Cradle to Grave

by Aline Templeton

  Susan was inclined to be indignant. ‘There was no need for her to sneak off like that. We wouldn’t have stopped her doing what she wanted to do. And it would have been nice if she’d thanked you. She’d have drowned if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter. I’m not entirely sure how grateful she was anyway. Lisa’s had a sad, difficult life and I don’t think conventional courtesy has featured in it much. She seemed very fragile last night. I just hope she knows what she’s doing.’

  ‘Should we tell the police, do you think?’ Susan suggested. ‘You said she told you they wanted to know exactly where she was.’

  Jan considered for a moment, then said no. ‘I promised her I would keep her confidence as far as possible. If the police want to speak to her, of course we must tell them what’s happened, but they didn’t ask either you or me to keep them informed.’

  Susan, in awe of Jan’s superior intellect, allowed herself to be convinced. ‘And if that man from the press turns up, I’ll tell him I never heard of her,’ she said with a little more relish. ‘Now, I’ll let you get on. And drink that coffee before it gets cold.’

  But after her friend had left, Jan sat staring into space for a long time, thinking about a damaged, vulnerable girl who had turned her back on the offer of friendship that might have helped her sort out her life.

  Lisa took the money from the ATM, then looked at her watch. She’d spent a long time over her breakfast and it was late enough now for them to realise she had left Rowantrees Hotel. They might even have phoned the police. She should get herself on a train before they started looking for her.

  She’d planned to go to the High Street for her shopping, but Lisa spotted a funny, old-fashioned ladies’ outfitter with cheap jeans in the window; she could get knickers there too, and it would be quicker. She crossed the road and went in.

  Twenty yards behind her, a dark-haired man stopped and swore, much to the indignation of a passing Dumfries matron. He walked past on the other side, then crossed to look in the uninspiring window of the gents’ outfitter next door, as if the display of socks, ties and checked flannelette shirts were of absorbing interest.

  Still no sign of her. He went back to the other side of the road, parked himself beside the entrance to an office and lit up a cigarette. He smoked it as slowly as he could, but when it was right down to the filter, she still hadn’t emerged. He dropped the butt and viciously ground it out with his foot.

  Was she trying on clothes, maybe? The window display didn’t suggest much that would detain a young woman.

  A sudden cold thought gripped him. Abandoning caution, he dived across the road and looked in the window. Instead of the dingy interior he had expected, he could see right through to a street behind.

  He was sure she hadn’t seen him. Unintentionally, probably, his quarry had left by a door on the far side. He wasn’t paid the sort of money he always demanded to make mistakes, and this one was elementary.

  He swore again, this time earning a scandalised ‘Well, really!’ from two young mums passing with buggies. He ran back to the car.

  22

  ‘I need a pot of yellow chrysanthemums,’ DI Purves said, as he parked outside the superstore in Girvan.

  DI Fleming smiled. ‘Present for the wife?’

  ‘Not exactly, though if I pay for it myself, she might get it in the end. No, it’s so Dave can recognise us. We’re meeting here because you’re a busy woman who has to combine business and running the home. So you’d better buy some stuff.’

  ‘Bread and loo rolls,’ Fleming said, following him in. ‘We’re forever running out. Meet you in the café.’

  There was a woman she recognised standing near the entrance, scanning the news-stand. She was looking towards the door, but as the two officers came in, her eyes slid away and she bent to pick up a magazine and flipped it open.

  One of theirs, on duty, obviously. What was this operation doing to the budget, and what would have to be cut to pay for it, Fleming wondered, as she collected her groceries. She added milk to her short list – they were always running out of that too – then went to the checkout.

  The café was fairly quiet. An elderly man and woman were sitting by the window, staring out in silence and ignoring each other as they sipped their tea and ate pastries. Two women, with piles of shopping bags on the floor beside them, were having an animated conversation, punctuated by bursts of laughter, and there was a little group of young mothers round a corner table with assorted offspring. It was hard to imagine any of them taking any interest in the elaborate charade that was about to be performed at the table where DI Purves was sitting.

  He half rose as Fleming approached. ‘That’s what you told me to get, isn’t it?’ he said, indicating the pot of yellow flowers.

  Entering into the spirit of the thing, Fleming sighed. ‘I did say pink, but never mind.’ She dumped her purchases on the floor and sat down.

  There was a tray with three little pots of tea and three mugs on the table, along with a couple of packets of biscuits. ‘I thought I’d take a chance on tea,’ Purves said. ‘OK?’

  ‘Fine.’ Fleming picked up one of the pots and filled a mug, peering dubiously at the colour of the liquid. ‘I hope his won’t be cold. I wonder how long he’ll be.’

  ‘Four minutes, give or take,’ Purves said.

  She hadn’t expected so precise an answer. ‘You’re certainly keeping tabs on him. I saw young Thomson at the magazines on the way in.’

  ‘We don’t take chances with stuff like this. So far so good, anyway, and none of this lot look alarming. We’ll just have to check on anyone who comes in afterwards. Ah! That looks like our man now.’

  Fleming watched as Purves got up and walked over to a slight man with a row of earrings in one ear, looking hesitant at the entrance to the café. She heard him say, ‘Dave? Ah, good. I’m Bob, Mrs Hay’s foreman. You’re right on time – she’ll like that.’

  The girl behind the counter looked at them incuriously and then went back to her conversation with the kitchen staff.

  Fleming recognised the man at once. He was a petty criminal, with a minor record; the only time he had been in real trouble was when he was charged with driving the getaway car for a bank robbery. He was identified, but Fleming discovered there had been irregularities in the administration of the identity parade and, to the distinct displeasure of the arresting officer, had disclosed this to the defence. Since the man had in all probability been guilty, he certainly did have reason to be grateful to her.

  By the time they reached her, she had the documents spread out on the table. She got up. ‘Dave. Thanks for coming. And I need a good timekeeper, so you’ve made a fine start.’

  If anyone was interested, it was a good cover story for the man’s obvious nervousness. When Fleming shook his hand, she could feel that he was trembling, and he kept licking dry lips as she asked routine questions about his journey.

  They were at a table in the far corner of the café with no one near them, and no one at any of the other tables had even turned their head. The elderly couple got up and left, still in silence, and a woman arrived with two noisy children demanding cokes and burgers.

  After a couple of minutes Purves said, ‘Let’s not waste time. What have you got to tell us?’

  Yet again Dave licked his lips. He looked towards Fleming and said, ‘You’ll see me right, won’t you, miss? Won’t let them drop me in it?’

  ‘No, I promise they won’t. They’re being very careful of you – you can be sure of that.’

  He gave her a long, measuring look, then sighed. ‘I’d rather trust you than the rest of them. And I suppose I’ve done it now, anyway.’

  He began his story. He had been a driver for Gillis Crozier, chauffeuring guests when he was at Rosscarron and at other times collecting goods that came in to Stranraer on the Irish ferry. They were always boxes of American DVDs, Dave said. He would be told what the name and address on the packages would be and given the
appropriate documentation, but whatever the address was, he had to take the delivery to Rosscarron House if Gillis Crozier was there, or to a post office to be sent to his London office if he wasn’t. Then a couple of weeks later, maybe, the same goods would go back to Ireland, but to a company with a different name from the one they had come from.

  ‘You could maybe think it was just business,’ Dave said, ‘but I was aye given instructions I was not to do this and I was not to do that and I was to keep my gob shut, or else—’ He looked nervously over his shoulder as he said that, as if the threatened retribution might be on hand.

  ‘Carousel fraud?’ Purves said, and Dave nodded.

  ‘There was a big case a wee while ago and I realised.’

  Carousel fraud – Fleming remembered reading about the case too, and she knew there was serious money involved, but she had only the haziest idea of how it worked. She’d have to ask Purves for elucidation on the way home.

  ‘I was getting real scared,’ Dave went on. ‘Lloyd’s in on this and he’s one of the big bosses in Glasgow – you don’t get across him. I’d driven him sometimes, and Driscoll would come on the ferry from Ireland for meetings and I’d driven him too. There were foreigners at the house sometimes, as well.

  ‘So they all knew me, and I knew quite a wee bit about them. If you’re a driver, folk just forget you’re there. When I heard you lot were asking questions, I knew I’d need to get out. They’d give me a going-over just as a warning not to say anything – they’re like that. They might just make sure I couldn’t.

  ‘And then yesterday I saw Badger Black in Kirkluce.’ He gave an involuntary shudder.

  The two officers looked at him blankly. ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ Purves said, and Fleming shook her head.

  ‘It wouldn’t. He’s the best,’ Dave said. ‘Hitman – never been caught or even questioned. Costs a bomb. But if he’s here, he’s here to do business. There’s someone they’re wanting rid of.’

  He had no idea who it might be. Purves went on asking questions, getting details of times and places, but Fleming hardly heard another word he said. She was remembering the look of fear in Hepburn’s eyes as he stood staring at the one-way panel, heard again his words to her: I really, really want you to change your mind. For your own sake. I’ll even say please.

  He’d known all along that Lisa Stewart was holding out on them, that there was something important there, and maybe if they’d brought her in instead of going along with Kershaw’s touchy-feely approach, they’d have got it out of her. As DS MacNee drove to the Rowantrees Hotel, he was kicking himself, too, for not going in harder right at the start.

  She’d seen Gillis Crozier going into the little wood where he met his death. From the level ground on top of the rise where Nico had noticed her standing, she could even see right in among the trees – MacNee had checked it himself. So had Lisa witnessed the murder, or . . . ?

  She’d been out walking, by herself, from the sound of it. Nico had been definite there had been no pushchair, and it would have been clearly visible from below. She’d told MacNee the baby had been with her, though – had she hoped this would sound less suspicious? And if she’d felt the need to lie about that, had she done more than just watch?

  Nico couldn’t say. He’d gone back into the house just after he’d seen her, with what he suspected was unease at the thought of encountering her. You couldn’t call him a reliable witness in general, but this was convincingly circumstantial.

  Then it struck him. After Crozier entered the spinney, it would have taken five minutes, maximum, to reach the field above. Lisa had been on the hill, with no time to reach him before he got to the other end. She couldn’t have got into position in time to kill him herself, but she had almost certainly seen who had. And that had been the secret he had sensed – she had been scared to tell them what they needed to know, in case she herself became the prime suspect. This time MacNee wasn’t going to pussyfoot around. He was going to hit her with it right away, smack between the eyes.

  She’d picked a nice billet anyway. He swung the car in through the gates under the rowan trees and parked on the wide gravel expanse in front of the hotel. He noticed a grey-haired woman sitting at the window of the room to the right of the front door, who craned her neck as he approached. Was he imagining it or had his arrival somehow unsettled her?

  He went into the hall and pinged the brightly polished brass bell on the reception desk. The smell of furniture polish was familiar: it was the one Bunty always used to use. His house was smelling of dust and neglect now, and he was having to clear his throat when a woman appeared, wearing an unconvincing smile.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He produced his warrant card. ‘DS MacNee. I believe you’ve someone called Lisa Stewart staying here?’

  There was no mistaking the reaction he had provoked this time. The woman’s face flared as she stammered, ‘Oh – oh dear! Yes – well, I mean no, not really.’

  ‘And you are . . . ?’

  ‘Susan Telford. My husband and I own the hotel.’

  ‘And Lisa Stewart’s staying here – or maybe she’s not?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Susan said again. ‘It’s – it’s a little unfortunate. I’ll take you through to Dr Forbes. She’ll explain.’

  The name rang a bell. Lisa’s neighbour, who’d been injured in the cliff fall. A sensible woman, judging by the statement he’d read.

  She was the woman he had seen at the window. Her leg was in plaster and she too was looking definitely flustered. When Susan had introduced him, with a pleading look at her friend, Jan took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m afraid you may not be very pleased with us, Sergeant. Lisa Stewart has left. We debated informing you, since she said she had instructions to stay here, but we decided not to since we had no real locus in the matter.’

  MacNee could take criminals, but heaven preserve him from middle-class, middle-aged wifies who used fancy words to put him in his place! Disappointed and angry, he said stiffly, ‘That’s a pity. Where’s she gone, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry but we don’t know. There’s a bus goes past just after eight and I would guess she must have taken it.’

  ‘I only went in to check at eleven o’clock,’ Susan said, eager to be helpful. ‘I just wanted to see she was all right—’ She stopped suddenly.

  MacNee’s ears pricked up. ‘Oh? Some reason why she shouldn’t have been?’

  There was an awkward silence. Then Jan said, ‘She tried to drown herself yesterday. One of the other guests rescued her before any real harm was done, and I suspect it was just the trad-itional cry for help.’

  ‘You don’t maybe think that when someone’s disturbed like that and wanders off, that it might just be an idea to get us to look for her before she has another go?’

  Susan fluttered, ‘But you see, she left payment for the room on the table . . .’

  ‘So that was all right, then – you wouldn’t be out of pocket.’ His tone was hostile.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean . . .’ Susan protested. ‘I know it sounds . . . but I just meant—’

  ‘Mrs Telford means that Lisa made an organised departure. She had taken all her belongings and paid her dues. That didn’t suggest that she was in a distressed state and she’s an adult, after all.’ The eyes behind Jan’s spectacles were cool and unyielding.

  Getting aggressive had been a tactical error. Swallowing his annoyance, MacNee said, ‘Then I wonder if you can help me. She’s a suspect in a murder case and anything you can tell me might help us to trace her. As far as we know, she had no family?’

  Describing Lisa as a suspect had the desired effect. After exchanging a worried glance with Susan, Jan was prepared to be helpful. ‘She told me that, yes. And she had no settled home. She and her partner were constantly on the move in the past few months.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  Jan did not reply immediately. Then she said, ‘I think you had better sit down, Sergeant. Susan,
would you be very kind and bring us some tea?’

  Glad of the excuse to leave, Susan hurried out.

  ‘I promised Lisa I wouldn’t deliberately betray her confidence, but that if I were asked, I wouldn’t lie. Reluctantly, I feel I have to tell you what she told me.’

  Jan went on to tell him of Crozier’s persecution, and of Lisa’s misery about her life of lies – the ones she told and the ones told to her.

  MacNee had listened in uncharacteristic silence. Then he asked, ‘Did she say anything about being at the scene when Crozier’s murder took place?’

  Jan shook her head. ‘No. I had the distinct impression, though, that she still had secrets. I hoped that over time she might trust me enough to let me try to help her. She was certainly a very troubled soul.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though,’ she concluded, ‘I don’t believe for a moment that she murdered that baby. She’s a sad person, not a wicked one.’

  She wasn’t a bad old biddy once she unbent, MacNee reflected, as he drove back to Kirkluce. But she hadn’t been able to tell him what he needed to know: where to find Lisa. Where the hell had the woman gone?

  Lisa was possessed by a sense of urgency now. There was a train to Glasgow in ten minutes, and she’d taken a wrong turning on the way to the station and had to ask directions. She wasn’t sure how much further she had to go.

  She was still feeling nervous about the Ryans. She knew it was foolish: Jan’s explanation had made total sense, but she found she wasn’t quite able to shake off a fatalistic belief in their power to find her. Perhaps once she was on the train on her way to Glasgow she might recapture the sense of freedom she had felt all too briefly in the café this morning.

  There was the station now, on the opposite side of the road. It wasn’t busy; she took a quick glance left and right, then hurried across.

  Lisa never saw the car that hit her. She felt it, though: agonising pain shot through her as she flew through the air. She heard a woman scream. Then there was a sickening crunch as her head hit the kerb. Then nothing.