Lamb to the Slaughter

by Aline Templeton

  The shutters came down so fast she almost heard them rattle. Salaman got up. ‘I have been, as you said yourself, anxious to cooperate in any way I can, but I see this as a privacy issue. You have my card – I know you will contact me if I can be of further assistance.’

  Then he was gone and Fleming found herself staring at a closed door.

  Walking along the High Street, Tam MacNee paused to consider his next move. He was keen to talk to Ellie Burnett – somehow he had the sense that there was a lot of stuff going on there – but from what he’d seen this morning, she wouldn’t be in her shop today. It was too early to go to the Salutation in the hope of finding someone with a proper sense of loyalty to an old pal, and anyway Bunty was starting to get suspicious about his sudden interest in taking long walks. It would make sense to go home now, then after his tea he could use the excuse that he was needing to practise his hand–eye coordination at the darts board. She’d swallowed that before.

  He had stopped, he realised suddenly, just outside the motorcycle showroom. School must be out; there were several boys and two or three girls looking at the gleaming monsters on display, talking and laughing. From behind the counter Johnny Black was watching them indulgently. It had clearly become some sort of meeting-place for the young, and given the pester-power of teenagers, it probably made commercial sense as well.

  It occurred to MacNee that among them might well be the little sods currently making Christina Munro’s life a living hell. No one would have had time to follow up on that officially, with all that was going on today, and on an impulse he opened the door, untroubled by scruples about claiming an official status he didn’t currently possess.

  He walked up to the counter, where four youths were ­clustered, talking to Black. There was another man beside him: Danny Simpson, from Ravenshill. That was a bit unfortunate, but MacNee wasn’t going to turn back now.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said to Black. ‘Are Barney Kyle, Dylan Burnett and Gordon Gloag in here?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ The speaker was a stocky, square-faced boy with close-cropped dark brown hair, dark brown eyes and a mouth fixed in what looked like a permanent sneer. He was a big lad, three or four inches taller than MacNee himself.

  Tam swivelled, looked at him, then turned back to Black, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

  ‘Barney, Gordon, Dylan,’ the man said hastily, indicating three out of the four round the counter. ‘Just watch it, fellas – Mr MacNee’s a policeman.’

  Danny Simpson looked startled. As MacNee confronted them, the fourth member of the bunch slid away to join the safety of a larger group round the big Harley Davidson at the front of the showroom, and a leggy, fair-haired girl detached herself from it and slipped unobtrusively from the shop.

  With the shrewdness born of long experience, MacNee eyed the group in front of him. The spotty, pasty-faced one at the back, Gloag, was clearly a hanger-on. He’d positioned himself behind the other two, with a telling distance between him and Burnett, who was at Kyle’s shoulder. Burnett was slight, with a blond ponytail and something of his mother’s delicacy of feature, and though he was trying to look defiant, the nervous movements of his eyes told a different story.

  Kyle was different. Kyle had a strong, square-jawed face, with five-o’clock shadow showing under his swarthy skin. He was good-looking, though, with heavily lashed dark eyes, and he was smiling insolently, his elbows still on the counter. The leader, definitely, with Burnett as his henchman.

  ‘What do you want with us, anyway?’ Kyle demanded.

  MacNee didn’t reply. He stared directly at him until the pause became so uncomfortable that even Black, behind the counter, was shifting uneasily.

  With affected indifference, Kyle straightened up. ‘If you’ve nothing to say to us, I’ll just—’ He made to move away.

  ‘You won’t “just” anything,’ MacNee said flatly. ‘You’ll stand there and listen till I choose to stop.’

  There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to stop them all laughing and walking away, except MacNee’s absolute conviction that they wouldn’t. The extent of Kyle’s defiance was to shove his hands in his pockets; the others were watching the policeman warily.

  ‘You’ve been warned about victimising an old lady who lives alone at Wester Seton, but you haven’t stopped.’

  ‘Us?’ Burnett said, plucking up courage. ‘Case of mistaken identity, that’s all.’

  MacNee looked at him with a dead stare until Burnett’s eyes dropped. ‘Finished? Listen, and listen good.

  ‘Know what happens when you push people too far? They snap. Farmers have shotguns. A kid got himself killed that way a while back. If the lady snaps, and uses hers, OK, she’ll be jailed, but you’ll be dead.

  ‘Think about it. If you can think. You’re in line for ASBOs as it is and we’ll be watching every step you take. One breach, and you’ll find yourselves banged up as first offenders. Only seeing as there aren’t enough places and you’re low-grade trash, it’d probably be Barlinnie.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘Oh, they like sweet young unspoiled lads like you in Bar L.’

  There was an absolute hush in the showroom. Even the kids at a distance were staring in shock, and MacNee was pleased to see that Gloag, at least, had gone pale. Burnett was chewing his lip, but Kyle, though lacking the nerve to take him on, had an expression of sullen impassivity. MacNee was unsurprised to hear, just as he walked out and closed the door behind him, Kyle squeal, ‘Oooh, I’m scared!’ and the burst of nervous laughter which followed.

  Kyle, plainly, was the ringleader. Burnett, cocky though he might be, was too flimsy to go against what he decreed. Gloag just might have been frightened enough to make an excuse and drop out the next time. There was, unfortunately, little doubt in MacNee’s mind that there would be a next time. With some discomfort he reflected that he probably hadn’t done much good. He could only hope he hadn’t done any actual harm.

  Just as he was leaving, he saw a sleek, black Mercedes sports coupé park on the opposite side of the road and a very smart young man get out. He looked as if he might be Chinese or something, or half-something, maybe. There were a couple of Chinese restaurants in Kirkluce but they certainly weren’t making the sort of money that bought you cars like that, and MacNee glanced over his shoulder in idle interest as the man crossed the road and went into the showroom MacNee had just left.

  He’d spotted the Harley Davidson, maybe. It had looked like becoming a permanent fixture, so Black would be pleased at the prospect of a sale, MacNee thought as he walked home.

  ‘It was mostly flannel, I reckon. But according to them, they were together at Ravenshill until they went in separate cars to the meeting. Then afterwards they went straight home,’ DS Macdonald said, reporting to DI Fleming on the interview with the Farquharsons.

  ‘So ...?’ Fleming prompted, to see what he would say.

  ‘I know – why did they need to take both cars? Young Campbell was on to it like a shot. Says almost nothing, then throws in a grenade with the pin out. Farquharson said, “I drove in to the meeting,” not we, and Campbell suddenly went, “So where was your wife then?” And he blurted out that she was following in her car. If looks could kill, she’d be downstairs right now on a murder rap.

  ‘I asked if they had separate things to do, but she faced me down. Looked me straight in the eye and said they drove in convoy there and back – produced some guff about neither of them liking being driven. She’s tough, that one.’

  ‘Good follow-up from both of you, there,’ Fleming said approvingly. ‘With what they had to gain from Carmichael’s death, they have to be firmly in the picture, and if she really was trying to fake an alibi, you have to ask why. Anyway, the CCTV footage will tell us if they’re lying. We’ll need the registration numbers of both cars—’

  Smugly, Macdonald said, ‘Got them already. I’ve passed them on.’

  ‘OK, you are today’s winner of the big badge that says “My inspector’s thrilled skinny with me.” But tel
l me, how were they looking when you arrived?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Happy? Sad? Scared – I mean, more scared than people usually are when you and Campbell start in on them?’

  Macdonald thought about it. ‘Hard to say, exactly. Not happy. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. She wasn’t so bad – hadn’t slept for three days, say.’

  ‘They were stressed?’

  ‘You could say.’

  ‘It could have had something to do with the Colonel’s grandson.’

  Macdonald was startled. ‘Grandson? He didn’t even have children.’

  ‘That’s what you think, but it’s a pardonable error. His wife was under the same impression.’ She filled him in on the story of Zack Salaman.

  ‘That fits!’ He told her about the photographs. ‘He must have given him the one of himself, I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe so he could recognise him when they met,’ Fleming suggested.

  ‘Right. So where do we go from here?’ Macdonald asked.

  ‘You tell me.’ Fleming sat back in her chair. ‘Play your hunches, Andy. Should we be going all out after the Farquharsons?’

  He thought about it, then shook his head. ‘Too early to say that. Too many other loose ends. I’d want to pick up on ­Salaman as well – after all, he has a grudge motive on top of a financial one.

  ‘We ought to trace the detective – you said he clammed up on that. If he’s reluctant to say who it is, there may be a reason for it. Some fairly dubious firms operate in Glasgow. This is where we need Tam. He’s the only one of us who can use the Old Pals Act to get an inside track.’

  Fleming grimaced. ‘I know. But we haven’t got him at the moment, for good medical reasons, and I’ve warned you about leaving him out of it. Just go through the official ­channels, Andy – you’ll get the information perfectly well that way.’

  ‘No problem.’ Macdonald hesitated. ‘Can I ask, has anything else come in?’

  ‘Of course you can ask! This is teamwork. You’ve got your stripe, you need to be more assertive. You have to pin me down about anything you need to know. Tell me when you think I’m wrong. I’m a pussycat, really.’

  He couldn’t quite conceal his sceptical look, and she laughed. ‘OK, I’m not exactly a pussycat, but when I take a swipe, it’s rarely fatal.

  ‘Anyway, you wanted to know what else we’d got. Will and Tansy reckon Ossian Forbes-Graham is losing it rapidly and his mother will do anything to protect him. Tansy thinks he’s stalking Ellie Burnett; Will reckons it’s weirder than that.

  ‘From the door-to-doors, nothing much. They talked to George MacLaren and Senga Blair since money’s involved there, but—’ Fleming shrugged. ‘My bet is that we can forget about them.

  ‘There are a number whose livelihood’s going to be affected if it goes through – bakers, greengrocers, not to mention the workforce with jobs at risk, and it doesn’t do to underestimate that in a community like this where there’s not a lot of alternative employment. Then there’s the suppliers too. Farmers, for instance, who know a superstore will cut their throats. And yes, that means Bill among a load of others. They’re all having to be interviewed.’ She sighed. ‘There’s going to be enough material to keep me tethered to my desk for days.

  ‘So we have to talk priorities. What’s the first angle we take?’

  ‘I’d go after the Farquharsons,’ Macdonald said. ‘It’s a good, straightforward motive. Not sure I’d buy someone like a farmer or a shopkeeper actually killing to protect a future market – certainly at this stage in the proceedings.’

  ‘Right – run with that. May even do a spot of legwork there myself – I think I’m beginning to go stir-crazy. And you sometimes see things clearer when you’re out there. Anything else?’

  Macdonald shook his head. ‘OK if I go off now? Oh, there’s just one thing – Ewan Campbell’s doing well. He’s got a nice line in unsettling questions. Maybe we could include him in task force discussions?’

  ‘That ever I should see the day when a Macdonald had a good word to say for a Campbell,’ she mocked him.

  ‘Ha, ha!’

  Fleming was pleased by his scathing tone, even if he did look faintly scared once he’d said it. She slapped her wrist. ‘Sorry. I know racist jokes aren’t funny,’ and saw him grin. ‘Good work, Andy. We’re not going to finger someone overnight, but I feel we’re getting somewhere. Thanks.’

  Fleming turned back to the reports she was preparing for Bailey and Menzies. Andy Mac was shaping up well, and it sounded as if the taciturn Campbell was an asset too.

  It was half-past eight when Marjory Fleming left the Kirkluce HQ to head for home. Her mind was still on the case, though, as she drove past the entrance to the square round the war memorial.

  There was a gathering of youngsters there, with a couple of motorbikes at the heart of the group. She frowned, remembering what Tam had said yesterday morning about the persecution of Christina Munro. It was really a matter for the uniforms, but Tam’s uncharacteristic anxiety nagged at her and she stopped, backed into a side street and drove past again, more slowly this time.

  Even if some of them were wearing the dreaded hoodies, they weren’t committing a crime except the usual one of being young. She remembered, with a touch of envy, just how it had felt. She recognised a few of them, decent kids, just ‘hanging out’, with a lot of horseplay, the boys pushing and the girls giggling. No change there, then.

  There was one girl standing talking to the bikers, a slim girl, laughing and tossing her fair hair flirtatiously. A girl who looked hideously familiar.

  Transfixed, Marjory drove on mechanically. She knew where Cat was. Didn’t all conscientious mothers know where their children were? She was having supper with her grandmother, then going to a netball practice, after which her friend Jenny’s mother, who passed Mains of Craigie on the way home, would drop her at the road end.

  Cat Fleming wasn’t at a netball practice. Cat’s mother made an illegal U-turn, drove back and turned into the square. She drew up alongside the motorbikes, leaned across to open the passenger door and said tersely to her startled daughter, ‘Get in.’

  Her face flaming and her eyes filling with angry tears, Cat complied. As they drove off, Marjory could see the others begin to laugh.

  Cat, sinking down in her seat, saw them too. ‘You deliberately humiliated me!’ she cried.

  ‘Fasten your seat belt. Yes. You lied to us. And the boys you were talking to are on their way to having a police record.’

  ‘So put me under arrest, why don’t you?’

  Breathing deeply, Marjory turned out into the main road, making herself look both ways with extra care, since in her present frame of mind she might miss a ten-ton truck bearing down on her at ninety miles an hour.

  ‘I’m willing to listen to a grovelling apology. Otherwise, it might be a good idea to say nothing until I’ve discussed with your father where we go from here.’

  In cold silence, they drove out to Mains of Craigie.

  10

  ‘Enjoy your fish, Mr Salaman?’ the waiter asked, stopping by the table where a young man was dining alone. Like he cared; this place was dying on its feet.

  The dining-room of the country house hotel, painted in a historically authentic but oppressive deep red, was all but empty. Of the thirty tables with their crisp white cloths, shining glasses and deep red carnations, only three were occupied. Retired couples were at the other two, carrying on desultory conversations in muted, middle-class voices.

  Zack Salaman looked down at his plate, an oblong plate with flared edges, on which there remained most of a sea bass, still resting on a pile of indeterminate greenish vegetables and surrounded by a pattern of drizzled balsamic ­vinegar. ‘As you see,’ he said coldly. ‘My compliments to the chef.’

  Sarcastic bastard! Keeping his face studiously blank, the waiter removed the plate. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll pass that on. Shall I bring you the dessert menu?’

  Salaman shud
dered visibly. ‘No. Coffee. Black.’ Then he said, ‘On second thoughts, perhaps not. Is there a decent Italian restaurant in Kirkluce?’

  The waiter was tempted to suggest the chippie in Market Street which had a fine line in deep-fried pizza, but he needed the job for another few weeks. ‘I couldn’t say, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is there a night porter?’ Salaman asked.

  ‘Not in that sense, sir. There is a key with your room key – there.’ He gestured towards the bunch of keys lying on the table.

  ‘Of course. I should have guessed from everything else. Perhaps you could ask your manager some time precisely how this could be described as a luxury hotel?’

  He walked out. The waiter shrugged, and moved on to the nearby table where one of the elderly couples was looking on disapprovingly. The lady, with greying curls and a plump, kindly face, had finished every scrap of her Death by Chocolate in Three Variations.

  ‘That,’ she said, in ringing tones, ‘was absolutely delicious!’ Then, as Salaman reached the door she added, sotto voce, ‘Foreign, of course. So I suppose you have to make allowances.’

  Tam MacNee had soaked up local gossip until he felt saturated. And if they didn’t let him back to work soon, he’d find himself with a drink problem as well as everything else.

  He’d had no joy at the Salutation. He’d gone home early for his tea, then Bunty had wanted to bend his ear about her youngest sister – a sparky girl, and the only one of her family Tam had any time for – who was enjoying her youth rather too enthusiastically. By the time he’d given her the benefit of his considered advice (‘Och, the lassie’s fine! Leave her alone.’) and walked back to the pub, there wasn’t an officer around. Since the Salutation’s only real attraction was its proximity to the Kirkluce HQ, he drank up and left for the more congenial Cutty Sark.

  He could always count on finding a few of his cronies there, but by this stage, they were reacting as if the murder investigation was one of those reality shows Bunty liked and Tam couldn’t stand: life, in his experience, was hard enough without deliberately making it worse – and if suffering was your thing, why not just follow Ayr United?