Marcus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had adored his father’s mistress since the day when, aged sixteen, he had met her at lunch at the Ritz. She was sophisticated, glamorous and at the height of her fame, with a couple of wildly successful films and some acclaimed stage roles to her credit. The coup de foudre when Laddie had met her through a Czech director friend was by then a permanent relationship; childless herself, Sylvia had given Marcus the maternal warmth and open affection his awkward mother never showed.
Flora Lazansky had more in common with her dogs and horses than with her only son. Marcus made a dinner-party anecdote out of her kissing her black Labrador more often than him, but it had hurt nonetheless. His memories of home were fairly bleak, and since his father probably felt he took second place to his wife’s favourite hunter, Marcus couldn’t blame him for his infidelity.
Laddie was a passionate man. He adored Sylvia, but there could never be a divorce, because when he married Flora he had fallen in love – with the house she was given when they married, a dower house for the Kendallon estate.
Tulach House had an unexpected style in this exposed area where low, solid houses huddled against cruel winds from the Irish Sea. Built just outside the village of Ardhill at the same time as Edinburgh’s New Town, Tulach had an aristocratic disdain for the elements: the view from its huge sash windows was incomparable, though the draughts, too, were in a class of their own. But the perfectly proportioned rooms almost compensated for having to wear thick sweaters for ten months of the year, given a good summer, or more, if not.
Flora took it for granted, but Laddie was impassioned about it. He was a displaced person; Tulach gave him the dignity he had lost.
The ‘memories’ Sylvia mentioned could only be of times when Flora was away judging horse trials or visiting a friend. Marcus could understand his father wanting to bring Sylvia to this house which so perfectly matched her in elegance, but he still felt uncomfortable about it.
Now Sylvia was looking round the drawing room, which probably hadn’t changed for a hundred years. Perhaps the glazed cotton loose covers and interlined curtains had been replaced, if not recently, but the worn Persian rugs and the antique furniture, showing the patina of age through a fine layer of dust, certainly hadn’t.
‘It’s not entirely you, sweetie, is it? How long since poor Flora died? More than a year? You can’t feel obliged to keep it like this. Proper heating would make such a difference – and there’s a divine man does the most brilliant modern country house interiors—’
Marcus was shaking his head. ‘Sylvia, do you have the faintest idea what the upkeep costs are? TV actors aren’t paid like movie stars, you know, and anyway I’m hardly here, except for the odd weekend. The fee for filming this episode here will keep me going meantime, but I’d sell it tomorrow if it wasn’t that Papa loved it so much.’
‘Oh, no! You couldn’t, you couldn’t!’ Sylvia protested. ‘There must be some money – what happened about Laddie’s ancestral acres in Czechoslovakia? He was always talking about reclaiming them one day.’
Marcus pulled a face. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure how extensive they were, except in his mind, and anyway, talking was as far as it got. I wouldn’t fancy the hassle and the aggro. And even if I had the money, I’m not sure I’d want to change this room. I rather like it.’
Sylvia had been a little too obvious in her desire to expunge the influence of her old rival. That would be victory of a sort, and Marcus felt a strangely stubborn loyalty to his dead mother. He got to his feet. ‘Time we all got our beauty sleep. Will you be – all right?’
He looked at her a little anxiously, imagining embarrassing personal needs, but she was quick to reassure him. ‘Darling, the room was converted for Laddie when the stairs got too much for him, so it’s perfect. And I’ll have such sweet dreams. Be an angel and help me into my chair, then open doors, if you would, and I’ll be fine.’
Marcus saw her to her room. ‘You’ll smell coffee brewing at around eight-thirty, but don’t hurry. Jaki’s going to come down later.’
‘Super! I’m absolutely longing to meet her,’ she said, with such dramatic enthusiasm that he knew she was disappointed at not having him to herself.
He bent to kiss her goodnight. ‘Sleep well,’ he said, then went back to the drawing room to put a guard on the fire. He switched the lights off, drew back the fraying curtains and opened the French windows which gave on to the terrace at the back. There were weeds growing through the stones and it was slippery with moss. He stepped out cautiously.
The night seemed to close around him. It was cool and clear: the sky was velvety black but studded with millions of stars, very close and very bright. You barely saw the stars in the cities, but here the only light pollution was from the stabbing beam of the lighthouse down on the Mull. He felt dizzy with the miracle of those wheeling galaxies.
He stood for a few moments, then sighed and went back inside. Locking up, he thought about Sylvia and Jaki and he found himself wondering if this weekend visit, before the rest of the team arrived, had been quite such a good idea after all.
As Tam MacNee and the other Warlocks from the Cutty Sark repaired to the bar of the Cross Keys in Ardhill to celebrate their darts victory over the local side, Tam thought how strange it was not to have the air thick with the familiar smell of smoke. He wasn’t sure he liked this new ruling by the Holyrood Samizdat; his wife Bunty had made him give up the weed a while back, but somehow clean air and a bar seemed sort of unnatural.
The Cross Keys was full and there was a kind of edgy atmosphere, with Norrie the barman watching nervously to see whether he’d be called on to enforce the ban. When Tam had arrived with the team, Norrie had greeted him with special enthusiasm, but Tam’s response was brief: ‘I’m off duty, pal. You’re on your own.’
Of course, you were never quite off duty. Even as Tam joined in the crack, he was looking across the bar at a group of men who’d come in together and weren’t speaking English.
The Polish invasion had reached Kirkluce and the general reaction locally was favourable. These were skilled men, not afraid of hard work, who turned up when expected, didn’t take tea-breaks every half-hour and didn’t pad their bills.
There was resentment in some quarters, though. It threatened the local tradesmen – oh, indeed it did! Used to saying, ‘I could maybe fit you in at the end of next month, Mr MacNee, and I can make it six hundred quid if you pay cash,’ it was natural enough they’d take exception to having their nice little racket spoiled.
It was harder to see why the native layabouts should resent jobs they weren’t prepared to do being done by someone else, but they did. Tam could see a ripple of reaction from some local youths, bunched around the bar, as the Poles arrived.
There was one older man among them, but the others were in their twenties and compared to the home-grown variety mainly looked clean-cut and wholesome. One had an earring and slightly long hair, but as far as Tam could see none of them had tattoos – one of his particular bugbears. Ardhill’s own neds – well, the less said about how they looked, the better.
There were four or five of them and up till now they’d been leaving the bar to smoke meekly enough, forming a raucous group outside, but the noise level was rising and from experience Tam reckoned one or other of them would try it on before long. It was cold out there, they were out to enjoy their Friday night and they were getting lairy.
Tam took a closer look as they all trooped back inside again. There was only one he knew: Kevin Docherty, skinny, in his early twenties, with a shaven head and a dotted line tattooed round his throat – a joke, presumably, though the man was tempting fate. He was bad news, Docherty, convicted of assault and only recently out on early release – something else Tam didn’t approve of.
He’d said he was off duty, but it didn’t work like that. DS MacNee was replacing Tam already. He wouldn’t trust Docherty as far as the bowl of peanuts at the end of the bar. The assault had involved a knife; he’d be surprised
if the man wasn’t carrying one, and from the way they were all nudging one another and laughing, trouble was brewing.
As one of the Poles picked up his pint from the bar, Docherty gave him a dunt so that it slopped on his jeans. MacNee saw anger in the man’s face, then he tightened his lips, shrugged and moved away.
There was a burst of laughter. Docherty said something to his mates, then to cries of ‘Go for it, Kev!’ he ostentatiously got out a pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit up.
The barman saw him immediately. With a pleading glance at MacNee, he said, ‘Come on, Kev. You know it’s against the law now. Put it out, like a good lad.’
Docherty’s unpleasant grin bared a snaggle of uneven teeth. ‘Gonnae make me, then? You and whose army? Come on, lads, get out the fags. If we’re all at it, what does he do?’
Emboldened, several more lit up. A hush fell as the drinkers watched the confrontation, and Docherty raised his voice. ‘It’s a daft law – we can get it changed. Come on, they can’t arrest us all. What’s wrong with you – feart?’
The reaction was unpromising. There was a mutter of disapproval, a few bolder spirits grinned, but the call to the barricades fell flat.
Disappointed, Docherty pushed forward to confront the Poles. ‘Come on! You smoke – I’ve seen you!’ Confronted by a wall of stony faces, he began swearing at them, then, getting no reaction, deliberately blew smoke directly into the face of a tall young man with dark hair and fierce eyes that were almost black.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Outside.’
A gratified smile crossed Docherty’s face. ‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘Outside.’ With a jerk of his head he summoned his henchmen. ‘Come on, fellas.’
With great reluctance, MacNee came round from the farther side of the bar. ‘That’s enough. Cool it, lads.’
Docherty looked at him in disgust. ‘Oh, God – MacNee. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Never you mind. I’m here, that’s all. And if you’re asking about armies, it’s me and the whole majesty of the law, the same that locked you up last time. You’ll maybe remember what happens if you get it wrong, Kev – you’re back inside before you can say, “I’m sorry, DS MacNee, it was just my wee joke.”
‘Norrie, I’m sure you’ve still got an ashtray somewhere. Mr Docherty and his friends had briefly forgotten, and they’re just going to put their cigarettes out, like the law-abiding gentlemen they are.’ MacNee smiled his menacing gap-tooth grin.
Norrie, looking terrified, obliged. No one else moved until the young Pole stepped forward. He had clearly failed to follow this: he was high on adrenalin and righteous wrath, and all he saw was someone stopping him getting his revenge. Taking MacNee by the shoulders – he was more than six inches taller – he swung him out of the way.
‘You – no! Me and him.’ He gestured at Docherty.
There had been a sharp intake of breath around the pub. Startled himself, MacNee turned belligerently.
‘Watch it, laddie. I’m the polis.’ Then, as it didn’t seem to register, he added a foreign word he thought he’d heard used in films, ‘Politzie.’
The young man went white. ‘Policje? Sorry, so sorry. Not know . . .’ He backed away.
MacNee nodded. ‘OK. You weren’t to know. Just relax, all right?’
‘Sure, sure. OK, OK.’ He tried to disappear among his friends, who were by now visibly uneasy. One after another, they put their glasses down and left. A ragged cheer went up from Docherty and his mates.
MacNee turned sharply. ‘Now, Kev, let’s talk about you. Threatening behaviour with racial overtones? Let me tell you this. I was chatting to one of the fiscals the other day, and he was saying he could drop a complaint of rape easier than racial harassment. Did you enjoy the jail, Kev? One foot out of line, you’re back there.
‘Oh, look, here’s Norrie with an ashtray. What do we do when we see an ashtray? Oh, well done, Kev.’
With her coat buttoned up against the wind, the tall, gaunt woman, a basket over her arm, walked through Ardhill on Saturday morning. The village was little more than ribbon development: small houses huddled on either side, a guest house at one end, a pub at the other, a couple of small shops, a general store and a bakery. There weren’t many bakers around now, and it always did a good trade.
She had been to the store already, but she still had to go to the bakery: Jean Grant always came up here from the farm to shop because she liked real bread, not the rubbish in plastic bags, and her son liked their Scotch pies for his dinner.
There were two women ahead of her, an older woman she knew and a younger one, in her forties perhaps, with blonde hair. Jean eyed her disapprovingly. The blonde hair had come out of a bottle, no doubt about that, and she was wearing those jeans they all wore nowadays, showing up her middle-aged bulges. She’d have been better wearing a decent skirt, at her age.
‘Hi, Mrs Grant,’ the girl behind the counter greeted her, and the older woman being served turned. ‘Hello, Jean! Wee bit chilly today, isn’t it?’
Jean inclined her head. ‘Morning,’ she said. She never indulged in idle conversation, but she wasn’t above listening to it, and the girl’s voice was excited as she went on with what she’d been saying.
‘They’ll be filming round here four days next week. And Marcus Lindsay came in himself, buying bread.’
‘Marcus Lindsay!’ the blonde woman chipped in. ‘Goodness – haven’t seen him for ages. Does he come often?’
‘Don’t think so,’ the girl said. ‘I’ve seen him a couple of times before, but I think he stays in Glasgow. He’s at the big house for a week anyway, he said. And there’s some film star staying with him, someone said – she’s old, can’t remember her name . . .’
‘Sylvia Lascelles,’ the older woman supplied. ‘I heard that along the street. I mind her fine. She was in For Ever – my hankie was soaking wet when I came out after. Haven’t heard of her for years.’
The blonde woman had seen the film too. They embarked on an enjoyable gossip.
Jean Grant was frowning, a light of calculation in her eyes. She listened a little longer, but as the conversation centred on the film star, she moved forward. ‘If you wouldn’t mind. Some of us have work to do.’
The assistant flushed. ‘Sorry, Mrs Grant. What was it you were wanting?’
Her bread and pies added to her basket, Jean Grant returned to the elderly Vauxhall parked further down the street and drove off, through Port Logan and Kirkmaiden and along the single-track road signposted to the Mull of Galloway, then over a cattle grid. A little further on, she turned up the track to Balnakenny.
She looked around for her son, but there was no sign of him in his tractor or out among the cattle grazing on either side of the track. He wasn’t around the yard either; she looked at her watch, pursing her lips as she got out of the car, and went into the farmhouse.
Stuart Grant was lounging in a wooden chair by the kitchen fire. He’d been reading a magazine; she could see it inadequately hidden behind a cushion.
‘What are you doing, in at this time?’ Jean challenged him.
‘Just taking my break,’ he said, a defensive whine in his voice. ‘Took it later than usual.’
‘Well, you’ve no time to waste, sitting here. I’ve told you the dykes that are needing attention, and you’ve never got round to it.’
‘All right, all right.’ Stuart got to his feet and went towards the door.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘That Marcus Lazansky – Lindsay, he’s calling himself now – he’s back here. Staying for a week.’
Stuart stopped. Without turning round, he said, ‘Is he?’
‘Yes. What are you going to do?’
‘Who said I was going to do anything?’
His mother glared at him. ‘Your sister—’ she began.
‘Don’t start!’ His voice was ragged with anger. He gestured towards a table where a large photograph of a girl with long blonde hair stood, flanked by two candles that were never lit.
‘You didn’t help, at the time.’
‘How dare you!’ Jean’s eyes flashed fury. ‘Your sister’s death ruined my life, and I’ve never forgotten who was to blame, even if you have.’
He looked as if he might reply, then shrugged. ‘We know what we know,’ he said. ‘And I heard what you said.’
He went out, leaving her glaring after him. Then she got out a duster and a can of pine-scented Pledge to polish the table. She picked up the picture, rubbed the glass, and stood looking at it for a long time.
Jaki Johnston was in a bad mood by the time she reached Tulach House. She’d got up at an hour she’d barely known existed on a Saturday morning, driven for what seemed like years, and even so she was late for lunch. She should have called Marcus, but she was so pissed off she’d decided he could sweat it out and switched off her phone.
The way Marcus talked, she’d thought this was something really special, and she’d even got some cool stuff to wear. She’d seen country-house weekends in films, and actually meeting Sylvia Lascelles – well, that was special in itself for a girl who’d grown up in social housing in Wishaw.
Jaki was feeling quite nervous. The woman was a legend, after all. The whole team was excited about her being in this episode, but only Jaki would have the chance to get to know her properly before filming started.
But this – this plain, boring house, no turrets or anything, out in the sticks with an overgrown garden and windows needing painted? What a let-down! She’d thought there’d be a town – well, not exactly a town, she wasn’t stupid, but a cute village with craft shops and a decent restaurant for eating out. Marcus had told her he hadn’t any proper help and she couldn’t see him cooking. But this Ardhill place was the ass-end of space. What did they do round here? Eat grass?
Her pretty, glossy lips were dropping at the corners as she parked her bright red Ka. She was small and slight, with neat, pert features, big brown eyes and a creamy complexion; her dark hair, cut in a feathery gamine style, had a henna shine. The wind ruffled it and she shivered. The outfit that had looked great in Zara wasn’t suited to this climate and her stiletto-heeled ankle boots would be ruined by the time she’d crossed the weedy gravel to the front door.
Dead in the Water Page 3