The Merciless Dead

by John Burke

  He spoke with the easy authority of one who had acquired trophies in the days before he was surprised by his baronetcy — two statuettes on a side shelf in Black Knowe, commemorating rewards for a film and a TV series.

  ‘A wistful folk song to make them cry into their wine?’ he suggested.

  ‘Most of them seem to be on the hard stuff.’

  There was a change of grouping below. A little knot of guests near a closed door came apart, drifting in twos and threes to either side of the room, with Ogilvie almost dancing around them as if driven by sprightly music transmitted to him from Nick. Well back from them, a larger group began forming a semicircle, staring at the door, waiting.

  ‘Cue leading man,’ muttered Nick. ‘Fanfare. And … action!’

  The door opened. James Fergus Ross was framed in it, hunched forward in a wheelchair. His two hefty attendants, each with a hand on the back, moved him into the room at a solemn, steady pace.

  At the same time there was a blast of sound a few feet away from Lesley’s left ear. A piper had appeared at the end of the balcony, and now began pacing along it, launching into the complex flourishes of a pibroch.

  Nick took his wife’s arm. ‘Shall we go down?’

  A man and wife were being introduced to old Jamie. Some insignia on the man’s chest suggested that he was a figure of some local consequence. His wife was very tall and sleek, having to stoop at an awkward angle to shake the old man’s hand.

  Ogilvie nodded and half bowed them away, ticking them off his mental list, and beckoned Nick and Lesley forward. They might have been next in line on the New Year’s honours list for a royal accolade.

  ‘Mr Ross, this is Sir Nicholas Torrance. And Lady Torrance, who has been doing some admirable research for us on the project.’

  ‘Torrance? Don’t think I’ve had dealings with any Torrances.’ Ross’s head tilted towards Nick, his eyes squinting vainly. ‘Property up in Sutherland?’ he barked suspiciously.

  ‘In the Borders,’ said Nick.

  ‘Ah.’ Ross grunted what might have been a grudging absolution. ‘Not a part of the world I’ve had much dealings with.’

  ‘You’ve given the most generous donations to the Roxburgh Junior Orchestra,’ Ogilvie hastened to intervene.

  ‘Learning the pipes, hey?’ Ross raised an arm in the vague direction of the player still pacing to and fro along the balcony.

  ‘Mainly strings, actually.’

  ‘Oh.’ The two bodyguards moved in unison, edging the wheelchair with heavy precision a few feet towards the next waiting group.

  After ten minutes, old Jamie suddenly heaved himself up a few inches in his wheelchair. ‘Ogilvie!’

  ‘Yes, Mr Ross?’

  ‘Who the hell brought all these people here?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to meet some of the outstanding members of our community who —’

  ‘That’s enough. Tell them they can all relax. And get me a drink.’

  Ogilvie raised his arm, and a waiter carrying a tray with one large tumbler of whisky on it approached reverently. Ross held the glass between his two hands, shaking slightly, and took a long, appreciative sip.

  ‘Got one thing right, anyway.’

  The guests swirled about like leaves puffed into new huddles by a breeze. Old Jamie’s minders steered him into the bar with a long plate glass window overlooking the indoor swimming pool.

  Lesley and Nick drifted in behind them, watching swimmers beginning to appear with a regularity which might almost have been scheduled by Ogilvie. Some attempt was being made to create an atmosphere of family friendliness, with old man Ross as a benevolent grandfather who would enjoy watching his large family enjoying themselves.

  Lesley nudged Nick, nodding towards a splash of colour on the far side of the pool. Mrs Apricot Ogilvie had clearly decided not to risk exposing too much of herself, but was determined to make another dramatic entry, this time appearing from one of the changing cubicles into the pool area in a long towelling robe in colours reminiscent of a tropical fruit juice packet. Smiling regally at the others along the edge of the pool, she sprawled onto a lounger of further clashing hues.

  ‘I must say she’s made a pretty quick change,’ muttered Nick.

  Ogilvie himself, in dark red trunks, hurried past his wife and poised himself with all the hand-rubbing and swagger of someone who has never much cared for swimming but is determined to be one of the gang. After a few moments he jumped noisily in. From her vantage point, Lesley wouldn’t have put it past him to kick water in the women’s faces and honk at them like a grampus.

  Morwenna Ross stood on the edge a few feet away, statuesque rather than hesitant. She wore a jet black one-piece with a broad strap and a small bow just touching the end of that swathe of black hair which narrowed down the nape of her neck. Her nipples were large and thrusting within the taut fabric. Lesley guessed they must be as purple as the depths of her eyes.

  Abruptly Nick said: ‘That’s Beth, right?’

  There was a startling contrast between the darkness of Morwenna and the slimmer, pale beauty of the figure moving past her.

  ‘Right this time,’ she agreed. ‘Try not to steam up the glass.’

  Beth’s pale blue one-piece clung to each unselfconscious move, emphasizing the slight sway of her hips as she headed for the edge of the pool. Her hair was almost golden in the light from above, and runnels of light gleamed down her arms as she reached up with them, swayed, and dived in, a shimmering streak under the surface.

  Morwenna seemed for a moment reluctant to follow. Haunted by her husband, drowned those thousands of miles away, all those long months away? Then she launched herself, and Lesley had a ridiculous vision of her as a dark killer in pursuit of its pale prey.

  Randal Grant had been crouching at the end of the pool in maroon swimming trunks, taking a sequence of pictures. He waited for Beth’s head to emerge from the water, wiping water from her eyes and smiling up at him; then set his Canon carefully on the corner shelf before plunging in beside her.

  Suddenly Ogilvie’s arms began to thrash wildly. It was difficult to tell whether he was in genuine difficulties, suffering a sudden cramp, or whether he simply wanted an excuse to grab the nearest shapely woman. He clawed at Morwenna Ross, and got his fingers snarled in the strap of her costume, wrenching it off her shoulder. She dragged herself free, colliding with Beth. Together they floundered away from Ogilvie and hauled themselves out of the water.

  Close to Lesley’s ear, Nick said: ‘Do those two get on together?’

  ‘Part of the team. Morwenna’s senior, but Beth has belonged in the Edinburgh office a lot longer, and knows the local ropes. Seem to get on all right, anyway. Why?’

  Morwenna did seem to be turning impatiently, angrily away from Beth. Even from this distance Lesley could see Beth flinch; see her eyes widen, while Morwenna reached up with the sort of affronted modesty you wouldn’t expect between two women, dragging the strap over her breast with her right hand and hurrying into one of the cubicles. Beth stood very still for a moment, then looked down into the water as if to plunge back in again. Instead, she went off to change.

  Behind the spectators in the bar there was a sudden flurry as two drinkers were pushed aside and a newcomer arrived, even more extravagantly dressed than Mrs Ogilvie. Nadine Ferguson came to a standstill before James Fergus Ross with her arms spread wide, pleading.

  ‘James. Can you ever forgive me? I just had to come. After this dreadful business, I simply had to come and see whether —’

  ‘How much did it cost you to have that phoney rubbed out, Nadine?’

  ‘James, it was nothing to do with me. I swear it. But I can swear, too, that there’s many a time I’ve wished it. I felt so guilty. He only wanted me in order to undermine you.’

  ‘For God’s sake get this creature —’

  ‘Please, my dear. Please. Can we just get away somewhere private, just for a few minutes? Just so we can talk?’

  ‘Who the h
ell let her in?’ Ross’s clenched hands struggled to push himself upright in his chair.

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like more than to look after you, my darling, now that you’ll need —’

  ‘Where’s Ogilvie? Never around when you want him.’

  It was difficult to look tactfully away, but Nick and Lesley edged closer to the far end of the bar. A tall figure strode past them and loomed over the group, just fractionally taller than even old Jamie’s minders.

  ‘Jacques Hunter,’ murmured Lesley to Nick. ‘The real power behind the throne, I think.’

  It was only a matter of seconds before Nadine Ferguson was escorted, waving her arms and crying out in spasms like a hiccupping seagull, out of the bar. A few more seconds, and Ross was clutching his second tumbler of Valleyfield.

  Beth appeared quietly beside Lesley, followed by Randal Grant with his camera. ‘Did you see … from where you are, could you …’ She shook her head, at a loss for words, and took Lesley’s arm to steady herself.

  ‘Girl talk?’ said Nick. ‘All right, I’ll turn a deaf ear while I get you a drink. What’s it to be?’

  As he headed for the bar and Randal moved towards old Jamie, raising his camera, Lesley said: ‘Just what did go on down there? That clumsy oaf Ogilvie doing a grampus act — or was he having a bit of a grope?’

  ‘Just doing one of his hearty acts to impress his wife, and slipped. But … from up here, could you see?’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Morwenna. Just above her left breast. A great purple bruise. A dreadful blotch, poor woman. The clear outline of a horseshoe.’

  ‘Just a minute. You mean, like —’

  There was a sudden shout from old Mr Ross, further along the bar. ‘And who the hell are you? D’you work for me?’

  ‘Not on your regular staff, no, sir.’

  ‘Then who are you? And what are you crouching down there for?’

  ‘Randal Grant, sir. I’ve been contracted to take the photographs for this occasion. Now, I’d say this was your best profile.’ Randal was down on one knee, tilting the Canon upwards.

  ‘I’ll bet you’ve got a profile just like it.’

  ‘If you’ll just look up at the bottles on that top shelf —’

  ‘Looks like you’ve grown a beard. Your brother tried it once, but it was just one hell of a mess. Remember?’

  ‘I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘Not any longer, no. Went overboard. Look, son, my sight may not be too good any longer, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. I know that voice. Ought to. Heard it whining and complaining often enough. Grown up now, are we, David?’

  14

  This time DCI Rutherford felt that the questioning would be better done in a proper interview room rather than in surroundings too comfortable for the suspect. Not that the man was, technically, a suspect. Not quite yet. Just still helping the police with their inquiries. But Rutherford wanted those inquiries pressed a bit less courteously.

  Starting with one shifty aspect of the whole business.

  ‘Right, Mr Grant. Or is it Mr Ross?’

  ‘I’ve got used to being Randal Grant for a long time now.’

  ‘We may have to apply in due course for confirmation of the name under which we … well, call you in court as a witness, or whatever.’

  ‘‘Whatever’ meaning being charged with murder?’

  ‘We hope not,’ said Rutherford insincerely.

  The interviewee was provided with a chair as uncomfortable as possible, its seat just narrow enough to make it necessary to clench one’s buttocks in order not to slide to one side or the other. And although the phrase ‘interrogation room’ was officially frowned on, everybody in the nick privately favoured it over ‘interview room’, and behaved accordingly.

  ‘This revelation of your real identity,’ Rutherford went on, ‘does cast an interesting new light on the case, doesn’t it?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, are you going to tell me that Mrs Ferguson didn’t know full well who you were when you photographed her house?’

  ‘She certainly didn’t. Didn’t recognize me.’

  ‘Odd, wasn’t it? I mean, maybe that beard of yours is recent, but —’

  ‘I’d left home before my father was stupid enough to marry that creature. And just before my brother married. Until now I’ve stayed well away from the lot of them. I preferred a different way of life.’

  ‘But now you’re regretting it. You want to win your way back into your father’s good books. And your stepmother was finding out she’d made a mistake, and wanted to get back with your father. Both of you could have agreed to sink your differences and get Ferguson out of the way.’

  ‘I’ve told you, we didn’t even know one another.’

  ‘Then what’s the alternative? For some reason you wheedled your way into her house on the pretence that a magazine had commissioned you to do a feature. But it hadn’t, had it?’

  ‘I wanted to wheedle my way, as you put it, into getting a commission from the Ross Foundation. Impress them with my talent.’

  ‘And get back close to your father. Maybe not just pictures, but hoping to please him by removing his hated old rival?’

  ‘Do stick to one accusation at a time, Chief Inspector. If you’re going to charge me with murder, go ahead and stop wasting time. Yours and mine.’

  ‘All in good time, Mr … mm … Grant. Now, while you’re on the premises, would you have any objection to our taking those finger-prints?’

  ‘None whatsoever. I’ll provide you with the DNA and urine samples as well, if that’ll amuse you.’

  ‘Murder’s a serious business, Mr Grant. Not at all amusing. What’s the betting we find your fingerprints on the murder weapon?’

  ‘Meaning the totem pole head?’

  ‘So you know that was the weapon.’

  ‘Of course I know. I was the one who found the body, and saw that right beside it. I didn’t need to be a detective to see which blunt instrument had done the deed.’

  ‘And you handled the wooden head? Picked it up?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Not then.’

  ‘Ah. But earlier?’

  ‘Much earlier. When I was taking pictures in that room. I had to move it into a better light.’

  That, of course, would be what any competent defence counsel would say on his client’s behalf. Rutherford groaned inwardly. It would be difficult to refute.

  ‘So,’ Grant went on, ‘of course there’ll be my fingerprints on the damn thing. As well as somebody else’s, maybe.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And your experts will no doubt be able to decide which are the more recent.’

  Rutherford longed to jolt this know-all out of his complacency. Yet at the same time he couldn’t disagree with anything he had said so far. Forensics would have to sort out where the prints were in relation to one another and to the bloodstains and strands of hair, maybe superimposed one on the other. Whatever the results, there were still the imponderables: the whole tie-up between this so-called Grant, old man Ross, the widow Ferguson, and maybe somehow that Crichton girl, all seeming suspicious, but all too vague. He wasn’t confident of pushing this much further; yet couldn’t see any other direction worth pursuing.

  There was a rap at the door, and a uniformed officer leaned round it. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there’s a lady in reception says she’s got something from Lockhart House that’ll interest you.’

  Rutherford debated whether to let the young man sit here and stew for a while, and then come back to him. But Grant — or Ross, or whatever — was getting to his feet. Short of charging him, Rutherford had no means of preventing him leaving.

  He came up with at any rate an implicit warning. ‘You’re not thinking of leaving Edinburgh?’

  ‘I’ve already told you that. Right now, I’m just printing out my pictures through the computer, and I aim to go round and see about collecting my fee.’

  ‘Don’t sp
end it on any holidays abroad, Mr … er … Ross.’

  ‘I prefer to remain Randal Grant.’

  They walked out together. Rutherford had half expected the lady waiting for him to be Mrs Ferguson, and was bracing himself for hysterical demands as to why he had not arrested the murderer, whoever it might be. Instead, it was Lesley Torrance. As Randal Grant nodded politely and headed for the street door, she said: ‘No, don’t go. Please. You may be able to confirm something for us. Do you remember this?’

  She was holding a small silver brooch in the palm of her left hand. Grant bent over it, and then made way for Rutherford.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ asked Rutherford.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Grant made another inspection. ‘It was in the Fergusons’ collection. It’s at the side of one of my close-ups. In the … let’s see … the North American room, I think.’

  ‘Odd place to put it. I’d have thought it belonged —’

  ‘Could have been taken over by emigrants from Wester Ross, maybe, and later brought back to Scotland by one of the Ferguson family.’

  ‘Just what the hell is it?’ demanded Rutherford impatiently.

  ‘A witch-brooch,’ said Lesley. ‘To keep witches and child-snatching fairies at bay.’

  ‘An expensive piece for a crofting family to own, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘Just possible for a skilful relative to make for them in the days when they were still working the land and saving up over a period of time. It would have been a family treasure.’

  ‘Look, what made you think I’d be interested?’

  ‘A robbery from Lockhart House is pretty interesting, isn’t it?’ said Lesley. ‘Especially as it obviously took place after Ferguson’s murder. Because it was still there beforehand, when this gentleman took those photographs.’

  ‘How did you come to get your hands on it?’

  ‘It was offered to a dealer friend of mine who knew I was acquiring material for old Mr Ross’s project.’

  ‘And he got it — how?’

  ‘He was a bit hazy about that.’