Luke. ‘His place down Pencaitland way. Apparently he was found by a photographer visiting the place. Now helping the police with their inquiries, as they say.’ He was staring intently at Beth. ‘Name of Randal Grant. Isn’t he the one we’ve been … involved with … recently?’

  11

  DCI Rutherford picked his way cautiously over the jutting leg of a broken table and some shards of broken glass, and stared down at the head of a totem pole and the human head beside it, savagely smashed in by that wooden raven.

  Leaning over to have a good look at the man’s twisted neck and the blood from his shattered skull seeping in a dark snail trail across the floor, he took care not to reach out for something to hold on to. Forensics were on their way. There simply had to be prints, marks of shoes, or telltale threads from a coat or jacket somewhere within a tight circle round this crumpled body.

  ‘Sholto Ferguson, right? The owner of this property?’

  ‘That’s right, guv.’

  ‘Any idea yet about troubles with anybody?’

  ‘Traffic have had dealings with him quite often.’

  ‘I can’t see Maxwell’s team pursuing him home and beating him up because he was doing a ton along the ring road. Charges of drunk driving?’

  ‘A couple of speeding charges. But he was a great complainer. A traffic jam outside his gates, blocking his exit. Too many large lorries using the road out there as a short cut. Trespassers joyriding round his estate. A squad car hogging the road and not letting him pass. Complaints direct to his old friend the Chief Constable.’

  ‘Oh. One of those. Well, he can’t complain this was a hit and run. Or I suppose it is, in a way. Only not by some car driver with evil intent. Who found him? One of the family?’

  ‘No, guv.’ The sergeant, standing well back in the window alcove, as wary as the DCI of trampling over evidence, jerked a thumb downwards. ‘We’re holding him downstairs. A Randal Grant. Youngish chap, says he’s a photographer.’

  ‘Here to do a family portrait? Don’t think I’d fancy this framed on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘This chap Grant says he came back to tidy up some loose ends.’

  ‘Back? A regular visitor, then? Any family on the premises at the time?’

  ‘As far as we can make out, Mrs Ferguson, the wife — widow — seems to have come in later. She’s pretty hysterical right now. Not making much sense. We’ve got a WPC with her. If you want to see her, she’s —’

  ‘No. I’ll start with our Lord Snowdon.’

  To Rutherford, as with many of his colleagues, it was almost a matter of faith that the person who claimed to have found the corpse was most likely to be the one who had made it a corpse in the first place. They could rarely keep quiet about what they’d done. Wanted to draw attention to it, make sure somebody knew without delay what had happened. He went downstairs to find Randal Grant chatting earnestly about his photographic techniques with a detective constable who seemed to be enjoying the break — maybe acquiring tips for his next holiday snaps.

  ‘Mr Grant. Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to fill me in on what exactly happened here this morning, and how you came to be here in the first place.’

  He never did like these hippie types with their scruffy beards and laid-back pretensions. But the young man spoke straightforwardly enough, with the right sort of respect for the arm of the law.

  ‘I had taken some shots of the house — interiors, special aspects of the main rooms — for a magazine feature. A few of the shots were clouded over. I wanted to take them again, get them right. So I rang Mrs Ferguson, and she said to come over.’

  ‘Right there and then?’

  ‘No. It was yesterday evening I phoned her, and she said to come round this morning, about eleven.’

  ‘And when you got here, she was waiting for you?’

  ‘No. But the main door on the terrace was open.’

  ‘And you just walked in?’ Vaguely he remembered gossip column stuff about Nadine Witherington’s goings-on both before and after she became Nadine Ferguson. ‘Really familiar with the premises? Used to strolling in and making yourself at home?’

  The younger man’s agreeable manner chilled. He had understood the implication. Stiffly he said: ‘I’d visited it just the once before. As I said, on a picture shoot. It’s part of my regular job. You can check on that.’

  ‘I will. And this particular shoot — what brought it about?’

  There was a fractional hesitation. Then Grant said: ‘It was destined for Historic Interiors. One of a series of stately home features. You know the sort of thing. Flattering angles on family treasures — and on the lady of the house, against a suitable background.’

  ‘But today, although she had agreed to meet you here, Mrs Ferguson was not at home? So you met her husband instead.’

  ‘I found her husband. And rang you lot.’

  ‘He was upstairs. You wandered upstairs — or did he call you upstairs?’

  ‘How the hell could he call me? You’ve seen what state he’s in. Well past communicating with anyone.’

  ‘Quite so. That’s how he is now. But at the time you arrived …?’

  Before Grant could come up with the sort of indignant reply which might be genuine or contrived, a uniformed officer put his head round the door. Forensics had arrived. Rutherford went up to join them for a quarter of an hour, and then returned to Grant. Never did any harm to keep them waiting — and twitching.

  ‘How much longer are you going to need me?’ The question was predictable. ‘I do have other work to do, you know.’

  ‘Now that one of your clients has other things on her mind, yes, I suppose you would have. Hoping your next visit doesn’t end quite so violently?’

  ‘The violence had been committed before I arrived,’ said Grant acidly.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Rutherford was as well practised as a barrister at sounding sceptical without risking any accusation of harassing a witness.

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t go now?’

  ‘We shall need a formal statement from you, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Perhaps you can give it to my sergeant before you leave. And if you remember something else, later, you can get in touch with him at the nick. And we can get in touch with you when we need to. You’re not thinking of leaving Edinburgh f
or any length of time?’

  ‘No, I’m not. But I can’t imagine anything useful I could add to what I’ve already told you.’

  ‘In these cases one never knows. But very well, Mr Grant. Thank you for your co-operation.’

  ‘I hope you’ll find out who did this. And soon.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll do that all right. Have no fear.’ He made the last three words sound threatening rather than reassuring. ‘Thanks again, Mr Grant. We’ll be in touch.’

  It was time to turn his attention to the widow.

  *

  Nadine Ferguson had disposed herself picturesquely on a chaise-longue below a portrait of a portly man glaring out across some remembered battlefield, his uniform bristling with medal ribbons, and his red face adorned by a sumptuous moustache.

  Rutherford gave a matter-of-fact resume of what Randal Grant had told him, which she accompanied with sad little nods and the occasional dab of a lace handkerchief at her eyes. When he had finished he said, in a more considerate tone than he had used with the young photographer: ‘It’s true, then, that you’d agreed Mr Grant should come round here this morning?’

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t really convenient, but I did agree he should come.’

  ‘Not convenient?’

  ‘My husband was at home. He’s been very annoyed since I told him about all that photography. He would never have allowed it if he’d been here.’

  ‘You mean he was absent when you agreed to the original session?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Ferguson allowed herself a pathetic little whimper. ‘You’d have thought he’d be glad to have his family achievements featured in a reputable magazine. But he … well, he has his moods, and … oh, dear, he was very angry with me. Came storming in halfway through the morning from one of those meetings he has — just a lot of drinking, if you ask me, and then spending the night at his club getting over it. And coming home in a filthy temper. I’m afraid we had a terrible row. Said he wasn’t going to let any bloody little snapshotter — that’s how he put it, typical of him, so vulgar — a bloody little snapshotter, wasn’t going to let him set foot in the house again. Should never have been here in the first place.’

  ‘You didn’t think to phone Mr Grant and tell him not to come?’

  ‘I did try, but there was no reply. He must have been on his way here by then.’

  ‘But you weren’t here when he got here? He says he just walked in — and found your husband’s body.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I suppose I ought to have stayed in. But Sholto had made me so cross. I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, but I did what I often have to do when he’s in one of his moods. I went out shopping.’ She tried a courageous, winsome little smile at him, appealing for the understanding she could surely expect from a man of the world. ‘At times of stress, you know, one does. I decided to go and buy some shoes.’

  ‘And when you got back?’

  ‘Found one of your policemen here. And that clumsy young man.’

  ‘Clumsy?’

  ‘That dreadful wooden thing. That bit of totem pole. He moved it when I was showing him round the house, so that he could get some sort of clever-clever angle on it. He couldn’t have replaced it properly. It must have fallen on poor dear Sholto.’

  Poor dear Sholto? Who had been so angry with her that she had scuttled out of the house to get her own back by spending some of his money?

  Rutherford said: ‘I don’t think it fell, Mrs Ferguson. Somebody lifted it and bashed it into his skull. Forcibly. And more than once, I’d say.’

  ‘Officer!’ she shrieked. ‘Do you have to put it so crudely?’

  ‘It was done crudely. There’s rarely anything polite about murder.’ He allowed himself to look patient and long-suffering while she collapsed back into fine dramatic sobs, involving the use of several more flimsy handkerchiefs and convulsive jerks of her shoulders.

  When he had allowed her as long as he thought was reasonable for a stricken widow’s histrionics, he said: ‘How long have you known this Randal Grant?’

  ‘Only a week or so. It must have been … oh, let me see, it can’t have been more than … it was that Monday, or …’

  ‘You haven’t known him long, then? Purely a business relationship?’

  ‘Of course. What else?’ Rutherford felt a flicker of suspicion at her immediate indignation. Everything about what he had heard of her past and her mannerisms right now suggested that the attentions of any presentable young man would be welcome. ‘What do you take me for?’ she was ranting on. ‘He was here purely as a photographer for a magazine wanting to do a feature on the beauties of our gracious home.’ She seemed about to lapse into offended silence, but abruptly added: ‘Anyway, he had a young woman with him.’

  ‘A young woman?’

  ‘An assistant.’ She sniffed. ‘Or so he said. She didn’t seem to me to be doing much assisting.’

  Rutherford added a question about this additional character to those he was already trying to sort out in his mind. And it was becoming increasingly clear that one question underpinned all the others. What were the exact times of Ferguson getting home, Mrs Ferguson going out in a huff, and Grant arriving?

  There couldn’t have been much time for someone to murder Ferguson. Someone? Mrs Ferguson, in a temper, or even in self-defence? She didn’t look as if she would have the strengths but it was amazing what reserves the frailest human being could summon up when in a murderous rage. But had her husband really been so outrageous that she was driven to smash his head in and then go out shopping for shoes?

  Or there was Randal Grant. Had Ferguson not only snarled at him, threatened him, but actually gone for him? And Grant had fought back in self-defence …?

  Was the time gap large enough for somebody else to have come in, beaten Ferguson to death, and left, with just enough margins for nobody to have seen him come and go?

  Mrs Ferguson was still sniffling, but peeping at him over the crumpled edge of her handkerchief, uneasy about his silence.

  Rutherford said: ‘Servants? Would anybody have been here to answer the door, let visitors in, see all the comings and goings?’

  Unexpectedly she laughed. It wasn’t the laughter of enjoyment.

  ‘Servants? For all his big act, we don’t run to much in that line.’

  Rutherford looked up at the curlicues of the ceiling, and down at the spread of Persian rugs. ‘This place must take a lot of keeping up.’

  ‘Propping up,’ she corrected him. ‘With two useless part-time men and a woman who comes in three times a week to do some half-hearted dusting. Just for the showy bits. Oh, and sometimes we hire a cook for an evening if we’re having a dinner party.’ The laugh became a derisive rasp. ‘Not that we often run to that. He’s all show, and then only when he can’t avoid it. Most of the time the place is a pigsty. Not at all what I’ve been used to,’ said Nadine Ferguson loftily. ‘God, if I’d known what a phoney it all was …’

  ‘Phoney? All those showpiece rooms up there?’

  ‘Oh, they’re genuine enough. Handed down by his precious ancestors. There must have been some Fergusons who worked hard enough back then. But him — he’s just lived on the name and made a lot of noise about it.’

  When forensics had finished their work, there would be the routine matter of removing the corpse to the morgue. Rutherford left it to a well-trained WPC to explain sympathetically the necessary rituals to the widow, and also explain why the body could not be released for a memorial service and burial until police inquiries had been finalized. He had a feeling that Nadine Ferguson would be disappointed by delays: already she would be adjusting her mind to a vision of a fine funeral with military trimmings and the presence of distinguished figures from Edinburgh society and Highland estates.

  Back in his office, he set a constable phoning around to check on certain points. Starting with Historic Interiors.

  The response was unequivocal. ‘Randal Grant? Oh, yes, he’s done some first-rate stuff for us. But we never commissioned that parti
cular subject.’

  Rutherford contemplated postponing any further questioning until tomorrow; then decided to round off his afternoon with a brief visit to Grant’s studio. Catch them on the hop — it was often the most rewarding approach. And he could fit it in neatly before going for a pint with a contact in the pub round the corner. That might wrap up one run-of-the-mill drugs bust he had been working on with the Drugs Squad for weeks. He had a feeling this other case wasn’t going to work out as a run-of-the-mill one.

  He was greeted with a mock welcoming smile. ‘Come to tell me you’ve solved it already? Quick work, I must say. Don’t tell me — Ferguson slipped and banged his head, and we’re all in the clear? Or it was the butler after all? With a bit of lead piping in the Indian room. Only I don’t remember the Fergusons running to a butler.’

  ‘For a brutal killing, you’re taking it all very lightly, Mr Grant.’

  ‘He wasn’t one of my favourite characters.’

  ‘Oh, so you have some personal grudge against the deceased?’

  Grant did not reply, but gestured towards a chair for his visitor to sit down. Rutherford took his time, summing up different angles on the studio, with its array of gadgets which he had seen in different settings — photographers crouching above dead bodies, taking shots of drug hauls, cracks in floors, crumpled vehicles in head-on smashes. Only here the subjects seemed less grim. There were some landscapes spread on a peg-board, a few half-profiles of children, and, propped on an easel more like a painting than a photograph, a large portrait of a young woman. Did Grant supply pornographic magazines as well as architectural and society ones? But there was nothing suggestive in the girl’s face. She was simply a very pretty girl. And, oddly, Rutherford felt he had seen her somewhere before.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about Ferguson’s background,’ said Grant. ‘And none of it appeals to me. I’ve come across too many men like him.’

  ‘And you think the world should be rid of them?’

  ‘No, that won’t work. I don’t go around rubbing out people I disapprove of. You’ll have to do better than that, old lad.’

  Rutherford disliked being addressed as ‘old lad’ as much as he disliked being called Jock. He plunged vengefully in: ‘Why did you say that you’d been commissioned to do that photo session by Historic Interiors magazine? They deny all knowledge of any such arrangement.’