Death by Marzipan

by John Burke

  ‘I’ll be responsible for her,’ said Greg. ‘I’ll book her into the Tam Lin, and I’ll be responsible for her.’

  Lesley studied him suspiciously. ‘There’s no vacancy there at the moment. We both know that.’

  ‘In any case’ — Caroline overruled any other possibility — ‘she stays here. In her own home. Our home from now on.’

  There was another phone call to hold Lesley up. Rutherford was on the line, rejoicing that he was on Ishbel Dacre’s trail. The local lads had traced her to a car rental firm — ‘And, would you believe it, her father showed up there and went off in one hell of a rush after her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lesley, ‘I do believe it. They’re both here right now. Her father’s just brought her in.’

  Rutherford was not going to admit to being deflated. ‘Right. Don’t let them out of your sight. If that girl tries to do a runner, bung her into a cell somewhere.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Use your imagination, Lez.’ He switched to another accomplishment where he was on firmer ground. ‘We’ve hauled Veitch in. After leaving the Crombie woman, he was traced to a security firm. A dodgy one, run by two ex-coppers. Both known by their old colleagues to be bent.’

  ‘Capable of hiring out as contract killers at short notice?’

  ‘Take it easy, Lez. I’m with you on that, but the timing’s a bit tight. I aim to find out just what they’ve all been playing at. But as of this moment he’s not in any mood to co-operate. Playing the high and mighty. Refusing to answer a single simple question until his brief shows up. But we’ll break him. And then I’ll be back to see this Dacre girl. Nothing like getting all our suspects into the same shopping trolley, hey?’

  *

  The High Street in Galashiels was being dug up, so Lesley had to weave her way round back streets to find the police station above the Gala Water, swollen and tumultuous with storm water coming down from the hills.

  She was greeted by a middle-aged inspector who eyed her appreciatively but then stiffened into formality and spoke crisply and impersonally. Somebody must have been delivering lectures about sexual harassment in the Force. ‘His name’s Fenwick. Jackie Fenwick. Came onto our manor from Gateshead five or six years ago after a career of petty crime along the Tyne.’

  ‘Another forged card, like the last one?’

  ‘Oh, no, this is a genuine one. Nicked this very morning in the hope of putting it to immediate use. But the owner noticed within minutes that he’d lost it, and notified the card protection company. Fenwick’s been trying it on in a small supermarket, one of a local chain. Cramped space, like so many wee stores nowadays. Haven’t quite got the hang of it yet. Our little weasel hoped to catch them on the hop and slip through. Nice full basket at their checkout, and then at the last minute he wanted a bottle of Bell’s and twenty cigarettes from the shelf behind the girl, so that she’d get confused when punching the codes into the machine, and he added to that by chatting her up and distracting her. Fancied himself as a ladies’ man, by her account.’

  ‘But she didn’t fall for it?’

  ‘She’s the daughter of the owner. Scared stiff of what her father would say if she let someone get away with a fast one. She had the door shut on him and the phone ringing a whole lot faster than she rang up his kipper paste and haggis.’

  Lesley was given an interview room, and a uniformed constable brought the suspect in. Peeling off the wrappings from a cassette, he started the machine and ran through the familiar routine of date, time, and those present.

  Fenwick was a wiry, lean-featured man in a lumberjack shirt, black leather jacket, and frayed jeans. He was goodlooking in a raffish kind of way, and had what he himself would doubtless have described as a roguish twinkle in his eye. He smirked as he perched on the uncomfortable metal chair. I’ve been through all this before, his attitude proclaimed: it’s small beer, a petty offence, I know the score. Maybe a couple of months. Might even get away with a fine, the prisons being too full to take me. Probably not, but nothing to get het up about either way.

  Lesley said: ‘You realise that you are still under caution, Mr Ross.’

  The constable blinked at her. ‘Inspector, we’ve just put his name on tape — John James Fenwick.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Fenwick jauntily.

  ‘Also known as Mr Ross, though. To Mrs Dunbar, that is.’

  ‘I’m not acquainted with any Mrs Dunbar.’ Fenwick’s Geordie accent was also meant to be lovable, with an engaging lisp. ‘Is that to be regretted, would you say, bonny lass?’

  ‘Your prints were all over that cottage up Ettrickbridge way. And all over this credit card you’ve been silly enough to flash around.’

  ‘Cottage, bonny lass?’

  ‘I’m not your bonny lass.’

  ‘More’s the pity.’

  ‘You may be interested to know that the loot from Baldonald House has been found.’

  ‘Wherever that may be. I’m sorry, pet, but I’m not with you.’

  ‘And I imagine your prints will be on some of those paintings as well, when you were helping carry them out.’

  ‘Now, look, I never carried no paintings. Never set foot inside the house.’

  ‘No, of course you didn’t,’ smiled Lesley. ‘Silly of me. You were only the decoy, weren’t you? Luring poor Mrs Dunbar out of the way while the others got on with it.’

  Fenwick’s jauntiness was fading. He was looking aggrieved, his twinkle giving way to the soulful, hurt innocence of a bullied mongrel. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t know any Mrs Dunbar.’

  ‘And did you have any hand in getting Simon Pringle out of the way as well?’

  ‘I know nothing about that either. No way am I going to have any murder rap pinned on me.’

  ‘So you know about the murder?’

  ‘Why aye, I … read about it. But it didn’t mean anything to me.’

  ‘Yet the moment I mentioned it, you associated it at once with what we’d already been talking about. Because you do know that neighbourhood, don’t you?’

  ‘I need a brief.’

  ‘I’ll ask the duty sergeant to contact the duty solicitor. Unless you have one of your own?’

  ‘Look, pet, you’ve got me all wrong.’

  ‘And while we’re sending for a solicitor, I think we’ll send for Mrs Dunbar, too. To identify you. Or, of course, to clear your good name.’

  It was difficult to sag on that small, straight-backed chair, but Fenwick managed it.

  ‘Look, I’m not going to get picked on while the rest of them walk away. If you want the big boys —’

  ‘So you do work with some big boys?’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘No deals. But,’ said Lesley very carefully, knowing the constable’s eyes were fixed on her, and the tape would puritanically confirm any attempt to lean too hard on the suspect, ‘the fact that you were only a small cog in a rather nasty machine might tell in your favour. If you could tell us how the rest of the machine worked.’

  ‘Well, it was kinky, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Kinky?’

  ‘I mean, setting up a gang to rob your own house, the way she did.’

  It took a further half-hour to extract from him everything he knew. Even that was partly speculation: it was true that he had only played a small part on the fringes; but in spite of his plea to be let off lightly because of that, it went against the grain to admit his insignificance. He could not help boasting, claiming the acquaintance of the real big boys, knowing their methods, and knowing their programme for the rest of the year.

  Lesley leaned forward across the table. ‘Programme? What’s next?’

  Fenwick wavered between fear at how much he had given away and the desire to show off even further.

  ‘Well,’ he hedged, ‘I do know there’s going to be this funeral.’

  ‘Is that a euphemism for a killing?’

  ‘A you-what?’

  She thought of Rutherford’s suspicions abou
t Sir Michael Veitch. ‘A contract killing? Some gangland rivalry?’

  ‘No, some big local funeral. Some big cheese.’

  ‘Lord Crombie?’

  ‘That’d be it. Aiming to hit the target that day, when all the nobs are at the service in Selkirk. In and out fast, sawn off shotguns, wire cutters, get the best pieces. Sod the burglar alarms. Ten minutes and they’re away.’

  ‘More violent this time?’

  ‘Why, aye. A shot up the arse for anyone who interferes. Has to be fast, because this time they won’t be getting the layout all spelt out for em by the lady of the house, will they? A commando raid, the way I hear it.’

  ‘Taking lessons from those French steal-to-order operators blasting their way into the châteaux,’ Lesley mused.

  ‘I diwa knaw about that. But it’s going to be hard hitting.’

  ‘And where will this be aimed at?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know the names of these places. All I heard —’

  ‘Just tell us everything you heard.’

  ‘It’s got to be worth my while.’

  ‘If you don’t talk,’ said Lesley affably, ‘it’s hard to assess just what will be worth your while.’

  Jackie Fenwick sagged still further. He knew he had already gone too far. Too far, Lesley prayed silently, for him to scuttle back now.

  *

  Greg felt drained. He was tired, longing for bed, longing to get away from this place altogether, have a long sleep and then take up real life somewhere else.

  Caroline and Ishbel were side by side on the settee in the snug together, looking unreasonably contented. Just being together was enough for them. He wanted to ask how the hell his daughter could have fallen into Simon Pringle’s clutches when all the time this was her real passion. But he could predict that questions would mean getting involved in an intense discussion, and he’d had enough of intensity these last few weeks.

  Time, when he could summon up the energy, to get out of here, into his car, and drive through the late evening darkness to the Tam Lin before they closed the doors for the night.

  Caroline was saying: ‘I couldn’t really turn him down. I’ll have to unpick things with the minister in Selkirk, but he’ll probably be delighted to find himself conducting the service in the Westerlaw Castle chapel.’

  ‘They’re really going to miss your father,’ said Ishbel fondly. ‘Me, too.’

  ‘Sir Lachlan wanted to take over all the arrangements, but I told him that was still my job. He’ll put his chapel at our disposal for the ceremony. Still in lovely condition, unlike our own. And then we drive back to Baldonald and lay the coffin in the vault. And seal it up. I don’t think there are going to be any more Crombies.’

  ‘Certainly none like your father.’

  Their fingers intertwined.

  Greg was getting drowsier. He tried to pull himself together. ‘Look, this all sounds very decent and generous and the way it ought to be. But what about the important things?’

  ‘What’s so important?’

  ‘Simon’s death. And Brigid’s death.’

  ‘That will all have to wait.’

  ‘But any time now they’ll both be back — those two detectives, Rutherford and the Gunn girl. They’ll have a lot of questions to ask. I mean, Ishbel —’

  ‘I can give Ishbel an alibi,’ said Caroline. ‘Caro, I don’t want you to let yourself in for —’

  ‘You were with me,’ said Caroline. ‘I’m prepared to swear to that.’

  ‘On both occasions?’ said Greg blearily. ‘Both murders?’

  ‘Both. And not just then. Every night,’ said Caroline ardently.

  Greg stirred himself. He kissed Ishbel, who patted his cheek with her right hand — not so much in filial affection as in vague pity — and nodded to Caroline, who said: ‘Don’t worry too much, Mr Dacre. I’ll see no harm comes to Ishbel.’

  The wind was bouncing off the gable end of the inn as he parked on the hard shoulder alongside a small car silhouetted against the pale light through the curtained window. He had hauled his bag out of the boot and turned towards the side door when it was opened for him.

  ‘Since you were kind enough to provide me with your change of address,’ said Kate, ‘I thought it was high time I came up to see whether you needed bailing from some Scottish dungeon.’

  ‘You’ve driven up today — all at one go?’

  The wind howled through his teeth, and he clutched at the door jamb. Kate took his arm and dragged him indoors.

  ‘After your call, I found the phone number here and tried ringing you. But you hadn’t shown up. And when I tried Baldonald House, you’d dashed off somewhere in a hurry. I didn’t like the sound of it.’

  They went into the bar. Two regulars lingered on stools at the end. The landlord, leaning towards them, did not look round as Kate closed the door.

  ‘Gregory Dacre,’ said Greg as commandingly as possible. ‘I believe you have a room for me. Sorry to be so late, but things have been happening.’

  ‘Aye, so we hear.’

  ‘Perhaps a couple of drams while we get our breath back?’

  The landlord poured two large Longmorns.

  They perched on the two remaining bar stools, and Kate took a long, appreciative mouthful.

  ‘My friend’s had a long journey. You’ve got accommodation for tonight?’

  ‘There’s only the one room free, and you’re the one booked into that.’

  ‘That’ll do fine.’

  ‘I’m nae so sure. We’re still no’ used to those ways up here.’

  One of the regulars at the end spluttered over his glass. ‘Och come off it, Angus. What about those twa walkers last April? Ye’ll no’ be telling us you thought they were rightly wed?’

  ‘Well, that was a wee bit special.’

  ‘And when young Roberston was trying out Susan before deciding to marry her? Man, you’ve done as thriving a trade as Gretna Green, wi’ nae bother about a blacksmith.’

  ‘Och, well maybe …’

  Greg put his hand over Kate’s. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘Stopped for a quick coffee and a pastry, that’s all.’

  Greg looked at the landlord, who made no suggestion of providing a meal at this late hour.

  ‘You’re not hungry?’

  Kate glanced towards the door at the foot of the stairs. ‘Depends what you mean by hungry.’

  18

  During the night the wind became ferocious. Sagging roofs of old barns were lifted, shredded, and scattered over the fields. Power lines and telephone lines came down in a tangle. In the morning, Lesley Gunn arrived at Baldonald House in the company of one of the WPCs with a festoon of twigs and torn leaves wrapped into her car’s windscreen wipers, and a scratch across the offside panel where a branch had lashed out as they passed. In the house there was no electricity, and daylight was too feeble to reach into far corners of the rooms. Mrs Dunbar had instructed young Drew to light fires in the library and the sitting-room, and place paraffin lamps on a table in each. DCI Rutherford phoned on his mobile to report hold-ups at two blocked roads. He would have to find a longer way round. Lesley predicted he would be in a foul temper and would undoubtedly expect a report on the Dacre girl the moment he did get through, and be in a mood to tear it to shreds.

  She would have preferred to interview Ishbel Dacre formally in the mobile incident room, but the gale had lifted it from underneath and tilted it so that the floor slanted too steeply for it to be occupied. It would have to be the library.

  There were four of them present. Because the tape recorder was not functioning, and there was no sign of a portable recorder as a stopgap, Lesley, had settled the WPC in a corner with a notebook. And Caroline had insisted that since the detective inspector had the backing of a uniformed officer, Ishbel was entitled to a legal representative or a friend to safeguard her interests.

  ‘It looks as if it would take time for any solicitor to get through at the moment,’ Lesley point
ed out.

  ‘Then I must insist that you let me sit in. Just to make sure that Miss Dacre is not subjected to unreasonable pressure, and that her evidence isn’t twisted to suit police prejudices.’

  ‘Miss Crombie, I’ve no intention of fitting Miss Dacre up. We want to establish the truth, and that’s the way it will be.’

  Caroline sat at an angle with her elbow propped on the table, alert and ready to protest at any transgression.

  Lesley aimed to keep it as conversational as possible. ‘Now, Miss Dacre, you knew the late Simon Pringle.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I understand he had at one stage been your mother’s second husband.’

  ‘That’s right, yes.’

  ‘And what precisely was your relationship with him?’

  ‘He was … my stepfather, of course.’

  ‘Of course. But after that — after he and your mother had split up?’

  ‘I … I felt sorry for him. We lived together for a while.’

  ‘It was an aberration,’ Caroline burst out. ‘Utterly stupid.’ She stared at Ishbel almost with loathing, contradicted in seconds by a forgiving, compassionate smile. ‘Seeking a father figure, perhaps.’

  That would have made Gregory Dacre wince, thought Lesley.

  She studied the two of them: just like a married couple, swinging between mutual irritation over a lingering dispute and long-standing mutual devotion.

  ‘Stupid,’ Ishbel echoed. ‘Yes, it was. I soon realised that.’

  ‘But you didn’t immediately break off the relationship and go back to …’ Lesley hesitated, glancing at Caroline, but then amending it: ‘To your mother?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to be beholden to her.’

  ‘But you must have felt … how shall I put …’

  ‘Defiled,’ said Caroline. ‘What else could she have felt?’

  ‘Miss Crombie, will you please leave this to me. Miss Dacre —’

  ‘All right, yes. I felt defiled.’

  ‘So badly that you were prepared to wipe him out — kill him.’