She was still worried about Quentin, though. Somehow she’d have to see to it that he didn’t get his talk with Adam. After all she’d been through for his sake, she couldn’t bear it if Adam got angry and told her bluntly that all her dreams were at an end.
Vicky’s second visitor that day was Marek. When he came into the kitchen he left the doors open behind him so she could see that the dog was with him, sitting obediently on the doorstep, though sniffing the rich aroma wafting from the game larder. When Adam was away it was Marek who walked it; it did as it was told but showed not the slightest interest in him. Amber was a one-man dog.
She had worked out at least some of her anger on her cleaning duties and finished them in record time; now she was sitting with a mug of tea. She offered him one but he shook his head.
‘I am with the dog,’ he said.
He was just standing there. ‘Did you come over to do something?’ Vicky said at last.
‘No, I—you know policeman?’
‘Not know, really. If you mean Daniel Tennant, I was friendly with him before – at least, I naively thought I was. I didn’t know at the time he was a policeman. He didn’t tell me.’
Marek scowled. ‘He is bad man. Make trouble for me. You tell him – I like Eva, I not hurt her.’
Vicky’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did he say you did?’
‘Mr Carnegie, maybe make me do something, he says.’
She struggled to take that in. ‘Are they actually saying she’s been murdered?’
The man shrugged his shoulders.
‘Daniel didn’t say anything like that to me. Maybe he was just trying to catch you out. If there was any proof they’d be searching the house – not that it would do any good,’ she added, more or less to herself. She’d tried that; with her housekeeper duties she’d been all over the house apart from Adam’s flat, which she only cleaned in his presence, and Beatrice’s, which she’d never even been inside.
The man shrugged again. ‘You tell him,’ he repeated. ‘I do nothing. But Carnegie—’ He stopped.
Vicky prompted, ‘Carnegie?’
‘Just – bad man.’ Marek walked to the door then turned. ‘You be careful.’
She found herself staring at the closing door. Just voicing the word ‘murdered’ had shocked her. She had, she realised, been shielding herself from the thought and everyone until now had colluded: they had all been saying ‘something might have happened’ to Eva.
That left open the possibility that the something that had happened might turn out to be a misunderstanding or even a deliberate deception; ‘murdered’ finished that hope. Eva dead, Veruschka dead too?
She felt deathly sick suddenly. Her heart was hammering in her chest and she was panting so hard that she couldn’t force breath back into her lungs.
Panic attack – she’d had one before. She cupped her hands and breathed into them, telling herself slow down, slow down. At last her racing pulse slowed and she was able to sit back, trying to think.
She had seized an opportunity to try to find out for herself what had happened to those girls – the disappeared ones, and who knew if there had been others before? But had she just run herself into the same sort of danger? She could still feel the way her skin had crawled as Carnegie’s lascivious look slid over her. Could he be lining her up as another victim? There were serial killers for whom it became an addiction.
She could go right now to Marek, get him to take her back meekly to Murdo John and try to mend their marriage, but something in her rebelled. She had proclaimed herself an independent woman who could look after herself and she still believed that as long as she was here she could hope to discover something more.
Vicky picked up the mug of tea in front of her and walked, on shaky legs, to the cupboard where she kept the cooking brandy and poured in a hefty slug. It was what was called Dutch courage, she thought as the rough mixture burnt warmth down her throat, but if she was to stay true to herself she needed any sort of courage she could get.
It hadn’t been a rewarding day for PC Murray, at least not so far. CID work wasn’t as interesting as she had thought it would be. Calling round taxi firms and checking bus timetables with a dodgy connection that kept cutting out was mind-numbing and she’d spent much of the afternoon kicking the desk and swearing.
She’d hung around the harbour in the morning, checking up with boat owners – and, to be truthful, hoping she might bump into Strang and get an update – but all she’d got from them was blank stares, and she hadn’t seen Strang or Tennant either. There were still a couple of day boats out at the lobster pots; she’d have to get the fishermen later but she wasn’t hopeful.
None of the taxi drivers had seen Eva and now she was going to have to persuade the bus company, who seemed to have an obsession about data protection, to give her a contact number for the drivers on the service buses that called up at the top of the road twice a day. When she eventually extracted the information she needed, it was as she had thought. They hadn’t seen her.
They wouldn’t have. Because she hadn’t left.
Yes, she’d been wrong at the beginning, but she was convinced of it now and she was pretty sure that Strang believed the same – and Daniel Tennant probably even knew why Adam Carnegie might have seen to it that Eva couldn’t leave. But even if they spoke to every living soul on the whole of the Isle of Skye and none of them had seen Eva, it wouldn’t prove anything. You can’t prove a negative and that was what she’d spent the whole pointless day trying to do.
Her instructions were to spend time in the pub, in the hope of finding someone who remembered Eva having some sort of friendship with someone else, to give them a new lead – which, in her opinion, was only going to take them further down a dead-end road.
But she’d sat in on the interview with Murdo John and she’d seen his edgy reaction when Strang had asked him about this Veruschka girl. It had been a distraction from the question of Eva at the time and he hadn’t followed it up; if she went in before the bar actually opened, while Murdo John was setting up, she could tackle him directly about her.
She’d seen how Strang worked and she’d picked up some ideas from that; this would be her chance to put them into practice. It wasn’t exactly what he’d told her to do but if you waited for top brass to OK everything you did, all you’d be was a little pawn being pushed round the board and Livvy Murray wanted more than that.
Maybe he’d be impressed if she showed her initiative and maybe he wouldn’t; she didn’t much care. It was what she wanted to do and she was going to do it. She’d have plenty of time to chat up the punters like he’d wanted her to after that.
No matter how bad you were feeling, there was still an evening meal to be made. Vicky Macdonald paused as she looked at the vegetable rack, wondering how many potatoes she would need for the gratin dauphinoise. She’d had food left over last night because Beatrice hadn’t appeared for supper and Vicky wasn’t even sure if Adam, who was away today, would be back in time.
She decided to go through to check. It would give her an excuse to ask what the police had said to her and their relationship wasn’t the sort where she could just wander in and ask anyway.
Beatrice was on the phone when she went in, talking to a donor, obviously; she was explaining how important their work was and how little money was wasted on admin.
‘I’m a donor myself,’ she was saying, ‘and I work here for love. That’s how much I value what we do and I make absolutely every penny work for us.’
She was good, Vicky thought; her sincerity shone through and if she’d been the person on the other end she’d have signed the cheque there and then.
As, indeed, the caller seemed about to do too. Beatrice was warmly expressing thanks and she was smiling as she finished the call and turned to speak to Vicky.
‘That’s good! Adam will be pleased. We’ve been trying to get him signed up for some time.’
‘Well done,’ Vicky said. ‘You’re very persuasive. Beatrice,
are you planning to come for supper tonight? And what about Adam?’
‘Oh – he didn’t say. If it’s just Harry, I’ll take a tray upstairs. He’s so rude it makes conversation very trying. But of course Adam might be back, so—’ She broke off as the phone rang. ‘I’d better take this.
‘Human Face?’ she said, then, ‘Sorry. Who did you say?’
Vicky, standing back in the awkward way people do when trying not to seem to be listening when there is no alternative to hearing, saw Beatrice’s face go blank.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘could you repeat that?’
Vicky could hear that it was a woman’s voice and it sounded a little querulous, she thought, though she couldn’t make out what it was being said. Whatever it was, it was having an extraordinary effect on Beatrice. She was starting to shake and when she spoke again her voice was high and strange.
‘Right. No, I didn’t realise. I’m sorry. Goodbye.’ The receiver rattled on the base as she tried to set it down.
‘Good gracious,’ Vicky said. ‘Whatever was that, Beatrice? Are you all right?’
Beatrice slumped back in her chair. ‘I – I don’t know. I can’t believe it—’ She burst into tears, loud, uninhibited sobs.
Vicky looked at her helplessly. ‘Tell me what’s wrong,’ she urged. There was a box of tissues lying on the desk; she thrust a handful at Beatrice, tentatively putting an arm round her heaving shoulders.
The other woman took it and started mopping at her face, fighting down the sobs. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she muttered. ‘It’s the shock! I just can’t believe it, I can’t!’
‘Is something wrong? Has something happened to Adam – your brother—?’
‘No, no,’ she wailed. ‘It was this – this woman. She said she wanted to speak to Adam. And when I asked her who she was, she said she was—’ The sobs began again. ‘She had to repeat it because I didn’t take it in the first time. She said she was Mrs Carnegie. And she wanted to speak to her husband.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Beatrice seemed almost to be on the verge of collapse. She was half-falling out of her chair, moaning, and her face had gone a worrying greyish-purple colour.
Was she having a heart attack? At a loss to know what to do, Vicky looked round about her frantically. There was a bottle of water standing on a table beside a small kettle and a cup and saucer; she splashed some into the cup and held it to Beatrice’s lips.
‘Try and take this,’ she urged her. ‘I think what you really need is brandy – you’re in shock. I’ve got some in the kitchen—’
Beatrice grabbed on to her hand. ‘Don’t leave me!’ she begged. ‘I can’t bear to be left alone!’ She sat up enough to take a sip or two of water though her teeth chattered against the cup.
‘You need to lie down,’ Vicky said. ‘Do you think you can stand? I could take you to my room—’
‘No, no – my own bed, I want my own bed. If you would help me upstairs …’
Vicky looked doubtfully at the woman’s bulk as she staggered to her feet, swaying, but moved to her side so that Beatrice could put her arm across her supporter’s shoulder. It meant stooping so that she herself was bent almost double – not the ideal position for taking a considerable strain. But somehow they made it across the hall and once Beatrice could grasp the banister on her other side it helped. Even so, it was slow progress.
Halfway up she remembered that her key was in her handbag. Vicky ran down and fetched it, but when she got back Beatrice had subsided onto the floor and was in tears again; it took three attempts to get her back onto her feet. Vicky would have gone to enlist Harry’s help if she hadn’t thought he was more likely to make things worse than better.
At last, with Beatrice gasping as if she might breathe her last and Vicky out of breath herself, they reached the flat and on instruction Vicky rooted in her bag for the key and opened the door. Even in the present situation, she had some curiosity to see what it was like, expecting it to be a slightly more modest version of Adam’s. To her surprise, the sitting room was as shabby as the little bedsitter she was sleeping in herself, with an uncurtained window and a cheap nylon carpet on the floor. There were a few good pieces she recognised as antiques – a nice Victorian chair, a piecrust table, some porcelain on display, but that was in a tatty glass cabinet with a chipped leg, and the big armchair Beatrice had collapsed into had sagging cushions and a worn chintz loose cover.
And then there was the crib. As Beatrice leant back with her eyes closed, Vicky glanced at it curiously. It was the sort of toy a yummy mummy would buy for her little princess, canopied and frilled with layers of immaculate white lace, the pink lining beneath showing through. The doll lying there was large, almost the size of a real baby, and clearly expensive with its rosebud mouth and sweeping eyelashes closed on pale cheeks delicately flushed with pink.
Beatrice’s colour was a little better but now she was moaning again. In some desperation Vicky said, ‘Do you keep brandy or anything up here? I think it would help.’
‘Sherry.’ Beatrice managed to indicate a cupboard in the corner.
It seemed mainly to hold the contents of a small sweet shop but on a lower shelf there was a litre bottle of Croft Original, half empty. She found a glass – a little tumbler really – and poured in a hearty measure.
Beatrice stretched out a trembling hand to take it from her. ‘Have some yourself,’ she said shakily. ‘This must have been quite a shock for you too.’
More of a fino woman herself, Vicky looked at the bottle doubtfully, but sharing a drink might loosen Beatrice’s tongue and give her a chance to get answers to the questions she had been desperate to ask for so long. She poured a token amount into another glass and sat down.
Beatrice took a gulp from hers and choked a little, then sat staring silently ahead before taking another swig, as if it was medicine. Trying to keep communication going, Vicky said brightly, ‘What a lovely doll! Is she an old friend from childhood?’
Beatrice’s reaction astonished her. Her face, which had been pale, went bright red. Then she started to cry again, but silently this time, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Rosamond,’ she wailed. ‘Give her to me.’
Obediently, Vicky fetched the doll. Its eyelids flipped open with a click, revealing sky-blue eyes; it was wearing a beautifully smocked Liberty print dress with a hand-embroidered white cardigan that by the feel of it was cashmere. She brought it across to Beatrice, who grabbed it, cradling it in her arms and making a crooning noise as if soothing a real baby. There was something very disturbing about it.
‘You’re – you’re obviously very fond of it – her,’ Vicky said uneasily.
‘Oh yes, oh yes!’ Beatrice was rocking to and fro. ‘It should have been my real baby, you see. I hoped and hoped, after that time in Africa – the most wonderful time of my life.’ She looked up, her eyes dreamy. ‘And if it happened once, it could happen again, couldn’t it?’
Vicky didn’t know what to say. ‘Well—’ she temporised.
‘But now,’ Beatrice said, reminded of her affliction, ‘it seems he’s married!’
‘Were you – were you hoping he’d marry you?’
‘Yes.’ It was a bald statement, delivered with a defiant look. ‘Oh, I’m not stupid. I don’t think he’s in love with me, but then I’m not sure he’s capable of that – certainly not with any of the parade of whores who’ve gone through here.’ She spat the words. ‘But my money’s tied up. The only way we can get control of it for the charity is if he marries me. And I could make him happy – I know I could.’
She was drinking the sherry now and she had stopped shaking. As Vicky topped up the glass, Beatrice said with sudden ferocity, ‘How could he? How could he deceive me like that? After all I’ve done for him, all we’ve been to each other—’
‘What exactly did the woman say on the phone?’
‘She just said she wanted to speak to Adam, that it was Mrs Carnegie. I queried it and she said it was – was it Sh
eila, Shona? I was so shocked I didn’t take it in properly. Anyway, she said she was Adam’s wife, hadn’t I heard of her? And when I said no, she sounded a bit huffy, just said she’d speak to him later and put the phone down.’
‘Perhaps he’s divorced,’ Vicky suggested a little feebly. ‘Perhaps she meant ex-wife.’ She wasn’t surprised, really; a man like Adam was unlikely to have reached his age without baggage of some kind. ‘Why don’t you ask him about it?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ Beatrice cried. She bent her head over the doll, clutching it to her face, and when she looked up, her eyes were fierce. ‘It’s – it’s probably true and do you know this? I’m not sure I care any more. There’s too much – he’s asked too much of me. I’ve been so worried – and I’m beginning to see things in a different light now.’
She should be making the supper now, but Vicky didn’t move. She’d find something later to put on the table and if they didn’t like it they could sack her. She was angry for poor, vulnerable Beatrice; it was wicked the way she’d been preyed on by Adam Carnegie. He was – yes, evil, and as she listened she could almost see the shadows of that evil gathering about them.
It was good that Beatrice was starting to see what he really was, but what would he do if he came to believe she was of no further use to him?
‘It’s becoming clearer and clearer, ma’am. In my opinion Carnegie’s killed two women,’ DI Kelso Strang said to DCS Jane Borthwick.
‘That’s a bold statement,’ she said, sounding taken aback. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I can’t prove it and I don’t know how he did it – perhaps using the man Kaczka, who works as a sort of odd-job man on the estate. Certainly we know he was still on the premises with Eva Havel after the others seem to have left. I suppose Kaczka could have done it on his own account but there’s no way Beatrice Lacey would be covering up for him and that she certainly is doing.’
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