Dead in the Water

by Aline Templeton

  It was as if he had deliberately provoked a combative response to give legitimacy to his own anger. ‘You’ve had enough! Would you care to hear what I’ve been through today?’

  Something in his voice – it couldn’t, surely, be fear? – stopped her replying in kind. ‘Tell me what’s happened, then,’ she said, and sat down. There was a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach and her legs seemed weak.

  ‘Your little friend, the wonderful, brilliant Marcus Lindsay, almost got himself bumped off last night. And because you were away, and I was on my own here, somehow I’m a suspect.’

  Diane looked at his face, red with temper, and his furiously glaring eyes, and the question almost slipped out, ‘And did you do it?’ Instead, she said irritably, ‘So somehow it’s my fault? But Marcus – what happened? Is he all right?’

  Gavin gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, the devil looks after his own! But someone told the police we didn’t get on, and they actually took me in to the police station. Can you believe it? And I can tell you, the tone they took wasn’t what you’d expect towards someone paying the sort of taxes I do. I walked out, in the end. It was quite ridiculous.’

  ‘If they let you walk out, they’d probably got all they wanted,’ she said shrewdly. ‘Tell me about Marcus, though.’

  ‘I might have known you’d be more concerned about him than about your own husband. Someone took a knife to him, but apparently he’s back home and recovering.’

  ‘Thank God for that! But who would do it – what for?’

  ‘For being a total prick, probably, and I wouldn’t blame them. But now the police are going back to that Ailsa Grant business too.’

  ‘Ailsa Grant?’ Diane said blankly. ‘Goodness, I haven’t thought about the girl for years! What on earth is that about? Her father killed her for getting herself pregnant – they just couldn’t prove it, that’s all. Everyone knew that.’

  ‘Everyone except the police, apparently.’ Gavin got up restlessly and went over to stare out at the garden. ‘I told them we hardly knew her, and we’d no contact with her after she went to Glasgow. It seemed the simplest thing. We don’t want to get drawn in.’

  ‘But Gavin—’ she protested.

  He swung round. ‘No buts,’ he said savagely. ‘And they’re coming to talk to you too, so we have to say the same thing.’

  ‘I’m a rotten liar,’ she protested. ‘Always have been. I go red and look shifty. It’s really stupid to lie to the police. I can’t think why you did – you’ll just have to say they confused you, you didn’t understand what they meant.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Oh no. You listen to me – I’ve said that, and that’s what you’re going to say as well. You’d better. I mean it.’

  Diane had been prepared for temper. She was used to that, but she wasn’t used to her blustering husband speaking to her in a quiet, cold, menacing voice. She found she was actually afraid.

  ‘I’ll – I’ll do my best,’ she said, feeling sick.

  ‘Ah, Marjory!’

  Bailey sounded nervous as he half-rose to greet her, and as he sat down he leaned back, away from her – a classic indication that he would rather be elsewhere.

  ‘How are the investigations going?’ he asked, and she told him what little they had established.

  ‘The press secretary tells me interest has faded since they heard Lindsay was making a speedy recovery, so that’s good. If they don’t hear any fanciful theories about the Ailsa Grant case, they should lose interest completely.’ Bailey looked pointedly at Fleming.

  ‘Indeed. We’re checking that as discreetly as possible,’ she said, knowing it wasn’t quite what he wanted to hear. Then, since she had to put the question sometime, she asked with a sense of foreboding, ‘How did you get on with Ms Milne?’

  ‘Oh, impossible creature!’ he sputtered. ‘You won’t believe it, Marjory – she tried to turn it into a discussion of our investigation methods! Wants to go through it with me – and she’s not very keen on you, I can tell you that!’

  ‘That’s not exactly a surprise.’ Fleming’s worst fears were realized; he had clearly got nowhere and she blamed herself now for sending him. ‘What did she say about Lindsay, Donald?’

  He was fidgeting nervously with his fingers. ‘Oh, she really wasn’t helpful. Claimed she hardly knew him and she hadn’t mentioned the connection because she didn’t like people who tried to claim friendship with celebrities when none existed.’

  ‘Did she, indeed,’ Fleming said grimly. ‘So how come they were having a joking conversation in which the complaint about police harassment was made?’

  ‘She was a bit vague, actually. I pinned her down, because I couldn’t see how he could have got her number. Then she claimed she’d just remembered that it was she who phoned him.’

  ‘Why, if she hardly knew him?’

  Bailey looked awkward. ‘It – it wasn’t clear. Just saying hello, was the impression I got.’

  ‘But—’ Fleming bit her tongue. Labouring the point that he’d been there specifically to oblige her to be clear was futile: obviously Bailey had blown it.

  ‘I did ask if she had an alibi for last night.’ Bailey presented this as an achievement. ‘And she was at home all evening, alone.’

  ‘I’m not really at the stage of thinking she slipped down to Tulach and tried to take him out,’ Fleming said, trying to keep the edge of annoyance out of her voice, ‘but it’s a loose end that it would have been nice to tie off.’

  ‘I know, I know. And we simply haven’t the resources to thrash out all the finer points of this, you know. She made it clear that since Lindsay only has minor injuries, we can’t waste too much police time on it.’

  Did she, indeed! Fleming was startled, but Bailey was going on, ‘You simply have no idea how difficult the woman is to deal with. In her position she ought to realize how important it is to treat a police enquiry with suitable respect.’

  Bailey sounded petulant now, but Fleming didn’t feel inclined to spend time indulging him. ‘She’s difficult, certainly,’ was the most she was prepared to concede, then made an excuse to leave.

  She was angry with herself, more than with him. It had seemed diplomatic to send the senior officer but now there was no way she could go to Milne herself and put on the pressure Bailey had so clearly failed to apply, unless she had further evidence. And the Fiscal’s attempt at calling off the dogs, while suspicious, certainly wasn’t enough to justify that, especially since Fleming had to admit that what Milne had said was perfectly true.

  When they got hold of Lindsay, of course, she could bring the subject up, but why, instead of sending Bailey into the lion’s den to be chewed up and spat out, hadn’t she just said to hell with diplomacy and gone along herself with Tam MacNee to put the woman through the mangle? She knew the uncomfortable answer to that one, though. She had cravenly ducked it to protect herself, and now she was reaping the coward’s reward.

  ‘What’s wrong with you tonight?’ Rafael Cisek said to his wife. ‘You’ve been up and down every five minutes.’

  Karolina’s round face was very solemn. ‘Rafael, I am worried. Whatever you say, I think I have to tell Marjory.’

  He didn’t ask, ‘Tell her what?’ He frowned. ‘Why? Why should you do this?’

  ‘I thought, today, that it was the man they were all talking about, the man from the pub, who had tried to kill Marcus Lindsay. But it is not him. It is someone else, and they don’t know who. So I think I should tell Marjory.’

  ‘You don’t know anything,’ Rafael argued. ‘You have an idea – but everyone has ideas. You could do so much harm with your “ideas”. To tell this to the police—’

  ‘To Marjory!’ Karolina insisted. ‘She would know if this is important. And she is a good person – she would not be unfair.’

  ‘The police are the police, wherever you are. And we are foreigners in this country, Karolina. Do not do this! I tell you, it would be wicked – wrong.’

  Karolina frowned. ‘W
icked? Do you think so?’

  He was swift to seize his advantage. ‘Wicked,’ he insisted. Everyone deserves another chance.’

  ‘Well—’ She weakened. ‘You are a good man to say this, because you don’t even like him. And because you are a good man, you don’t recognize a bad one. But I will wait a little. See what happens.’

  15

  ‘Why the hell did we need such an early start?’ DC Kerr grumbled as DS Macdonald signalled the turn off the main A75 towards the Mull of Galloway. ‘I’m shattered.’

  ‘Your problem is you think you can go to bed at three and still function,’ Macdonald said. ‘You’re not twenty any more.’

  ‘Nor are you,’ Kerr snapped.

  ‘No, I’m in my thirties and I’ve got a job to do.’

  ‘Pompous prat!’

  There was a silence, then Kerr muttered, ‘Sorry. I can’t function without coffee, and I hadn’t time. Can we stop somewhere?’

  Macdonald glanced at his watch. ‘Eight o’clock – won’t be anything open. You’ll just have to suffer.’

  ‘A shop, then. Bar of chocolate – something.’

  ‘We’ll get something later, on the way back.’

  Suddenly suspicious, Kerr eyed him. ‘What’s the rush? There’s something else you want to do, isn’t there?’

  ‘Might be. Tansy, when you read the case files and notes yesterday, did anything strike you?’

  ‘Plenty of things.’ Kerr was automatically defensive. ‘But if you mean, can I guess your weird thought processes – no, not being psychic.’

  With considerable forbearance, Macdonald said mildly, ‘Dearie me! You do have a nasty temper first thing in the morning, don’t you?’

  ‘Not when I’ve had my coffee. If I had a nice nine-to-five job I’d be sweetness and light.’ She gave him a darkling look.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on doggedly, ‘I noticed the lighthouse people weren’t properly questioned, just asked if they’d seen anything that night, which they hadn’t. But they were near neighbours, might have known the background.

  ‘I recognized one of the names – she’s a pal of my auntie’s, married to one of the keepers, but she’s a widow now and I got her address. She’s living in Drummore, down near the Mull there, so I got my auntie to phone her and she’s happy to have a wee chat with us.’

  ‘Will she give us coffee?’

  ‘God, you never let up, do you? Actually, I’d put money on it. And probably home bakes as well. All my auntie’s chums are into cut-throat competitive tea parties.’

  ‘Maybe we could go there first, then?’ Kerr suggested hopefully. ‘It certainly doesn’t sound as if we’ll be offered so much as a drink of water at the Grants’.’

  ‘No, we can’t. Deprivation will give you a ferocious edge. Hell hath no fury like Tansy without her caffeine fix.’

  Kerr glowered at him but didn’t reply, sinking down in her seat and pulling the hood of her grey sweatshirt over her head. ‘I’m asleep,’ she announced.

  ‘Don’t feel bad about leaving me without conversation, will you? With Ewan in the car, I’m used to it.’

  Kerr only grunted. Macdonald left her to doze, rather enjoying the peace and the quiet coast road. The tide was out, and on the wave-rippled sand a flock of oyster-catchers strutted on their pink, stilt-like legs, while they probed the beach with long red-orange bills. Every so often one would startle and rise and the others would follow with their wild ‘weep-weep’ cries, to swirl around and then come back to settle again. It was a soft, greyish morning with a pale sun struggling through, but it looked uncertain weather. April showers, no doubt.

  As they rumbled over a cattle-grid, Kerr woke up. She yawned, stretched, and shook her head to clear it. ‘That was probably a mistake,’ she said thickly. What I need is—’

  ‘No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Coffee.’

  ‘Cold water to splash my face,’ she said with dignity. ‘And a toothbrush. My mouth feels—’

  ‘I’d really rather not go there. Look, that’s the farm. Up there on the right.’

  Kerr looked about her and shuddered. ‘God, this is bleak! Nothing but the lighthouse on the point, and then the farm. And the house gives me the creeps anyway with that black stone – it looks like it’s scowling.’

  ‘So does its owner. We’ve been spotted.’ Macdonald drove into the farmyard and a tall, raw-boned woman marched towards them, reaching them before the car had stopped moving.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded as Macdonald opened his window.

  Kerr leaned across. ‘Mrs Grant? We’re police officers. Could we have a word?’

  ‘Can I stop you?’ Jean Grant asked bitterly. ‘Come in if you must.’

  She led them to the front door, through the small fenced-off garden. Kerr, last through the gate, turned to latch it and caught sight of a furtive movement. A man had come out of the house, and was heading towards a clapped-out Vauxhall.

  ‘Mr Grant!’ she called, and saw him jump and look round. Behind her, Jean Grant snarled, ‘I said “this way”. You’d better come right now.’

  Kerr ignored her, going to meet the man now hovering uncertainly, looking towards them, then to the car, and back again.

  ‘Trying to avoid us, Mr Grant?’ She took malicious pleasure in his confusion.

  ‘No – er, I just – er—’ he stuttered. He was a big man, slightly shambling, with bright red hair. He looked helpless and bewildered.

  ‘We need to ask you a few questions,’ Kerr said.

  ‘Oh, right. Fine.’

  He followed her to where Jean stood on the doorstep, fuming. Macdonald waited impassively.

  ‘My son doesn’t have time to waste,’ Jean snapped. ‘I can answer your questions, pointless as they are.’

  Kerr was in no mood to be pushed around. ‘Since our time is valuable as well as your son’s, perhaps we could just get on with it?’

  Tight-lipped, Jean opened the front door and stalked in. Ushering Grant in in front of him, Macdonald turned to wink at Kerr. ‘I take it I’m the good cop today, then?’ he murmured as they went inside.

  Fleming was engaged in speed-reading a government report before going to see Lindsay when a tentative tap on the door announced a timid-looking Force Civilian Assistant.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t want to interrupt you but they said to tell you at once.’

  Fleming smiled at the young woman. ‘That’s all right. Take a seat.’

  The FCA looked at the chair indicated as if it might have jaws that would snap shut round her if she sat down. ‘Oh, no thank you, ma’am. It was just a message came from the path lab in Glasgow. They’ve found the specimens you wanted. Tissues from the body and the –’ she gulped, ‘foetus.’

  ‘No!’ It had seemed such a long shot. Fleming hadn’t been sure the unimpressive pathologist would even have taken samples, and even less sure that, if any existed, they would have survived the local lab being shut down. ‘That’s excellent. Can you instruct them to DNA-test the foetus? Not the body as yet, but the other ASAP. Thanks.’

  When the girl had gone, Fleming sat back, tapping one fingernail on her front teeth. Hard evidence at last! If Lindsay let them take DNA samples it could lay to rest any suspicion of his involvement, and finally get Mrs Grant off their backs. Hodge was definitely in the frame but she couldn’t see him submitting to testing without a warrant and she couldn’t see much chance of getting one. And, of course, there was nothing to say that some man in Glasgow, as yet unknown, hadn’t been the father of the child. Still, given the extensive DNA data base, there was even the wild card chance that the sample might match someone on file for a totally irrelevant offence.

  Today, too, the footprints expert would be at Tulach. He might produce hard evidence as well, and they could make much-needed progress. They still hadn’t come up with anything definite on the motive for the assault, and anything motiveless raised the spectre of murderous attacks on other upright citizens.

  She brought
her fist down on the desk in frustration. They needed this one wrapped up, now. Then she could devote herself to the murder investigation, where the events of the past had started to cast long, intriguing shadows.

  In the cold, bare front room, Jean Grant seated herself on a small sofa with wooden arms, indicating that her son should join her. He squeezed uncomfortably into the space left him.

  What a cheerless place, Macdonald thought: a bare minimum of furniture, dried vegetation in an orange vase, no pictures or photographs. It reflected the personality of its owner, as rooms tend to do.

  He had suggested separate interviews, but got a flat refusal from both.

  ‘If your time’s so valuable,’ Jean lingered sarcastically on the word, ‘this’ll be quicker. And if it’s about the attack at Tulach the night before last, we were here together all evening.’

  ‘You heard about that, did you? What was your reaction, Mr Grant?’

  His mother answered. ‘Oh, ask away. But you’ll not get an answer from either one of us.’

  ‘Mr Grant?’ Macdonald said again, fixing his brown eyes steadily on the man’s bent head, and after a moment Stuart looked up.

  ‘Got what was coming to him, probably. But it’s nothing to do with me.’

  Jean’s hand gripped her son’s arm, and Macdonald thought she was digging in her nails.

  ‘It couldn’t be. We told you – we were here all evening, weren’t we, Stuart?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Stuart mumbled.

  ‘And what were you doing?’ Macdonald asked. Kerr was taking notes.

  ‘Had our supper. Then washed up – ooh, now I don’t want to mislead you. I washed and he dried. Then we watched TV until we went to bed.’

  ‘At?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. That’s when we always go.’

  ‘So what did you watch on TV?’ Macdonald asked with some eagerness, reckoning he could go on Mastermind with last night’s TV schedules as his specialist subject.

  ‘A video. He likes them. Load of rubbish, but it let me get on with my knitting.’

  ‘What was it?’ Macdonald was crestfallen. Easy to choose a film you’d seen before, possibly several times.