Lamb to the Slaughter

by Aline Templeton

  ‘I’m afraid I am not at liberty to discuss that.’ She could go on blocking indefinitely.

  Gloag wasn’t pleased. His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not at all impressed by stonewalling, inspector, as I shall not hesitate to say, both to your superiors and to the press.

  ‘But there is a much more serious matter I have to raise. I understand from my son Gordon that one of your sergeants suggested to the boys yesterday afternoon that Ms Munro might well attempt to shoot them. If he knew of this, and took no action, it is a very serious matter indeed.’

  He wasn’t wrong there. Fleming’s stomach lurched, but she managed not to show her dismay. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say anything until I have looked into it. As far as I know, there was no officer who was detailed to speak to them yesterday – though, of course, there was a record of problems.’

  Gloag waved away that point. ‘Irrelevant. I had also, I may say, warned the detectives who interviewed me that Kyle and Burnett were heading for trouble, and were a pernicious influence on others, but I assume they took no action. Most ­fortunately, my son came and told me that he had no wish to get involved with this latest stupid prank and would be staying at home rather than going with them—’

  ‘You mean,’ Fleming interjected, ‘that you knew another visit to Wester Seton was planned – and did nothing to stop it? Like warning the police, for instance?’

  She managed to look shocked, and saw Gloag falter. His piggy eyes, which had been boring into her, slid away and he licked his lips. ‘Well, that’s to say – I had no evidence – and of course they might have changed their minds.’

  ‘We would have been happy to take precautionary action. Especially since it might have averted tragedy. This is most unfortunate – most,’ Fleming said gravely, and saw Gloag squirm. As she went on, ‘And apart from anything else, I feel that the public would be astonished to learn that in your ­position you were not concerned to stop the persecution of an elderly lady,’ she saw a fine film of sweat appear on his forehead.

  ‘I – I think I may have given a false impression. By the time Gordon told me about this, it would have been too late.’

  ‘I see. Well, we shall be talking to him, of course.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’m afraid I must get to my meeting.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Gloag got up. ‘And I trust you understand that my only motive for coming in this morning was concern for the public interest. Nothing personal at all.’

  ‘We all have our jobs to do, and I’m sure we understand each other.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Nothing but the fullest support.’

  The way he took his leave was almost obsequious. Fleming was fairly certain he wasn’t about to go and make trouble with the press; the great advantage about dealing with politicians was that they understood delicate blackmail. And he’d been surprisingly sensitive once she’d picked up on his own prior knowledge.

  She wasn’t under any illusions, though. The business with Tam was a ticking time bomb.

  Tam MacNee was in a grim mood as he walked up the forestry track, bending into a brisk wind, the greyhound a slim shadow at his side. He’d had to bring it with him. He tended to prefer cats to dogs – there was something about their independent, to-hell-with-you attitude that spoke to him – but when he’d been going out of the door, the animal had shown such signs of distress that he’d felt he couldn’t leave it: removed from its mistress, it had obviously decided that Tam represented security. He’d made token protests, but there was no doubt it was flattering, and he kind of liked having the beast with him. He’d tried throwing a stick for it, but this was ignored with a pained dignity which made him feel positively embarrassed at being so uncouth.

  The early cloud had cleared and now it was a bright, breezy morning with just a slight autumnal edge to the air. Though Tam had never been exactly what you’d call the outdoor type, in these last difficult months when he’d needed to get out of the house he’d sometimes come here, up to Glentrool, to one of the rough tracks between the towering pines, where the only background sound was their branches creaking and muttering in the wind and maybe a wee burn blethering to itself. It had sometimes helped him put things in perspective, but today it wasn’t working. However you looked at it, whatever the boss might have said, he knew that his part in the disaster was likely to come out, sooner or later. And then what? He simply didn’t know.

  Christina Munro – how could she have fired directly into the back of a youth who was running away? Fear and pressure, of course, made people do strange things. But gunning Andrew Carmichael down on his doorstep ... Why, just for a start? She wasn’t one of the farmers who could be driven out of business by the superstore deal going through – she’d sold up her stock long ago – and she wasn’t, as far as he knew, close to any who did. So whether Carmichael was ­planning to sell or wasn’t, it couldn’t have mattered to her either way.

  Fleming would have the lads out today, digging for a motive: going through Christina’s papers, asking for telephone records, comparing with what they had already from Fauldburn House. If it were him, he’d go straight to Annie Brown. Would someone think of that, he wondered. Maybe he’d go anyway. He’d be wise to keep his head down, but there was nothing to stop him going for another chat with his old neighbour. He’d go off his head if there was nothing to do but wait.

  If Christina hadn’t killed the Colonel, it had to mean there was a second person out there who was also prepared to shoot to kill. He could have understood it better if the Colonel’s death had happened after she’d shot Kyle: someone with a grudge might have taken the opportunity to get rid of the man in the hope that the two deaths would be bracketed together.

  Tam had never taken much interest in guns. He was as fond of a roast pheasant as the next man, but he’d always been uncomfortable with the notion of getting pleasure out of killing a living creature. Not that he’d been exactly inundated with invitations to join the local shoots – for some strange reason!

  Until now, apart from the occasional suicide, gun crime hadn’t featured on their patch, and ballistics wasn’t something he’d had to swot up. He did know, though, that being able to identify a particular shotgun was highly unlikely. Calling in all the shotguns on the register wouldn’t get them anywhere, which was probably lucky, considering how many there must be in this rural area.

  If any were missing, of course, that would be interesting. Tam had seen for himself that security standards at the Ravenshill clay-pigeon shoot were lax: a check-up there might be useful. He couldn’t go back, though. Dan Simpson had been in the motorbike showroom when Tam had been daft enough to stick his nose in.

  Anyway, if someone else had killed the Colonel, they couldn’t know Christina was going to shoot Kyle. So you were left with Christina having killed both of them, or a very odd coincidence. The gloom, which had lifted as he speculated, descended again.

  There was something else, though, something niggling at the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite place. He tried not to blame his injury; plenty of times in the past, when there had been nothing wrong with his head, he’d struggled to track down a passing thought. Even so—

  A rabbit suddenly shot across the path. Tam had almost forgotten about the greyhound, walking daintily at his side; suddenly, there was a flash of movement and covering the ground in huge, graceful leaps like a startled deer, the dog was off in pursuit.

  Just as Tam was wondering what he would do with a freshly slain rabbit, the dog returned to his side, mercifully with nothing in its jaws. It was presumably used to its electric quarry disappearing, but Tam thought he sensed a faint embarrassment.

  ‘Never mind, son,’ he said, stroking the narrow, intelligent head. ‘We all make mistakes.’

  ‘Ossian!’ she called. ‘Is that you?’

  There was no reply, only the sound of footsteps running up the stairs, and then, somewhere above, a door slamming.

  Deirdre Forbes-Graham got up from her easel in the room she called her studi
o at the back of the first floor of the house. It was more, perhaps, a boudoir than a workroom, furnished with pretty, scaled-down, feminine furniture – an Edwardian bonheur de jour, a neat button-backed chair – and the elaborately carved easel holding the watercolour she was working on at the moment had been designed for a Victorian lady who shared Deirdre’s hobby. The half-finished painting, in common with others framed on the walls or propped up ready for framing, showed misty hills and ­obligingly romantic trees; the scenic postcard she was copying lay on the nearby table, along with the elegant box of expensive paints.

  Deirdre went to the door and out into the hall. ‘Ossian!’ she called again up the stairs, but there was no answer. She heard, to her alarm, a muffled crash.

  She was worried about her son – very worried. An artistic temperament was all very well – indeed, she’d encouraged it, revelled in her son’s mercurial talent and later in his success. The launch of his London exhibition, a sell-out, had been the proudest moment of her life.

  But the way he had been behaving recently was alarming. He certainly wasn’t painting and, as far as she could tell, he’d hardly eaten these last few days. She’d barely seen him; he spent all his time either at the Fauldburn studio or in his bedroom, which had always been forbidden territory to the rest of the household without due notice and permission.

  It was that woman, Deirdre knew it was – a predatory harpy, driving her poor boy insane, and almost old enough to be his mother. Oh, how she wished she had never introduced them! She’d been taking in some of her pictures, which Ellie sold in the shop along with her own insipid flower sketches, and on that ill-fated day, Ossian had been with her.

  She’d never forget his reaction. He’d stared at her with his mouth half-open, like some idiot child. Deirdre had been positively embarrassed! The next thing she knew, Ossian had been going to hear her sing at a pub, and then he announced he was going to rent the vacant unit in the Craft Centre, to have a permanent showcase for his paintings while he worked. Though it hadn’t exactly been productive, had it?

  It was almost getting to the point where she’d have to go and talk to Ellie herself, persuade her to leave her son alone. Or have Murdoch speak to her, buy her off if necessary. That would be wiser. Ossian would react badly and it would be better if he hadn’t turned against his mother – for his own sake, of course.

  That was another crash from upstairs. Respect for his privacy was one thing, dangerous neglect was another. Something should be done.

  ‘Murdoch!’ she called hopefully, but got no answer to that either. He must be out; he’d said at breakfast there was a corporate booking for a clay-pigeon shoot on Friday so he was probably at the office sorting things out with Dan.

  Deirdre hesitated. Ossian could be so hurtful if, with the best of intentions, you did the wrong thing. But supposing there was something terribly wrong, supposing he did something desperate...

  Fear lent wings to her feet. She ran upstairs, knocked on his door, then, receiving no answer, took a deep breath and opened it.

  The room looked as if it had been ransacked. Palettes and brushes were strewn about, a bare canvas had been slashed, the easel overturned, the pristine white of the walls daubed with red like blood. In the centre of the devastation, Ossian lay on his bed, very still, very white.

  For a second Deirdre’s heart stopped. Then she saw that his eyes were open and silent tears were spilling down his cheeks.

  ‘Ossian! Darling, what is it?’ She stumbled towards him, took his limp hand. For what seemed a very long time, he said nothing, then he turned his head slowly to look at her.

  ‘He’s moved in with her,’ he said. ‘She’s let him move in with her. What am I to do?’

  Deirdre felt a profound sense of relief. ‘Dearest, these things happen. She’s so much older than you – you would be a boy to her. A friend – that’s how she would see you, and you can go on being friends...’

  As if she hadn’t spoken, he said, ‘I’m very tried. I want to go to sleep now.’ He shut his eyes.

  Deirdre stood back. Tears still seeped from under his eyelids but as she watched his breathing became deeper and in five minutes he was, she was sure, soundly asleep.

  That wasn’t natural. She went downstairs, feeling hollow inside. She’d refused to believe that Ossian was in need of treatment, but perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm to arrange for him to see Dr Rutherford anyway.

  ‘Christina Munro flatly denies both murders,’ Fleming said. Detectives and uniformed officers had assembled for the briefing in the incident room with its board showing photographs of Carmichael’s body and the front garden at Fauldburn, and sketches and diagrams showing where traces of his assailant had been found and the angle of the shot. Rows of chairs had been set out between the computer stations.

  ‘She admits that she fired her shotgun, a .410 Browning,’ Fleming went on, ‘but insists that this was harmlessly into the air. However, we charged her last night with culpable homicide and the fiscal is going along with that. She was detained overnight, but her brief will no doubt ask for bail when she appears in court this morning, and my guess is that with the Human Rights presumption in favour, she’ll get it.

  ‘The SOCOs are up there this morning and they’ll no doubt find a cartridge and pellets that will be able to give us more idea about what happened.’

  ‘Are we assuming it was one shot rather than two?’ Will Wilson asked. He was sitting with Tansy Kerr and Andy Macdonald in the otherwise empty front row of chairs, police officers having the same attitude as schoolchildren to the merits of being safely at the back.

  ‘Don’t know. She said she only fired one; Burnett thought he heard two shots, but he was pretty much in shock last night so I’m not sure how far we can rely on that. We’ll have to wait till they’ve checked her gun. The autopsy is later this morning so I’ll have more detailed info for you after that.

  ‘Now, I want a team in her house this morning, looking for any possible connection with Carmichael, and some of you will be checking the papers we’ve taken from Fauldburn House already. Dig out a few locals in their seventies who might have heard of a relationship between them, and anyone else you can think of who’s well up in the local background – your auntie, Andy, perhaps?’

  ‘Trawls for gossip like a Spanish fishing-boat – nothing escapes,’ he agreed cheerfully. Then, more soberly, he said, ‘But there’s nothing to say definitely that the Colonel wasn’t shot by someone else, is there, boss?’

  Fleming could see that he, like her, was having difficulty in reconciling the personality of the woman they had interviewed last night with the ruthless killer of two people.

  ‘Absolutely. It’s only that I don’t like coincidences – but they do occur. We could be wrong-footed if we go making assumptions, so I don’t want the other enquiries scaled down until we have much more definite information. So there’s follow-up work on what came in yesterday and of course formal statements from the people most closely involved. Details on the board. Any questions?’

  There were a few, but nothing complicated, and she was able to send them all off a few minutes later. She asked Wilson, Kerr, Macdonald and, after a momentary hesitation, Ewan Campbell to stay behind.

  A faint look of surprise crossed Campbell’s face, but he came to join the others in the front row.

  Fleming perched on the edge of one of the desks. ‘OK. Thoughts?’

  There was a brief silence, then Wilson said, ‘Supposing she’s right. Supposing the shot she fired didn’t hit him. Could there have been someone else around? After rabbits, say, and getting Barney accidentally?’

  ‘Seems unlikely, with the noise those kids would be making. There wouldn’t be a rabbit for miles.’ Fleming didn’t notice the annoyance on Wilson’s face as she dismissed the suggestion. ‘Could Christina have seen him lying there from the house? I didn’t think to check the sightlines last night.’

  Macdonald shook his head. ‘I doubt it. It’s not a long drive but he was do
wn near the road and there’s a slope in it. There’s bushes and scrub right down both sides too.’

  ‘Maybe someone could have hidden there deliberately. ­Waiting for him.’ It always seemed surprising when Campbell spoke, and they waited for him to go on. He didn’t.

  Fleming considered that. It was certainly more plausible than Wilson’s oblivious poacher. ‘They’ll be able to tell us the angle of the shot, and perhaps where it happened, though of course he could have ridden on for some yards before he fell off. But that would presuppose someone had a motive – and if we exclude coincidence, a motive to kill two people who, on the face of it, have no connection.

  ‘Anyway, the picture will become a lot clearer after the post-mortem. Meantime, it’s the usual thing – keep an open mind. OK? Know what you’re doing today?’

  Wilson said, ‘Tansy and I are going to talk to Dylan Burnett and Gordon Gloag at the school. We thought we’d get the names of some of the kids who were with them last night, before they went to Wester Seton, and have a chat with them, just to get the full picture.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fleming said uncomfortably. ‘My daughter was one of them, so I daresay you should talk to her. And the other thing you should know – in strictest confidence – is that Tam MacNee went into the motorbike showroom yesterday and tried to warn off the boys by more or less telling them Munro had a gun and might take a pot at them.’

  There was a stunned silence. ‘Did he know she would?’ Kerr asked, horrified.

  ‘Of course not. But he did think she might fire a shot over their heads to scare them – she had a loaded shotgun beside her door, and he wanted to stop them going so she wouldn’t be tempted to use it.’

  ‘If that comes out, we’ve got serious problems,’ Macdonald said.

  ‘Norman Gloag was sabre-rattling, but I’ve stalled him, if only for the moment.’ She told them of the weapon he had inadvertently put in her hand. ‘He got seriously twitchy and claimed he only heard when it would have been too late. Quiz Gordon about the timing, and if there’s a discrepancy, go and lean on Gloag – that might hold him off for a bit longer.’