Dead in the Water

by Aline Templeton

  ‘But you’d suggested she should leave,’ Janet pointed out. ‘It was her decision to stay. And from what you’ve told me, she got herself wrochit up with her nasty, spiteful raging about the poor souls her precious Laddie had abandoned. He left sore hearts there, and it’s no wonder the boy turned out how he did.

  ‘And anyway, I’m an old woman myself. If you told me all I had in front of me was living on my own in London, no family, crippled and in pain and getting worse with every week that passed – well, I’d say it was doing me a favour to let me get away before I knew what was happening.’

  Marjory gave a wry smile. ‘Good try. Certainly better than anything I’ve been able to come up with myself by way of justification, but I can’t quite see it like that.’

  ‘Then you should maybe consider that from the sound of it the poor man would never have thought of it if she hadn’t goaded him to it,’ Janet said with some asperity, ‘and as far as I can tell, the woman would have stuck the knife in by herself if she’d been able. An evil besom, if you ask me.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose she was. But oh, Mum, she had such charm! And she was still a beauty, even in old age. You remember her in that weepie, For Ever?’

  Her mother sniffed. ‘Never could be doing with that film. I said at the time she was ower sweet to be wholesome, like a frosted tattie.’

  That surprised a laugh out of Marjory and satisfied, Janet went on, ‘Now, my bairn, you’re needing your bed. You’ll want to be fresh for the family when they get back – around four, Bill thought.’

  Marjory’s face clouded over again. ‘I’m – I’m not looking forward to that either. They’re all angry with me. Did I do the right thing, Mum?’

  Janet’s eyes were loving, but troubled. ‘That’s one thing I can’t tell you, my lamb. I’ve never had to think there might be anything I should put ahead of you and your father – I was lucky that way. It’s harder for all you young women nowadays.

  ‘But you just did what you believed was right, didn’t you, and that’s all any of us can do. Now, away you go!’

  Marjory went slowly up the stairs. She didn’t want to examine her conscience too closely, just at the moment.

  ‘Lindsay’s not making a complaint, sir, anyway,’ Bailey said over the phone to Chief Constable Menzies. ‘He says that Miss Lascelles had it suggested to her that she should leave and flatly refused.’

  ‘That’s always something,’ Menzies said. ‘I don’t want Fleming hung out to dry. After all, she did an amazingly good job on a very complex case. Let’s get this pushed through as quickly as possible.’

  Bailey swallowed hard. ‘There’s – there’s one other thing.’

  ‘Bad news, from the sound of it.’

  ‘Franzik’s been released, of course, but he’s filed a complaint of racism. Looking for enhanced compensation, of course, but . . .’

  There was a heavy silence at the other end of the phone. Then Menzies said, ‘Oh, God. Not racism. It’s beyond ridiculous, but we have to be seen to take it seriously. You’d better put in for a temporary replacement meantime.’

  Bailey put down the phone. He was sorry about Fleming, of course he was. She’d got a bit carried away, certainly, but she didn’t deserve this.

  But there was a small part of him breathing a gentle sigh of relief. Sheila Milne would be gone shortly and there would be no more pressure to investigate Ailsa Grant’s murder. They all knew Robert Grant had done it anyway, and since he was dead it wasn’t worth the time and the money. By the time Fleming came back to work, he could tell her to shelve it.

  Marjory had been waiting in the kitchen for half an hour before she heard the car arrive, driving her mother mad by fiddling with the things on the table set for tea and doing aimless tidying, several times putting away something Janet was just about to use. Meg, brought back by Rafael earlier, began racing round and round with joyful barks.

  ‘Mercy, between the pair of you I’ll be driven clean gyte!’ Janet exclaimed with uncharacteristic exasperation. ‘Away you go out and see your wee lad, and take that daft animal with you.’

  Meg dashed outside, confident of her welcome. Marjory followed more slowly.

  Bill was helping Cammie out of the car; Cat was holding his crutches. He was in plaster beyond the knee and his face was pinched and pale. Her heart wrung, Marjory ran across. ‘Oh, my darling, how are you?’

  She put her arms round his neck. She had to reach up to do it; even stooped, he was taller than she was now, almost as tall as his father.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, and let her kiss him. It was obviously because of the crutches that he didn’t even attempt to hug her back. ‘I’ll be fine – a bit tired, that’s all.’

  As Marjory hugged Bill and Cat, asking about the journey, Janet appeared at the back door. Cammie swung himself across to her, beaming. ‘Hi, Gran!’ he said, and this time, despite the crutches, he was able to put an affectionate arm round her.

  Janet smiled at him, shaking her head. ‘Dearie me! Let you out of our sight for two minutes and this is what you do! Still, I doubt if it’s spoiled your appetite. I’ve just made girdle scones, and there’s a chocolate cake.’

  Bill bent to kiss her too. ‘Oh, he’s used to all this fancy French food now, Gran! He’ll be wanting gâteau, at the every least.’

  ‘He can wait for gâteau if he likes. I’ll have Gran’s chocolate cake meantime,’ Cat said, laughing, and they all went in together, leaving Marjory to follow behind.

  At the table, she heard the details about the accident, the hospital, the flight home – ‘Took me up on a special lift, Gran – it was really cool!’ – and Cammie did indeed do justice to his tea. But Marjory could see how tired he was, and when he’d refused a third slice of chocolate cake, she said, ‘Cammie, you’re out on your feet. Come on and I’ll help you up to bed.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I’ll turn in.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘But Dad can give me a hand – he’s had a bit of practice.’ He didn’t say it, but he hadn’t met her eyes, and the words ‘and you haven’t’ hung in the air.

  ‘I’ll come up too,’ Cat said quickly. ‘I want to unpack.’

  They all went out together. Fleming’s eyes prickled. She got up quickly and started clearing the table. Janet, in unhappy silence, did the same.

  It was a few minutes later that Bill came downstairs. He gave Marjory a brief smile and said a little stiffly, ‘So how are things down at the station?’

  ‘Oh, great,’ she said ironically. ‘I’ve been suspended.’

  Bill stared at her in astonishment. ‘Suspended? What the hell for?’

  ‘Read all about it in the papers tomorrow. I’m a monster who more or less murdered one of Britain’s screen legends, and I’m a bad mother who puts her career before her child. I’m not surprised that no one wants to speak to me.’

  Her eyes were too full of tears to see her mother quietly leave the room, or to see Bill come over to her. She was wiping them fiercely when she felt Bill’s arms round her.

  ‘Hey, come on! I’m sorry, I did think you made the wrong call, but actually you were right – Cammie didn’t need you. His feelings are a bit hurt, that’s all, and he’ll get over it.

  ‘Sit down, blow your nose, and tell me all about it.’

  Feeding her hens the next morning, Marjory was feeling better. The sun was shining, it was the best sort of April day when you could almost see the grass growing and smell spring in the air. Bill had, as usual, talked her into a sense of proportion about it and he’d told the kids what had happened, which had made them both more sympathetic when she apologized to Cammie and tried to explain why she had felt she must stay.

  Marjory still had work to do there, though. She and Cammie had always had a happy relationship; now the job had come directly between them, and she’d have to convince him that this didn’t mean he wasn’t still one of the three absolute priorities in her life.

  Well, she’d have a week or two free to show him just how much he did matter. She’
d be on hand to look after him, ferry him to and fro, have long conversations – though to be realistic, long conversations had never much been Cammie’s style.

  There was a good number of eggs this morning, and she quite fancied a leisurely breakfast – there was nothing like a new-laid boiled egg. She came back into the house in a cheerful mood.

  It was only later that the blow fell. When she had spoken to Bailey, she put the phone down slowly. That wouldn’t be speedy reinstatement; that would be weeks at the very least. And what would she do with all these empty days?

  ‘Mum, you know there was a bit of a fuss about Dad and the Ailsa Grant case?’ Marjory had come in to see her mother when she came back from Stranraer, where she’d been doing her shopping. The press, after a couple of torrid days, had lost interest, but she almost found sympathetic enquiries from chance-met friends in Kirkluce harder to deal with.

  ‘Och yes. They gave him a reprimand, but he never let it bother him.’

  So Angus had told Janet about it after all – Marjory had wondered about that, and wrongly concluded that pride had led him to keep quiet about it.

  ‘It was because he allowed the Grants to take Ailsa’s body back home, instead of leaving it by the lighthouse to be taken direct to the mortuary. Did you know that?’

  Janet shook her head. ‘No. He never told me much about the job. Sometimes I thought it would be better if he did, but—’ She gave a little sigh. ‘That was just Angus.’

  ‘So there’s no point in asking you why he ignored the rule book? It wasn’t like him.’

  Janet shook her head again. Then she said slowly, ‘Mind you, I know a woman who lived at the lighthouse then. Heather Fairlie – she stays down near Drummore. She’s a fair clatter-vengeance – her tongue never stops. You could ask her.’

  ‘Goodness, I’d forgotten about Mrs Fairlie,’ Marjory said. ‘She gave a helpful interview to Tansy and Andy Mac. Thanks for reminding me. I was planning to take a drive down that way this afternoon anyway.’

  Janet looked at her anxiously. ‘You know your own business, but I’m just wondering if it’s maybe wise to do that, with the way things are just now.’

  ‘Oh, I just want to refresh my memory,’ her daughter said airily. ‘I’ve peace just now to think about the other case. I’m not planning to put my neck on the line – I’m not daft.’

  It had been wet when Fleming left Mains of Craigie, but it was clearing up now. She switched off the wipers and as the sun appeared pulled down the visor, squinting into the sharp, watery light.

  She didn’t much enjoy the long, solitary drive. The worries about her own future were bad enough, but going over and over what had happened was worse.

  The denouement in the country-house drawing room hadn’t been about getting the job done. It hadn’t been about justice, or even about retribution for the sake of the dead man, who had only by chance not been a murderer himself. It had been about demonstrating her cleverness in outwitting a clever killer – or two, rather, since Fleming had believed Sylvia Lascelles to be complicit at the very least, though she had underestimated that redoubtable woman’s direct involvement.

  It had been foolish to ignore procedure, but much more importantly, what she did had been lacking in humanity. No wonder Tam was disgusted. She was pretty disgusted herself.

  As Janet had said, it probably wasn’t wise to come down to Balnakenny today, but there was one loose end in the Lindsay/Pavansky enquiry which kept niggling away at her. It shouldn’t cause trouble: the Grants could simply refuse to answer her question, and probably would.

  The whole can of worms about Ailsa’s parentage she would leave unopened. Fascinating though this was, it had nothing to do with Pavany’s murder, and when – if! – she was reinstated, she would get back to the cold case and review it all then.

  There was nothing to stop her thinking about it, though. If Robert Grant had a grudge against the bastard child his wife had brought to the marriage along with the rundown farm that was Lazansky’s silence money, followed by years of disgust and resentment at having allowed himself to be bought, Ailsa’s return pregnant might have induced the sort of simmering rage that could erupt into violence.

  But there was Gavin Hodge too. The threat of losing his comfortable life and the promise of future wealth was a solid motive for killing an inconvenient girlfriend. Heather Fairlie had said Ailsa definitely believed she was to be married. He could be leaned on a bit more, but that was most definitely for another time. The Hodges would not be sympathetic to an unofficial enquiry.

  But today, she would at least be able to ask Heather if by any chance she knew why Angus Laird had thrown away the rule book. Like father like daughter, she thought with a wry smile.

  At last, she could see the lighthouse looming ahead, dominating the skyline. There was the track to Balnakenny now, and with just a whisper of misgiving about what she was doing, she turned up it.

  A man was working with a roll of barbed wire, mending a fence by the track. He turned his head and when he straightened up at her approach, Fleming saw it was Stuart Grant. He didn’t speak, but she could sense from the way he approached her that his attitude was less hostile than before.

  She lowered the window. ‘Mr Grant, could you spare me a minute of your time?’

  For some reason, this seemed to amuse him. A sour smile came to his face. ‘Oh aye, I reckon I could.’

  ‘It’s not official. I want to emphasize that. It’s just something I want to know for my personal satisfaction.

  ‘When I was last here, I noticed you wore Caterpillar boots like my husband’s.’ He was wearing them now, she noticed. ‘Did you stand in the shrubbery at Tulach House and watch Marcus Lindsay?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ He spoke with surprising vehemence. ‘And I’ll tell you why, too. That lying old bitch up there –’ he jerked his head back towards the farmhouse – ‘got me to do it. Wound me up and pointed me, and it’s time you heard the truth. We’ll do this inside.’

  Totally taken aback, Fleming stammered, ‘Mr Grant, this may not be appropriate. As I said, I’m not here in an official capacity.’

  ‘Better, maybe,’ was all he said, walking off towards the house.

  There was no sign of Jean Grant. Stuart had taken Fleming, once more, into the front sitting room. Glancing round, Fleming noticed immediately that the photographs had gone, including the one of Jean as a bride with the husband this farm had bought her. Had she decided that some curve of the dress might give away her secret to suspicious eyes?

  In contrast to his former reluctance to speak, Stuart barely waited for her to sit down before he began talking. ‘I heard the news on the radio so I reckon you know now that I never touched the man. Never even spoke to him, in fact.

  ‘My mother told me he got Ailsa pregnant and killed her, only no one could prove it. She wanted me to go and beat him up, to show him we hadn’t forgotten. Last week was to be my chance. He was never there, usually.

  ‘He had to know it was Ailsa’s revenge – I was to tell him that. I think my mother probably reckoned I’d get angry, and kill him – I’ve a temper, you know.

  ‘But, well – long time ago, wasn’t it? I went and watched the house a couple of nights. But there was no point – I wasn’t going to break in like a thief. I saw him at a window a couple of times and maybe if he’d come out, I’d have spoken to him, had a bit of a barney, but he didn’t. Somehow, anyway . . .’ He paused, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Like I said, it was a long time ago, whatever I might have felt at the time.

  ‘Then two of your lot came to the farm, after Marcus got stabbed. They said he was in America all that year, and I got to thinking. Why was my mother telling me Marcus was the father, when she’d been told he definitely wasn’t?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fleming said. ‘That struck me too.’

  ‘I had a bit of a look around. There were two things I found.’ He put his hand into the inside pocket of the weatherproof jacket he was wearing and handed her the first of
them.

  It was the deeds to the farm, showing it had been bought by Ladislaw Lazansky, then gifted to Jean. ‘Yes,’ Fleming said. ‘I knew about that.’

  ‘I didn’t. Ailsa wondered, sometimes, why she was so different. She didn’t know. My mother never told her why she shouldn’t have anything to do with Marcus, why he dumped her like that. I guess he was told?’

  Fleming nodded.

  ‘This is the other thing.’ He handed her the paper he was holding in his hand.

  Fleming looked at it, and gasped. ‘Why . . .?’

  ‘She can tell you herself. She’s not getting out of this.’ He got up and went out, leaving Fleming staring at the paper he had given her.

  Jean Grant, when she came in, seemed smaller than Fleming remembered her, diminished by impotence, perhaps. Her expression was still hard, though, and she turned a rancorous look on her son as he pushed her, ungently, into a chair. She didn’t look at the inspector.

  ‘Mrs Grant,’ Fleming said, ‘why did you lie about this?’ She held up the piece of paper.

  Jean Grant looked at it. She did not cry; tears simply welled up, rolling down her cheeks unchecked. She seemed oblivious to them.

  ‘Why should he have his son, when I lost my daughter?’ she said. ‘It was his son’s fault – he broke my Ailsa’s heart. She was bright, shining, the best thing in my life – not like this.’ She cast a contemptuous glance at the man, silent now, sitting opposite her.

  ‘She came back from Glasgow, destroyed. I knew he was in Glasgow – I knew it was him, when she didn’t tell me the father, and by the time she came home it was too late anyway to get rid of that – that disgusting child. Not that I told her. There was no need for her to know my shame, and maybe it would have been . . . normal, anyway.

  ‘Yes, she took her own life. But he killed her, as surely as if he’d pushed her himself. So I wanted him – and his father – to suffer. What’s wrong with that? They ruined my life, twice over. Why should they escape?