by John Burke
‘Murdered,’ McAdam repeated, ‘in his workshop in the village.’
‘This is the second time you’ve been to this house to tell me someone’s been bumped off. What the hell is going on? And what the hell has it got to do with me?’
Lesley said: ‘You’ve nursed a few grudges against the late Mr Brunner. And you weren’t too pleased to find your cherished skean dhu was a fake.’
‘Now I remember you. Detective Inspector be damned. Last time I saw you, you were Lady something-or-other.’
‘Torrance. But before that I was just what Chief Inspector McAdam called me, and I’m offering her my professional advice.’
‘Mr Brunner and Mr Morgan have both been killed, within days of each other.’ McAdam raised her voice to make it clear who was in charge here. ‘We’re anxious to establish a connection.’
‘From what I heard on the news, Brunner was done in by some petty criminal who you managed to round up. After making a lot of unjustified implications against me, and no doubt a lot of other people.’ He leaned on the table again, swinging towards Lesley. ‘And didn’t you play some dashing part in that? Don’t tell me the police have let the man escape so he could come back and do somebody else in?’
‘Waterman is still safely in custody,’ said McAdam. ‘But it may just possibly be that he was not responsible for Brunner’s death. Somebody else could have got there first. And that might be the same somebody who has just disposed of Stuart Morgan.’
‘Good God. You badger a lot of folk about a killing, then arrest somebody else, and now you’re not even sure of him.’
‘We do have to eliminate people who may have had a motive. Or call it a grudge, in both cases. You yourself would be the first to admit, Mr Pitcairn, that you hated Brunner. And you were very upset when you found that the supposed heirloom you were attempting to remove from Balmuir Lodge was in fact only a copy. You were aware that Morgan was in the business of making copies of various things for Brunner’s collection.’
A collection partly fake, partly genuine, thought Lesley, without commenting on this out loud. Had Brunner chosen certain items to keep, and others to be copied while the originals were sold off? Or had Stuart Morgan been cheating on him in some way? He had served time in prison, and even if a drunken car accident did not mean he had been an habitué of criminals before, his spell inside might have led him to become one afterwards. Men learned a lot of new skills in prison; and made a lot of new acquaintances who could come in handy when they were out again.
As McAdam continued the questioning, Lesley drifted about the room, examining a pair of ivory elephants on the mantelpiece, and a target flanked by two Lochaber axes on the wall above it. She had just turned to study a large portrait on the wall beside it, picturing a man proudly attired in the uniform of the Royal Company of Archers, when a door opened at her elbow and an elderly man came in.
‘My great-great-grandfather,’ he barked, just as proud as the figure in the painting. ‘Sir James Pitcairn.’ Then he peered at her. ‘And who might ye be, young lady?’
‘Lady Torrance,’ said Harry Pitcairn. ‘My father, Colonel Pitcairn.’
‘Lady Torrance, is it? Delighted to meet you.’ His hand clutched hers, but it was a very shaky grip. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘Lady Torrance,’ said Harry heavily, ‘is assisting the police in their inquiries.’
‘What inquiries?’
‘Apparently some odd character from the village has followed in Brunner’s footsteps. Been done in.’
Colonel Pitcairn’s hand stopped shaking. He folded his sandy-haired fingers in tightly until the knuckles went white. His flabby lips sagged open. Then he spotted the letters on the table, and grabbed at them. ‘Ah, the post. Gets later every day. Lucky if we get them before dusk, eh?’ All at once he was babbling. ‘None of the old traditions of service apply any more, eh? Don’t you find that, Lady Torrance? Och, but maybe you’re too young ever to ha’ known the really civilized times.’
Lesley could not take her eyes off the portrait. As she stooped to examine the lower right-hand corner, Colonel Pitcairn’s voice went rambling on. ‘Aye, a fine piece of work, that. By Skeoch Cumming, of course.’
‘A very good copy,’ said Lesley.
‘Copy?’ Harry exploded. ‘That’s an original. Skeoch Cumming was noted for his paintings of the royal bodyguard.’
‘I know. And this isn’t an original. As I said, an admirable copy. Excellent brushwork. But this bottom right-hand corner’s been a bit rushed. Covering up a few errors with acrylic paint. Everything else done so well, but just this little bit botched.’
Father and son were staring at each other. Colonel Pitcairn stumbled an awkward step backwards. Harry thrust out his hand.
‘Father. Give me those letters.’
The old man shakily extracted two envelopes to hand to his son.
‘And that other one,’ Harry snapped.
‘This is for me. I don’t have to —’
‘Let me see it. It’s from that bookie, isn’t it? You’re still at it.’ He swung towards McAdam. ‘Has it occurred to you that maybe Brunner never did get most of our family treasures? My father here had flogged ’em off to pay his gambling debts — oh, they’ve always been pretty large, I can assure you — and palmed some copies off on to Brunner. That oaf wouldn’t know the difference.’ He brought his father back into the line of fire. ‘Were you working with that character — Morgan, was that the name? But when did you flog the original of the portrait? That never went to Brunner. Who did it go to?’
‘This is outrageous. We do not have family discussions in front of strangers. It is none of their business.’
‘Oh, but it is,’ said McAdam, very quiet after the shouting. ‘It is very much the business of the police to know exactly what deals were done with the late Stuart Morgan, and who would have the strongest motive for getting rid of him before he let out too many secrets.’
‘I’ll no’ have the likes of you talking to me like that. Not in my house. I’m still well-kent round here, you know. I reckon the fiscal would listen to me if I laid a complaint against police blundering in and —’
‘Whatever he listened to, Colonel, he would also agree that in the circumstances we’d be entitled to hold you and your son for questioning for twenty-four hours.’
‘In order to let filthy gossip spread through the community and besmirch our name, what? Dammit, woman, I’d be ashamed to be doing a job as shabby as yours.’ His Scottish burr became a pseudo-English hee-haw honking. ‘No standards. No breeding. No respect for tradition. There was a time when you would not have been allowed to set foot in these premises. Disgraceful.’
Harry said: ‘Shut up, father. You’re an old sham. I don’t know why I went along with it for so long.’
Colonel Pitcairn tried to splutter, but only whimpered. In Lesley’s eyes he became, all at once, the Wizard of Oz. All noise and self-righteous bluster — and then in the end you found him cowering behind a battery of amplifiers, making as much noise as possible to disguise the fact that he was scared of being exposed as a twittering little nonentity.
*
Jilly-Jo came storming into the house, followed by Hagan, less like a tough security guard and more like a browbeaten, dejected dog.
Alec had been asking Anna if she could keep an eye on the place while he took Queenie away for a much-needed holiday, when Jilly-Jo planted herself in front of him, seething.
‘I suppose you’ve known about this all along? A big joke. And you went along with it.’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’
‘You’re the bloody executor of that flaming will. Don’t tell me you haven’t known what was in it, all along.’
‘I was appointed executor, but until recently I didn’t know the exact provisos.’
‘Come off it. He didn’t tell you about the marriage so you could both have a good laugh over it? Big deal, leaving me a bit of money, but I’ve got no rights as a wido
w, because we were never properly married. Isn’t that a scream?’
Anna risked intervening, afraid that Jilly-Jo was on the verge not just of yelling at Alec but of spitting in his face. ‘We were under the impression that you had a very romantic wedding in the Highlands, with all the historic trimmings.’
Jilly-Jo turned on her. ‘Historic? It was a put-up job.’ She jerked a thumb scornfully in Hagan’s direction. ‘So much for his brilliant solicitor. A fat lot of good he’s done us.’
‘He found the truth,’ protested Hagan. ‘And it didn’t take him long.’
‘The truth!’ fumed Jilly-Jo. ‘The sort of truth we could have done without. Just another of Chet’s stunts. Phoney setting, phoney minister, phoney wedding.’
There was a shriek of laughter from the door. Georgina Campbell made a gleeful entry like an actress picking up her cue.
‘Isn’t that just the most wonderful twist in the tale? Good old Chet. Just taking reasonable precautions. And who’d blame him? But at least you get some cash, you bitch. More than I do, after all I did for him.’
Alec spoke with a virulence that took Anna by surprise. It was as if aversions which he had bottled up for years had suddenly blown the cork and come foaming out.
‘You.’ He flung the word at Jilly-Jo. ‘You wouldn’t go to bed with him unless he married you, would you?’
‘I had my pride.’
‘Prick-tease,’ shouted Georgina.
‘Well, at least he left her some money,’ said Alec. ‘Or palimony, as they call it in the States. Whereas you, you didn’t hesitate before hopping into bed with him. So there was no need for a put-up ceremony, and no pay-off.’
‘The cheating bastard.’
‘Well, at least that’s something the two of you can agree on.’
Like Alec, Jilly-Jo had been quivering with the pent-up need to attack somebody, only with her it was a physical need. Without warning she launched herself at Georgina. Alec started a vain step to come between them, but was knocked to one side. The two women clawed at each other, scratching and squealing. Anna looked at Alec, wondering whether between them they could put an end to this; or whether it was better to let it run its own course.
Tam Hagan stood to one side, sullen and at a loss.
Suddenly there were two others on the scene, each grabbing one of the women and dragging them apart. Anna had to admire their skill. DCI McAdam’s right arm did something complicated under Georgina’s shoulder, while her sergeant performed a similar move so that they could separate the two women like two interlocked segments of a metal puzzle sliding apart, once you had the knack. Sergeant Elliot was lucky, though, not to have received a scratch down his right cheek to match the scar on his left.
Hagan was eyeing Georgina appreciatively. Her shoulder and left breast had been laid enticingly bare by a long shred torn from her flimsy blouse.
‘What’s all this about?’ McAdam demanded.
‘Nothing to do with you.’ Jilly-Jo was tugging her hair into some sort of shape, panting, already poised for another assault. ‘What are you doing, still hanging around?’
‘Have you only just got back, or were you in the village earlier today?’ McAdam was including Hagan in her question.
‘What the hell are you on about?’ He was reluctant to have his attention diverted from Georgina. ‘I’ve already answered your crappy questions once before. Why are you still picking on me?’
‘Some other matters have arisen.’
‘While we’ve been away? No business of mine, then.’
‘You haven’t answered my question about —’
‘And I’m not going to.’
‘Mr Hagan, I’m making no charges against you at this stage. I simply want you to help with the answers to a few questions.’
‘I don’t know what you’re trying to cook up this time, but I’m not interested. If you keep on, I want a solicitor.’
‘Don’t talk to me about solicitors,’ squealed Jilly-Jo. ‘A fat lot of good they’ve done us so far.’
‘If you want a solicitor, Mr Hagan,’ said McAdam, ‘I will make immediate arrangements for one to meet us at the nick. But since I’m not yet charging you with anything, wouldn’t it save time and trouble for you simply to answer a few straightforward questions here?’
Hagan glowered, shuffled, and then grunted assent. Jilly-Jo flopped into an armchair with a histrionic sigh, still keeping a wary eye on Georgina, who was coyly adjusting her clothes to the best advantage.
‘Provided you tell me what the hell it’s all about,’ Hagan said. ‘I’m not going to be trapped into answering dodgy questions so you can twist them into something that suits you. What’s all this about something coming up since we left?’
‘Another dead body, that’s what.’ McAdam allowed it time to sink in. ‘A Mr Stuart Morgan has been killed. Did you know him at all well?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘I remember.’ The focus of attention had been off Jilly-Jo for too long. ‘He was that weirdo who was always carting bits of furniture and God knows what in and out of the place. Chet’s odd-job man.’ Even uttering Chet Brunner’s name was enough to set her off again. ‘Another shifty little creep, as shifty as that fat, cheating bastard himself.’
‘Since you have such a clear recollection of the dead man’s proclivities, perhaps you’ll be prepared to help us with our inquiries. Could you spare me a few minutes in the incident room?’
Anna waited for Hagan to say that he wasn’t going to let the police try giving Jilly-Jo the third degree unless he was present to protect her. Instead, he let McAdam and Elliot escort her towards the studio, and turned his attention to Georgina.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I can cope. I’m so sorry you had to witness that dreadful scene.’ Her gaze met his, then dropped shyly. She had practised being spontaneous until she had got it perfect. ‘I really must go and tidy myself up.’
She did not look back in protest when he followed her.
Anna sighed. ‘You know, I do feel guilty. It’s not as though I did anything deliberately, but I still feel guilty.’
Alec put his arm round her shoulders and hugged her, the way she had often seen him hug Queenie. ‘What have you got to feel guilty about?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The will. Me getting the estate. I mean, he was such a tough type, and it doesn’t make sense for him to leave me so much.’
‘But of course it makes sense. All those wheeler-dealers in our business, they get where they are because they’re in tune with the corniest ideas of the general public.’ Alec’s fit of hostility was seeping away into mere disillusion. ‘Their success depends on their vulgarity. Their brashness, pushiness. Knowing the market, playing it, and believing in it while they do so. But believing — that’s the essence. Think of all the illiterate bosses, the Cohns and the Mayers who made Hollywood. Bullying everybody, squeezing the last little drop of blood and talent out of everyone who worked for them, but weeping genuine tears over the concept of a white Christmas. And redneck backwoods Bible-punchers who grow misty-eyed over a Catholic priest provided he’s played by Bing Crosby. And our home-grown imitators, all of them like Nazi concentration camp officers: eyes filling with tears as Jewish prisoners played a Schubert quartet, then next day despatch them to the gas chambers. Chet Brunner wouldn’t have got where he was if he hadn’t had a wide streak of corny sentiment right through that leathery hide. Don’t knock it. Your inheritance is the happy ending he could never have contrived for himself.’
Anna gulped, embarrassed by his intensity. Clumsily she changed the subject. ‘Oh, Alec — any sign of Cocky yet?’
‘No. Which is why I want to get Queenie away for a while, just as soon as I can. She’s near breaking point. Not that she’ll ever forget him, unfortunately.’
*
Lesley was taking clothes from the washing machine out to the drying carousel when she heard the car draw up on the other side of the cottage. Nick came round, al
most tripping over the laundry basket as he reached to kiss her.
‘A couple of bottles of rather ordinary Rioja,’ he said. ‘But I did find a rather good Macallan that seems to have been languishing in the dust at the back of a shelf for a few years.’
Lesley freed a cluster of pegs from a wire, and began hanging her blouse on the outer edge.
‘Any staggering developments during my absence?’ asked Nick.
‘Nothing. I don’t know who to suspect. Or who’s above suspicion.’
‘Shame. By this time one expects a cut-and-dried solution so that the end credits can roll and everyone can switch off and make a cup of tea.’
‘This is real life, not Miss Marple. Real life is untidy, and tends to stay that way.’
‘In a decent thriller, that old man you went to see would have been Anna’s father, and there would be a symbolic clash between Brunner’s love-child with Queenie, and Pitcairn’s by-blow with Anna. And for some reason Pitcairn would be able to blackmail Brunner, and —’
‘Yes,’ said Lesley, ‘just a telly play where it all ends in a flurry and you can leave a lot of loose ends and implausibilities without anybody noticing.’
‘You wouldn’t buy my plot synopsis?’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘You may regret it.’
She took her slip from the basket. ‘Amateur sleuths and locked door mysteries are not on the programme.’
‘Aren’t you an amateur now?’
She was framing some flippant response, but it died on her lips. She peered at a stain on the protruding end of one of the cross struts of the carousel, touched it with her little finger, then drew back.
‘What’s up?’ Nick moved round the laundry basket to her side. ‘Found a midge colony lying in wait for you?’
‘That mark on the end there.’
‘Rust.’
‘That’s what I thought. But this contraption is too new to rust. I think it could be dried blood.’ As he instinctively lifted his finger, the way she had done, she said: ‘Don’t touch.’
‘What on earth is wandering through your mind right now?’