Lamb to the Slaughter

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Early days,’ Bill pointed out. ‘It’s not a week yet since Carmichael was killed.’

  ‘I know, I know. But we’ve been working flat out, even brought in extra help to do it, and we’ve pretty much covered all the bases. They were both opportunistic crimes which have left us with very little in the way of hard evidence.

  ‘Oh, plenty of people had good sound motives for killing Carmichael, but their links with Barney Kyle are casual or non-existent. We’ve established he didn’t happen to walk past and see someone raising a shotgun, and any other motive we’ve managed to dredge up seems flimsy in the extreme. Nearly all our suspects have an alibi for one murder or the other – we’re almost at a standstill.

  ‘Councillor Gloag is still in the frame, being slippery as usual, but unless there’s more to it than meets the eye, you have to ask – two murders on the basis of getting a big business contract?’

  ‘And it’s not going through anyway, I hear. Janet’s friend Mrs Duncan was full of it – ALCO has decided that being associated with a double murder isn’t good for PR, and they’re looking elsewhere.’

  ‘Really? Well, that’s good news for the High Street, and for the farms too, but there would have been advantages on the domestic front. It might have offered a healthier selection than pizza and oven chips from Spar. I’m going to have to get a grip on that once all this is over. If it ever is. If it doesn’t – get worse.’

  Bill raised his eyebrows, but she went on, ‘Tomorrow I’m going to pull in the Farquharsons – you know the story there? Oh, need I ask – Mrs Duncan! Well, they at least thought they had good reason to want the Colonel out of the way before he refused ALCO’s offer. They have definitely lied to us about their movements and if you assume conspiracy their alibis have gaps in them you could drive a tank through. But again, we hit the problem of a link with Kyle – doubt if they even knew him, and it’s hard to see how they’d be sufficiently aware of his movements to set up an ambush.

  ‘I’m getting desperate, Bill. If this is rational, it’s a logic I don’t understand. I don’t know where else to go. Any suggestions?’

  He looked at her empty glass. ‘What about another dram, for a start?’ He brought over the bottle and topped them both up, then sat down again, his brow furrowed in thought.

  Marjory waited patiently, listening to the peaceful sound of rain pattering on the windows. A burning log sent up a flurry of sparks and Meg stirred in her sleep, giving a muffled ‘wuff’ at something in her dream.

  At last he said, ‘You want to believe there’s a reason, don’t you?’

  Marjory stiffened. She had asked him, but now she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what he had to say.

  He went on, ‘You’ve looked for links between the people, connections, their motives for choosing those victims. What if it isn’t like that?’

  ‘A sniper,’ she said dully. She had been relaxing; now she found herself tensing up again, almost expecting that at the use of the dreadful word the phone might ring with news of another victim.

  ‘Not necessarily – but suppose it was? What do you do then?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ There was desperation in her tone. ‘I don’t even begin to know where to start. I’ve read stuff about it when it’s happened in the States and they haven’t any answers either. You check out the known loners and weirdos, but more often than not it’s someone they describe afterwards as quiet and ordinary.

  ‘It happens again – and again, possibly, then either someone sees something and gives you a lead, or they confess or kill themselves. That’s how most crimes get solved – information or confession. And I can’t see any sign of either at the moment.’

  ‘The only thing is,’ Bill said, ‘when you read about it, they just pick off a passer-by. Here, he’s gone out of his way to choose someone – in Kyle’s case, very carefully.’

  Marjory brightened. ‘Someone else said that. And it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘But from what you say you’re in some doubt as to whether there’s reason behind it at all. The crimes seem random.’

  ‘So where do I go from there?’

  There was another of Bill’s long silences, then he said, ‘Look at the crimes, not the person. See if the answer’s there.’

  ‘The crime, not the person,’ she repeated slowly. ‘I think I see what you mean. It’s a new angle, anyway, and I was desperate for one. Thanks, Bill.’ A gawping yawn took her by surprise. ‘Oh – sorry.’

  Bill got up. ‘Time you were in bed, anyway. You get on upstairs. I’ll take the glasses through and lock up.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She yawned again. ‘I think I’ll sleep tonight.’

  ‘You certainly should, after two doubles and goodness knows how many glasses of wine with Karolina,’ he said drily. ‘And you never told me what the joke was.’

  Marjory smiled. ‘There are some things,’ she said, ‘that it’s better for a man not to know.’

  It was kind of early for an official visit but, as MacNee had pointed out to Kerr, they could always check that the curtains were open and there were signs of life downstairs before they actually rang the bell.

  He was desperate for a lead, any lead. This morning he had found himself more tired than he should have been, and evading Bunty’s watchful eye he’d taken his pills to ward off the headache that was brewing. He might not have the stamina for day after day of this. Andy Mac had said that Marjory too had been low last night after the information about Ossian, and she wasn’t herself either – touchy, impatient and suffering sense of humour failure. And with the threat that the killer might strike again, they were up against the clock.

  Hence the early visit. But when they reached the house, they realised it was not early but too late. Curtains were open, certainly, but no one answered the door and there was no car outside.

  ‘Maybe she’s gone away to stay with her family or something,’ Kerr was suggesting, when MacNee had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. He swung round.

  A sour-looking woman had appeared from next door, bent with age but with darting eyes behind the thick glasses she wore.

  ‘Looking for her, are you?’ she called.

  MacNee walked over to the dividing fence. ‘That’s right. Has she gone away?’

  ‘You reporters, then?’ she asked with a hopeful expression. ‘There’d be a charge, mind, but I could tell you—’

  He cut short the sales pitch. ‘Police.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, with obvious disappointment, making to go back inside.

  ‘Hang on. Do you know where Mrs Kyle is?’

  She looked as if she was framing the words, ‘What’s in it for me?’ but the glare he gave her changed her mind. ‘Try where she works,’ she said grudgingly. ‘She goes there funny times. Half-past five she left this morning, in her working clothes. That’s all I know.’ She hobbled back in and shut the door with a resounding slam.

  ‘Wow, respect!’ Kerr was impressed. ‘Could we employ her to do surveillance? On the job round the clock, obviously.’

  ‘Everybody’s ideal neighbour. Why half-past five, do you reckon?’

  ‘Poor woman probably can’t sleep,’ Kerr said soberly. ‘Son’s body still in the morgue waiting for release to bury him, partner on the run – no wonder she needs work to take her mind off it.’

  They drove round to the Craft Centre. Today it looked more desolate than ever, with the other shops shut and Romy’s car the only one in the courtyard. The shelves in the shop part of her unit were bare but the lights were on and they could see her facing the back wall, standing in front of a fiery glow.

  The door, when MacNee tried it, wasn’t locked, but he banged on it as he opened it to alert her to their presence. There was a hot smell in the air and a roaring sound from the compressor for the powerful blowtorch she was operating in a sort of three-sided chamber, but she heard them and looked round. She cut off the gas supply to the blue flame and went to set down the dull silver piece she had been working with
on the solid wood bench which ran along the back wall. It was deeply scarred with burns and gouges, untidy with tools of every description – mallets, saws, drills, shears, hammers, files.

  Romy was wearing a dark red fisherman’s smock which, like the bench, had suffered from her professional activities, and she was looking dreadful: gaunt and dull-eyed, with lank hair and red blotches round her mouth and chin. Their intrusion was clearly unwelcome, but when she spoke it was as if she hadn’t the energy to sound hostile.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  Kerr flashed the cards and introduced them and saw her unbend a little. ‘I thought you were more bloody journalists. I was considering using the blowtorch if you were.’

  ‘Had a lot of trouble?’ MacNee said with ready sympathy.

  ‘All the time, the first couple of days. Thought I’d go mad. Mercifully only one thought of coming here, so it’s been my bolt-hole.’

  ‘It must be so very hard for you. Your only son ... I can’t imagine what you must have suffered.’ Kerr, having offered the woman’s touch, seemed keen to supply it – overkeen, perhaps.

  Romy looked at her coldly. ‘You can’t even begin. Look, if you’ve got questions, get on with it and ask them. Spare me the mushy stuff.’

  Crestfallen, Kerr subsided and MacNee did as he was told.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Kyle. We’re working flat out, but so far there are no definite leads to point to your son’s killer. Is there anything – anything at all, that you know about Barney that might make someone decide to kill him?’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. I’ve gone over and over it, hour after hour, day and night since it happened. How do I know what he did, who he got across? He’s – he was ...’ For the first time her voice faltered, but she went on, ‘a teenager, and it was the usual thing – “Where did you go?” “Out.” “What did you do?” “Nothing.” You know?

  ‘There isn’t anything I can tell you. The only person who had a reason to hold a grudge was that old woman and she didn’t do it – so ...’ She gave a helpless shrug.

  If she hadn’t come up with something, after all that, what hope was there that this wasn’t a dead end? MacNee continued, a little desperately, ‘What about Dylan Burnett? It’s been suggested that they were wearing helmets, so it could be mistaken identity. I don’t suppose you can think of anyone with a reason for wanting him dead?’

  Romy gave a humourless smile. ‘Apart from me, do you mean? He was a bad apple – Barney would be alive today if it wasn’t for that boy.

  ‘But no, same answer, I’m afraid. The old woman – no one else I know of.’

  Not noticing MacNee’s sudden silence, Kerr asked, ‘Did Barney and Colonel Carmichael know each other, Mrs Kyle?’

  MacNee hardly heard the reply, that they might possibly have spoken on the odd occasion but as far as Romy was aware had no further contact. His head was buzzing with questions and he had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Suppose Christina Munro wasn’t just a poor, helpless, beleaguered old soul? Suppose the dead sheep, which had made him believe she couldn’t have done it, actually had nothing to do with the case? Suppose she had, not the wisdom, but the cunning of age? Suppose, as the pathologist had said, it couldn’t be ruled out that the momentum of the bike had carried Barney on, after he’d taken the fatal wound? What were the chances that anyone had done a thorough search of the outbuildings at the time? None, or less than that? What if somewhere on her farm, or buried now in the fields around it, was another gun, a bigger gun, loaded with buckshot?

  ‘I’ve come to make a confession, inspector.’

  DI Fleming looked at Norman Gloag with an unfriendly eye. Somehow she didn’t think that this remark, delivered in a frank, open, one-reasonable-chap-to-another manner, was the prelude to the sort of conversation which meant she could produce the handcuffs. And unless her expectations were overly pessimistic, this early appointment with one of her bêtes noires was not a good start to a day which she feared was only likely to get worse. The Chief Constable had been at a conference in London; he would return tomorrow expecting serious progress and Bailey was getting his knickers in a preparatory twist.

  She raised her eyebrows coolly. ‘Yes, councillor?’

  My goodness, the man sweated easily! He had his handkerchief out already, patting at his jowls, but he went on smoothly, ‘I have been very foolish. No, that is being too lenient. What I did was simply wrong.’

  His small eyes, in that pinkish, porcine countenance, were studying her closely. She didn’t react, looking at him steadily in return.

  The response which didn’t come provoked another outburst of patting. Then he said, ‘You see, you pointed out that as someone who had prior knowledge that a crime was planned, I should have contacted the police. I am ashamed to say, in my relief that my son was not again involved, it didn’t cross my mind. As a councillor particularly, it was my duty and I was afraid that this might come out.’

  ‘Your knowledge, rather more importantly, made you a suspect.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘Of course I know that. Which is why, as I now realise, what I did was extremely foolish as well as wrong.

  ‘Inspector, I assure you, on my honour—’

  Fleming permitted herself a small, satirical smile, and he said defensively, ‘Yes, I realise that my behaviour entitles you to treat that with scorn, but I will attempt to outline—’

  She had had enough. ‘Councillor Gloag, you are not in the council chamber now and I have no time to listen to speeches. You said you had come to make a confession. Perhaps you could just get on with it.’

  She wondered if this would provoke aggression, but he only gulped. ‘I’m sorry. In my second conversation with you, I claimed I was told later than I had been, quite falsely. But I wasn’t lying to cover up guilt.

  ‘It was vitally important that you would rule me out of your enquiries at the very start. In a place like this, gossip travels like wildfire. If you’d started questioning people about my movements and told them that I was aware an attack was due to take place on an elderly and vulnerable constituent, and had done nothing about it, I would have been punished at the ballot-box. As you no doubt realise, success in local elections is a matter of just a handful of votes, and I would be in line to be leader of the council next year, a position which will – would have,’ he corrected himself bitterly, ‘allowed me to bring the great benefit of modern shopping to the folk of Kirkluce.’

  ‘Ah yes. I understand the ALCO deal has fallen through.’ Seeing him wince was the only part of the interview she had enjoyed.

  ‘Yes. Most unfortunately. And nothing, it appears, can be done about it now.’ He gave a gusty sigh. ‘But to return to the problem that brought me here. I can see, inspector, that I have placed myself in a most invidious position.

  ‘You probably consider me a serious suspect. I had, I admit, hoped I could simply convince you that I had nothing whatsoever to do with these dreadful acts, since if you demanded corroboration you would have turned to a source who would not supply it. My wife, seeing me in difficulties, has left the family home – the luxurious home she was quite content to have me supply for her – taking the children with her, and I could hope for no loyalty from her.’

  ‘Perhaps she felt she should be loyal to the son you attempted to suborn,’ Fleming said cruelly. ‘Or even, dare I say it, to the truth? In any case, it is hardly relevant. We already have evidence that shows the account you gave us – the second account, that is, contradicting the first – was untrue.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, unconsciously twisting the handkerchief he had in his hands. ‘I was afraid you would. What I have told you now is the absolute truth, but it now comes down to this – do you believe me?’

  On balance, and to her own annoyance, Fleming thought she probably did. The squalid little man was quite stupid enough to behave as he had for just such stupid reasons, and arrogan
t enough to think he’d get away with it. If he hadn’t lied, would he have been a serious suspect? Unlikely.

  Not that she was going to tell him. She wanted him left to twist in the wind a little longer. She got up.

  ‘Thank you for the information. We will take into account what you have said.’

  At the failure of his confession to produce immediate ­absolution, Gloag looked almost comically dismayed. ‘But – but now you’ve heard what I have to say, couldn’t you at least tell me unofficially what you yourself believe?’

  ‘Believe, councillor?’ She gave him a wintry smile. ‘I’m a police officer, not a theologian. Now, I’m afraid you must excuse me...’

  When MacNee came into Fleming’s office, she was frowning over one of those ‘mind-maps’ she was so keen on. She looked up, then, a little self-consciously, folded it over. He’d expressed himself fairly freely in the past about what he saw as a pointless exercise.

  ‘Tam. Anything come up?’ The words were hopeful, but the voice was flat.

  He wasn’t ready yet to explain his latest idea. He wanted to sniff around, talk to Christina, talk to Annie again, perhaps. When he’d played gin rummy, too, he’d always preferred to gather his winning cards so that he could put them down at the same time and say, ‘Gin!’ It was one of his weaknesses, and even what had happened last time he’d tried it hadn’t discouraged him. Christina Munro wasn’t tall enough to hit him over the head.

  ‘Not a lot,’ he said. ‘Bit of a bummer about Ossian having a solid alibi – Andy Mac was telling me. So what’s next – the Farquharsons?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fleming glanced at her watch. ‘They’re bringing them in shortly. She was unamused, I hear.’

  ‘Given their statements were as full of holes as a fishing net, they’re lucky not to be under arrest.’

  ‘Certainly are. But we’ve given the press enough sensation lately.’ Fleming gave him a pointed look.

  He parried it effortlessly. ‘Don’t know what you mean, “we”. Changing the subject completely, they’re saying downstairs that Will’s resigned. He’s not even in today.’