by John Burke
Yet, like Jamie Brown, she would clearly have been even angrier if nobody had come to question her. It was so enjoyable to play it high-and-mighty while still nosing into everything that was going on. Lesley assessed her as a guttersharp go-getter. For all her pretensions, she had come from nowhere. Marriage to a Torrance had taught her how to become someone – in her own estimation. Unfortunately, in DI Gunn’s estimation she was also too blusteringly arrogant to go in for things like petty theft. And surely she wouldn’t have the contacts to dispose of the damned thing profitably. The house looked well furnished, in no need of dodgy money spent on it. And her husband a solicitor. There were crooked solicitors a-plenty; but rarely in this sort of crime.
After sounding off, Hannah Ferguson was in fact all too ready to offer advice.
‘What about Jamie Brown?’
‘I have already interviewed Mr Brown.’
‘And got his usual slimy evasions, no doubt? If ever there was a man who –’
‘Do you have reason to accuse Mr Brown of any involvement in the theft, Mrs Ferguson?’
‘I wouldn’t stoop to soil my hands.’
It conjured up an interesting vision. Lesley went on patiently: ‘What I’m really after is anything you might have seen.’
‘I saw plenty. But I could hardly be expected to see anything while the lights were out, could I? If you ask me, you could do worse than have a look at those Robsons.’
‘I have spoken to Mr and Mrs Robson.’
‘And that daughter of theirs? And their son? Shameless lot.’
‘Mrs Ferguson. Did you actually see anything during the course of the evening which could lead you to suspect anyone there?’
‘It’s not my habit to snoop on other people,’ said Hannah loftily.
‘Your husband was with you?’
‘Well, we arrived together, yes. But part of the time he was just sulking in a corner. He has little in the way of social graces, I’m sorry to say. A sorry burden.’
‘Is he around? Perhaps I might have a word with him.’
‘He’s away to Jedburgh to appear in some house repossession case. Poor folk, if they’ve got Archie against them.’ She drew in one corner of her mouth as if sucking on a toffee. ‘Or even worse if Archie’s on their side. He’ll not be back till late tomorrow.’
A ring went round Archie Ferguson’s name as a priority.
‘Not that you’ll get much sense out of him,’ concluded his wife. ‘He’ll be fussing over that emergency meeting they’ve got to have about the quaich and what to do next. As if they had any right to do anything now.’
Her fervour bordered on jubilation. She had more cause than Mrs Robson to want the ceremonies stopped, since her daughter could no longer take the leading role.
Lesley wondered if she dared apply for a search warrant. It was a bit early yet; and the thought of the avalanche of righteous abuse which would descend on her when it turned out to be a mistake made her shudder. A bit more evidence, a lot more queries, some positive, miraculous lead . . .
If only there were simply a decent, straightforward burglar who had broken in, nicked the damn thing, and would soon walk into a trap by trying to flog it for anything he could get!
*
On Friday morning Archie Ferguson was back in his office. He went quickly through the morning mail, and called Miss Elliot in to give instructions which she really didn’t need but which were part of their mutual morning ritual.
Then he turned his attention to the files on the late Sebastian Cameron, town benefactor. Last week he had begun to notice a few irregularities to be straightened out before the sale of the bookshop and disposal of its stock. They were the sort of tiny but significant details which always seized Archie’s imagination.
Two aircraft screeched over the town, low above the rooftops. One day there would be an almighty crash. Right into his own house while he was out but Hannah was in.
He had not dared to ask Hannah about Sandy Craig. But he would have to do it sooner or later. He wasn’t going to let himself be insulted this way. The slut. At first he hadn’t believed she had gone to bed with Craig. It wasn’t that he wanted to touch her himself: he found her distasteful; but he was her husband, he’d been cajoled into supporting her and giving way to all her tantrums. It was unthinkable that a swine like Sandy Craig should drift back into her life and use her. Still he hadn’t actually believed Craig’s absurd suggestions until Kirsty spoke.
When he had got home last night it was to find that Hannah was out at one of her meetings, trying to put some backbone into her ladies’ guild. He was hardly through the door when Kirsty asked what on earth her previous stepfather had been doing in the house.
‘He was in the house while you were here?’
‘He was in the hall when I got back from the doctor’s.’
‘How long had he been here?’
‘I don’t know. But what was it about? Hasn’t mother said anything?’
‘No.’
‘I heard her telling him to come and see you.’ Kirsty shuffled awkwardly. ‘They were at the foot of the stairs together.’
‘Did they look as if . . . I mean . . .’
She knew what he meant, but couldn’t answer. And he couldn’t go on asking any more questions. Nor could he summon up the courage to ask Hannah when she came home; and in any case he was hardly given the opportunity to interrupt her ravings about lily-livered women and traitors in the ranks.
Still the mortifying question went nagging away in his mind while he tried to attend to other matters at his desk today.
Miss Elliot rang through to say that Detective Inspector Gunn was in the outer office.
He had not expected to be confronted by such a trim young woman. Her questioning was as crisp and unequivocal as any he had experienced from women advocates in court. ‘I’ve already spoken to Mrs Ferguson, so I won’t need to go over that ground again.’ Was she perhaps inviting him to find out what his wife had said and then contradict it? But she went on: ‘Can you tell me exactly where you were standing when the lights went out?’
He needed only a moment to recall that. ‘Beside the lower right-hand corner of the Wilkie painting. About two yards from the door to the ante-room. I was holding the remains of a sandwich I had been eating.’
‘Did you try to put the sandwich down anywhere?’
‘No. I had no wish to drop it on the floor to get trodden on.’
‘Did anybody bump into you? Anybody hurrying, brushing past?’
‘No. I stayed perfectly still until the lights came on.’
‘And finished your sandwich.’ It was not a question but a polite assessment of his most likely behaviour.
‘I did, yes.’
‘And after that, nothing occurred; or you saw nothing which might have led you to suspect something strange?’
‘We none of us knew about the theft until the news came out in the morning. I’m sorry I can’t help.’
‘And I’m sorry to have taken up your time.’ She nodded towards the sheets spread across his desk. ‘I can see you’ve got even more paperwork to get through than I have.’
She had a firm handshake. He was pleased to feel that she trusted him. But of course she was a fellow professional, an administrator of the law: the sort of woman he ought to have met years ago.
He knew it was a routine remark, but still she made it crisply and confidingly: ‘If anything else does occur to you, Mr Ferguson, I’m sure you’ll get in touch.’
‘You may be sure of that, inspector.’
He was quite sorry to see her go. But when Miss Elliot had shown her out and then hovered in the doorway in the hope of being told what had been said, Archie Ferguson forced himself to turn back to the sheaf of stained, brittle papers. After twenty minutes his gloom began to lift. He was finding it easier and easier to concentrate. He laid each sheet reverently aside, happily anticipating the revelations of the next one.
To Miss Elliot’s amazement, he broke his u
sual routine by going without lunch. By the middle of the afternoon he had decided to go home early. He needed to prepare for the meeting this evening. But before that he had some truths to tell Hannah. And there were things to say to the emergency committee meeting which would provide them with even more of an emergency than they could ever have anticipated.
And in the middle of the pile of papers there was this other little matter to be dealt with. All tying in together, all happening wonderfully at once. He dialled for an outside line. This wasn’t for Miss Elliot’s ears. Not right now. She would learn in good time. Oh, they would all learn.
A joyful hatred was bubbling up within him.
Yet again he surprised Miss Elliot, this time by leaving early. Packing the papers carefully into his briefcase, he started laughing. It was a long time since Archie Ferguson had laughed out loud.
It was beginning to drizzle as he left. One of those days when he could have done with bringing the car. But nothing could really dampen his spirits. He thought of Hannah coming such a splendid cropper from her horse that other rainy afternoon. This time she was in for a much harder fall.
Archie headed for home in a happier, more confident mood than he had known for a long, long time.
From now on he’d be the one to call the tune.
Chapter Eight
On Saturday morning, just as Nick was finishing breakfast, Dr Hamilton showed up at Black Knowe in an old Morris Minor, tended not so much lovingly as frugally. He apologised for arriving so early but clearly regarded his mission as important enough to overcome any objections. It was his duty to report on last night’s emergency meeting to the laird. He embarked on an impersonal summary of the proceedings.
It had been argued that a substitute quaich would, in the circumstances, be tolerable. Obviously one could not do without the authentic flag, or without the chosen Bareback Lass and her own choice of Callant – Dr Hamilton looked with dubious respect at Sir Nicholas – but it could be claimed that the quaich was only a minor feature. ‘It has been put forward that the ceremonial gesture is what counts, not the specific vessel, any more than’ – he allowed himself a parched smile – ‘the Lass’s horse shall be the actual horse miraculously preserved from the 16th century.’
‘And that’s what you’ve decided?’
Dr Hamilton’s features showed signs of an ague working from within. ‘Unfortunately we ended with a split vote. For some reason as yet unexplained, our Secretary was absent.’
‘Secretary? That would be –’
‘Mr Archibald Ferguson. Most unlike him to let us down. We trust he’s not suffering from any – um – domestic misfortunes.’
Nick felt a cowardly sense of relief. They hadn’t come to a firm decision; the Riding couldn’t proceed; he could forget all the responsibilities with which he had allowed himself to be saddled.
‘It’s essential we decide today,’ Hamilton proceeded. ‘I am empowered to deliver the suggestion that the casting vote might well be yours. Our committee would respectfully accept that.’
Oh, sure, thought Nick. Like pushing him into nominating the Bareback Lass: and look at the acrimony that that was leading to! Shift the blame and then complain afterwards.
‘And if I decided against the idea of continuing, and the quaich showed up next day?’
‘Then of course we would, quite properly, continue.’
‘You’d prefer to go ahead, Dr Hamilton?’
‘I believe that well-established customs should not be overridden save in exceptional circumstances.’
‘That means you’d prefer not to go ahead.’
‘I did not say that, Sir Nicholas. I’d be reluctant to make any attempt to sway your judgment.’
Which meant that he disapproved but as a matter of principle would not commit himself. And if I decide to back the idea, thought Nick, and then it’s not the quaich that reappears but Ferguson, with a perfectly reasonable explanation for his absence, and he decides to oppose it, then there’s deadlock again.
He had dealt with difficult musicians, difficult would-be musicians, and difficult pop stars who would never be musicians; but the difficulties of these townsfolk were out of all proportion.
If they got stroppy about his casting vote in this matter, he could happily flit back over the Border, and leave them to it.
Then he thought of the shimmer of achievement in Fiona Robson’s eyes, and wasn’t sure he really wanted to opt out.
The hell with it. ‘All right, I vote in favour of going ahead.’
‘So be it,’ said Dr Hamilton ponderously, and left.
When he had seen his visitor off the premises, Nick turned and gazed up at the tower. His tower. His home. Master of Black Knowe: it sounded like a romantic novel. And in keeping with that notion, Kirsty Torrance appeared from the cellar door, her hair unkempt and a look of drowsy contentment in her eyes.
Colin emerged more sheepishly behind her.
Nick was tempted to ask whether, in Kirsty’s condition, they ought still to be going at things so vigorously; but they both gave off such an innocently satiated glow that he didn’t have the heart.
‘Lying in late,’ he said, ‘since it’s Saturday morning?’
Kirsty had the grace to blush.
There had been a heavy downpour of summer rain during the evening and night, and the ground was messy underfoot. He guessed that the two of them had decided on the cellar rather than the cairn under the leaks of its uneven stones. ‘Miss Torrance, I’m just going down into town. May I offer you a lift?’
She ran a hand through her hair, grinned at Colin, and nodded.
As the Saab bumped over the cattle grid she sat back and went on compulsively smoothing her hair.
‘My cellar’s meant for storing wine,’ said Nick, ‘not for overnight trysts. What’s your mother going to say?’
‘Nothing she hasn’t already said before.’ Kirsty began to drag herself out of her sensual trance. ‘Sir Nicholas, do you think you could use your influence? She might listen to you.’
This struck Nick as a wild improbability.
‘She’s talking about me getting rid of the baby. You wouldn’t be in favour of that, sir, would you?’
‘I don’t think it’s for me to decide.’
‘But if you were to say you disapproved, she’d have to give in.’
Strange that the younger generation seemed just as convinced of the powers of an outdated lairdship as their elders were.
As they came down the slope above the river, with the spire of the old Tolbooth glinting in the sun, Kirsty asked to be dropped near the video hire shop. Nick wondered what entertainment she might pick up for the weekend that could match what Colin had been providing during the Friday night.
He parked the car behind the small supermarket. As he got out, a couple pushing a trolley with a little girl wedged into the baby seat slewed across his path. The young woman beamed at him.
‘Sir Nicholas.’
‘Good morning.’
She looked archly between him and the baby, as if to imply that if he didn’t kiss their baby he wouldn’t get their vote.
The husband said: ‘Douglas, sir. Lisa and William Douglas. We were Lass and Callant the year before last.’
Nick had little experience in judging the age of very young children, but wondered whether this couple, like Colin and Kirsty, had anticipated the Ride-outs with their own preview or had consummated it in the cairn.
‘It must have been a great experience.’
‘Aye, that it was. You’ll find that for yourself, sir.’
Was the girl’s smile getting just a bit too arch? What did they suppose his intentions were towards Fiona Robson?
The pavements in Kilstane town centre were narrow, and on several stretches it was a toss-up between stopping dead before a group of middle-aged gossips or stepping out in front of the traffic and most likely being stopped dead anyway. Few of the chattering groups would give way. Nick stared straight at everyone he passed, f
or fear of not recognising somebody he ought to know and being accused later of cutting them dead. On the other hand there were some who didn’t like being looked at. One girl, with short skirt and pouting lips painstakingly worked on to attract any passing male, nevertheless returned his gaze with a look of contempt virtually accusing him of being a dirty-minded prowler.
Beside the abandoned bookshop, Jamie Brown came down the flight of steps from a first-floor doorway.
‘You’ll have heard about the meeting last night, Sir Nicholas?’
‘Dr Hamilton’s had a word with me, yes.’
‘Stupid balls-up, isn’t it? Can’t make up their minds one way or the other. Och, and on the subject of making up minds, have you had a look at those policies I dropped in on you last night?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got round to them yet.’
Brown had left a sheaf of glossy pamphlets and a typed quotation with Mrs Robson on his way to that crucial committee meeting, together with apologies for not being able to stay and explain the cover he was offering. Nick needed no apologies. He had been only too glad not to have seen Brown personally, and was in no hurry to listen to the follow-up.
‘We really must discuss it before long, Sir Nicholas. Before you lose anything else, right?’ It was as if his life depended on clinching a deal – any deal – right here and now. Suddenly he switched without warning, smarmier than ever. ‘I hadn’t realised quite what a distinguished musician we had in our midst, Sir Nicholas. Hope your keyboard wasn’t badly damaged that evening. Used to be quite a hand on the fiddle myself.’
Everything in Brown’s makeup confirmed the likelihood of this.
Before Nick could make any response, he was rattling on. ‘It did occur to me you might be interested in following in the footsteps of some leading pop stars, Sir Nicholas. Though rather more discreetly, of course.’
‘Following pop stars? I’m not a groupie, Mr Brown.’
Brown looked baffled by this term, but ploughed on. ‘What I meant was that I do have contacts with the forestry people. Buying into forest land is a grand investment nowadays. If you’re interested, I might be able to set up a nice wee tax break deal.’