Human Face

by Aline Templeton

  Borthwick’s first thought was how disappointed PC Murray was going to be.

  DC Tennant had gone back across the bay, furiously angry. He’d had to phone his guv’nor and tell him what had happened, and he hadn’t been best pleased.

  Admittedly, it would surely mean they could get in on a search warrant – if the old bag who’d taken control didn’t freeze them out. But what the Met might want clearly cut no ice up here – bloody Scots – and he wasn’t going to have a chance to shape the way the investigation developed. There wouldn’t be any urgency about seizing the records and Harry Drummond, who was as smart as he was slippery, was probably even now making sure that no one could lay a glove on him.

  Tennant sat at the window, looking balefully across to Balnasheil Lodge. Somehow he had to play himself back in or he would be dangerously ignorant about their thinking.

  He opened his laptop, more or less idly, and clicked on the extensive file labelled ‘Adam Carnegie’. And then it struck him: if they offered Police Scotland access to this it would save hours of police time replicating the research, which would provide a powerful incentive to cooperate, in these cost-conscious times. He scrolled through it, checking the details, then stopped, frowning.

  The man’s life history was there, in some detail. There seemed to have been little problem about establishing the basic facts; it was only his patterns of travelling and his business transactions that had been obfuscated by the criss-crossing of his and Drummond’s electronic footprints and proved impossibly difficult to unscramble.

  What wasn’t there was any mention of the wife who had sent Beatrice Lacey into meltdown. She could be a recent acquisition, and he put in a request to have that checked, but this was certainly something else he could raise with Borthwick.

  No point in waiting. He grabbed his jacket and went back down to the boat.

  As PC Livvy Murray went away, glowing with satisfaction after her meeting with DCS Borthwick, her stomach gave a hungry growl and she realised she was starving. Models might get through the day on black coffee for breakfast but she was more the full-Scottish-with-double-black-pudding type.

  With fond memories of Vicky Macdonald’s shortbread, she headed for the kitchen, hoping that if Vicky was there she could persuade her to break out the box – if the other greedy beggars who were buzzing around hadn’t got there before her.

  She certainly wasn’t the first. When she came in, Vicky, looking very weary, was filling an insulated Thermos flask and pointed out another with a tray of mugs on the table.

  ‘I’m keeping these topped up. They’re going through drinks like there’s no tomorrow,’ she said. ‘If you want something to eat, they’ve brought in a couple of boxes of sandwiches – over on the floor there.’

  It wasn’t shortbread but it was better than starving. Murray grabbed a sandwich and a bag of crisps, then said sympathetically, ‘Are you having to cater for this lot?’

  ‘No. They make all the arrangements. It’s just the coffee.’ She screwed the top on the second flask and set it down, then went through to the larder and came back with another tin and measured some into the filter machine. ‘Have you heard anything about poor Beatrice yet?’

  ‘Beatrice? What’s she done?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? Oh, Harry Drummond accused her of having killed Adam and she got scared and disappeared. I don’t believe she did, not for a moment.’

  ‘Who do you think did, then?’ Murray asked hopefully.

  She gave a short laugh. ‘Harry himself, probably. They were having a tearing row yesterday and it wasn’t the first time either—’ Then she broke off. ‘Oh, I don’t mean that, really.’

  Murray stopped mid mouthful. ‘What was the row about?’ she asked indistinctly.

  ‘Couldn’t hear. Probably something about the business side of the charity. Daniel definitely thought there was something going on there.’

  This was proving to be quite a useful chat. ‘He was very upset about Eva, wasn’t he?’ she prompted, but just at that moment one of the detectives from Portree came in.

  ‘Any chance of a coffee, miss?’ he said, and the moment passed.

  She simply couldn’t take any more. Beatrice could hear Them coming nearer and nearer, hear the dog whining. They had brought it to attack her again, and now They were calling her name, ‘Beatrice! Beatrice!’ and the dog was barking.

  They might not see her round the rock but the dog would smell her. She knew what would happen; there was a picture playing in her head, an echo of something she had seen: blood on the dog’s mouth and chest …It would go for her throat this time and anything would be better than that.

  She had retreated as far as she could and now she was right at the edge of the rock face, where Rosamond had fallen. They were almost on her now; she could hear the dog, panting as it came closer and closer. She stepped off.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was the tree that had saved her: a mountain ash, its gnarled, wizened branches spread wide, clinging to a cranny in the rock face, and it did enough to break Beatrice Lacey’s fall so that Kelso Strang was able to move below and cushion her landing with his own body. He lay for a moment, winded, half stunned and pinned down by her weight, then he called for help, afraid to move in case she was badly injured.

  It took the rescuers, and Moss, only minutes to reach them and at the sound of barking, Beatrice, who had been moaning feebly, started struggling to get up.

  ‘It’s going to kill me!’ she screamed. ‘Keep it away! Keep it away!’

  At a gesture from its master the dog lay down, silent, and he moved forward.

  ‘It’s all right, Beatrice, you’re safe now. Gently, gently.’ He directed an anxious look at Strang, still trapped below her. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, a bit breathlessly. ‘Is she all right?’

  The leader bent over Beatrice. ‘There’s blood on her clothes but it’s not fresh. What hurts, love?’

  She looked up at him in bewilderment, then groaned, ‘Arm, my arm.’

  ‘Nowhere else? Back? Legs?’

  ‘Don’t know. Everything. My head,’ she said, but she was sitting up now and with infinite gentleness they managed to slide her off Strang.

  ‘Phew! Thanks,’ he said, taking a deep, shaky breath, and stood up, rubbing his head.

  ‘Must have been quite an impact,’ the leader said dryly.

  ‘Tree broke her fall,’ Strang said, pointing. The little ash lay, broken, at the foot of the bluff.

  ‘Lucky for you,’ he said, and one of the other men said, ‘I don’t think she’s been much hurt in the fall, just scratches and bruising, but she’s very hot and from the look of the arm it’s infected and we don’t want septicaemia. Better call out the ambulance and we’ll start getting her down to the level.’

  He turned to Strang. ‘Want me to take a wee look at you? You’ve a nasty bump there.’

  ‘Nah. Like they say, it’s only my head. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you lot in charge. I’ve this and that to do at the other end.’

  Limping, Strang hurried back down to the car. His head was painful and he could feel the bruises developing down his back and legs; he’d pay for this tomorrow but he’d had worse dealing with a stramash in the Grassmarket on a Saturday night. He was desperate to get to Balnasheil Lodge: his first murder investigation as SIO and he hadn’t even got to the scene yet – and it didn’t help to know that Tennant was there screwing everything up with his aggression.

  He’d better let JB know he was on his way now, though. When he called the Edinburgh number he was dismayed to learn that she was at the Lodge herself ahead of him.

  That was bad news. She’d obviously come up the minute she heard about it, which didn’t suggest total confidence in his ability to cope, and if she was concerned it didn’t look good that he wasn’t there, on the spot, however good his reason for that might be.

  Was she going to take control, usurp him? He would, he realised, mind that very much ind
eed, would feel it was a betrayal. And he wasn’t going to accept it meekly – not without putting up a fight.

  Sitting on the jetty beside his boat, Murdo John Macdonald caught Sergeant Rab Buchanan’s eye. He must have been there for at least two hours and he didn’t look as if he’d changed his position, huddled in his oilskins and just sitting staring out to sea as if he was lost in his own thoughts.

  He went over to him. ‘Come on, Murdo John! No need to sit out here. I don’t know when we’ll be needing you again and you must be perished. Away in and get a cup of coffee from your wife. She’s doing a rare job there in the kitchen and there’s sandwiches too.’

  The man looked up at him blankly, almost as if he hadn’t understood what had been said, and Buchanan went on, ‘On you go, man!’

  Murdo John only shrugged, but he did get up and walked off towards the kitchen. Buchanan looked after him, shaking his head. He’d heard the rumours that Vicky was away from her husband, and under his stolid exterior beat a profoundly romantic heart; he might be an unlikely Cupid but you never knew what could happen if you got folk talking again.

  It was lucky he didn’t follow him into the kitchen. The elevenses rush had died down and Vicky was alone there when Murdo John came in.

  She greeted him coolly. ‘Coffee’s there. And a sandwich, if you want it.’

  He nodded and went over to take one. With his back turned to her, he said, ‘I hear your friend Adam’s got what he deserved.’

  ‘He’s not my friend!’ she cried angrily. ‘He was my boss and he was a profoundly unpleasant man – I think we can agree about that, at least.’

  ‘Are you wanting to come back?’ he said, still without looking at her.

  ‘Crawl back, do you mean? Despite the gracious invitation, no thank you. I’ll stay here meantime.’

  He poured milk into his coffee, added two sugars with meticulous care. After a moment he said, ‘Why did you marry me, Vicky?’

  It took her aback. ‘What do you mean? The usual reasons, I suppose. Why did you marry me, come to that?’

  Murdo John’s eyes went to her face for the first time. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly. He stared at her for a long moment. ‘Perhaps …’ Then he stopped.

  Vicky frowned. ‘Perhaps what?’

  ‘Perhaps it was a mistake, on both our parts.’ It didn’t sound as if that was what he meant to say.

  She glanced at him sideways as she collected coffee mugs for washing. ‘There isn’t much point in prolonging this discussion now, is there?’

  ‘No. I’ll take this outside – they’ll maybe be wanting me at the boat.’ He went to the door with the mug in his hand.

  ‘Bring it back when you’ve finished with it, then. We’re desperately short with all these folk wanting coffees.’

  As the door shut behind him Vicky gave a great, shaky sob. It was really getting to her, and there was no sign that things would improve any time soon.

  It was around midday that the news reached Broadford. The elderly woman who came into Karen Prescott’s gift shop barely paused to pick up the birthday card that would provide her with an excuse for coming in before she burst out, ‘Terrible thing at that charity in Balnasheil – what’s it called? Human something – funny-like name for a charity. Did you hear about it?’

  ‘Human Face? No – what’s happened?’ She was only mildly interested. A terrible thing could be someone having broken their leg – or, given the woman who was speaking, their fingernail.

  ‘Well!’ The woman propped her hip against the counter, licked her lips and prepared to enjoy herself. ‘See that man – him that owns it – can’t mind the name—’

  ‘Adam Carnegie?’ She had Karen’s full attention now.

  ‘That’s right. Found murdered – blood everywhere, they’re saying. And there’s this woman that works there – Miss someone – she’s done it!’

  ‘Lacey?’ Karen said faintly. ‘How do they know?’

  ‘Scarpered, hasn’t she? Took off before the police could get to her. They’re chasing her now.’

  ‘Where are you getting all this stuff from?’ Karen spoke sharply but her legs were shaking. ‘It’s probably wildly exaggerated. A cold in Portree’s pneumonia by the time it reaches Broadford.’

  The woman bridled. ‘Oh, it’s right enough. One of the polis told his girlfriend, her that works in the Co-op, and I’ve just come from there.’

  ‘Oh.’ Karen didn’t know what else she could say; she just knew she had to get the woman out of here, shut up shop and get back home to Quentin. At least the Broadford gossip machine seemed to have slipped up on that connection so far, but it wouldn’t take long. She reached for the card the woman was holding.

  ‘Were you wanting this?’

  ‘Oh – oh aye, I suppose so.’ She produced the money, clearly disappointed by the muted reaction to what she had felt was a morsel of gossip of the choicest sort. ‘I’d better get on. I’ve a lot of messages to do.’

  I’ll bet you have, Karen thought grimly as she put up the ‘Closed’ sign and locked the door and drove back to the house.

  Quentin jumped guiltily to his feet when she came in. ‘I didn’t think you’d be back so early,’ he said. There was a bottle of beer on the table in front of him.

  ‘Evidently. I wasn’t actually planning to.’

  When she told him, he went white and sat down again as if his legs had given way. ‘What – what on earth would make her do a thing like that?’

  ‘Oh, I think we both know, Quentin, don’t we? And I want to know what we’re going to do about it.’

  He sank his head in his hands. ‘Oh my God! Bloody woman—’

  ‘Not the best word to use, in the circumstances,’ she said coldly. ‘I just want you to know that I’m going to make it plain I was only doing that because you made me.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ he protested. ‘I’d like to see who could make you do anything you didn’t want to. Anyway, it was only a joke.’

  ‘Tell that to the police. And come to that, I’ve only your word for it about what happened last night.’

  He went whiter than ever. ‘But I told you,’ he cried. ‘I wanted to see how Beatrice had reacted—’

  ‘I don’t want to know more about this than I have to. You’re sure he was still alive then? You and Beatrice didn’t get together—’

  ‘No!’ he howled. ‘Of course not! That makes no sense at all!’

  ‘So what are you going to tell the police? I want this sorted out.’

  He glared at her. ‘I may not have to tell them anything. This may never come out. Who’s going to tell them?’

  ‘If you don’t, I will.’

  ‘But that’s just plain stupid. No one knows I went out there and the phone call could have come from anyone.’

  Karen looked at him pityingly. ‘Did you never watch CSI? They’ll be checking through the phone records as we speak. That phone could ring any moment now—’

  He eyed it as if it were a poisonous snake. ‘I – I could just have been phoning her for a friendly chat.’

  ‘And you think she won’t tell them? When they catch up with her – and don’t kid yourself, they will – and ask her why she suddenly decided to murder the man she loved, she’ll say it was just a sudden impulse? That she just got up this morning at a bit of a loose end and thought, “Oh, I know what I’ll do, I’ll murder him”?’

  ‘That’s not funny.’ Quentin was angry now.

  ‘This whole thing isn’t funny. Go to them before they come to get you. And find yourself somewhere else to stay – I don’t want to be involved in this any more than I am already. I’ll have your things packed up and waiting for you when you get back.’

  DCS Borthwick glanced up as DI Strang came into the room. ‘Oh, there you are! That’s good. There’s a lot you need to catch up on.’ Then, taking a closer look at him, she raised her brows. ‘Been in the wars?’

  Strang pulled a rueful face. ‘I’d have to say that as a method of apprehendi
ng a suspect it was – unusual. But we both lived to tell the tale.’

  She listened as he told her what had happened, then briefed him on what had led to Beatrice being accused. ‘But at least the poor woman will be getting proper medical attention now. The thing is, it’s looking as if the man actually killed himself.’

  ‘What? Slit his own throat?’ Strang was incredulous. ‘When he had a shotgun available?’

  ‘They’ll do lab tests on the knife, of course. But the team leader is pretty definite – the knife was lying beside the body and apart from a few slight smudges the fingerprints were all his and the grip pattern was right, apparently.’

  Strang digested that. ‘Did he know they were after him for fraud? Seems drastic, even so.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to his partner, who did a lot of tooth-sucking then said he’d had dark suspicions about Carnegie – the sort, apparently, that you wouldn’t think of sharing with the Charity Commission. The sound of hands being washed was almost deafening.’

  ‘So I suppose we have to bring Tennant in on this?’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘It won’t please your little PC,’ she said, smiling. ‘They don’t seem to have hit it off.’

  ‘Murray, do you mean? She’s nothing to do with me. It’s just she’s been desperate to get in on the case – bored here, I suppose.’

  ‘Quite a bright spark, I thought. Keen to point out that Tennant was a suspect, when we still thought it was murder.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that, I admit, though I suppose she’d have been right. But he could be useful now, even if I don’t like his methods.’

  ‘He’s been useful already. He’s been able to tell us that there’s no record of Carnegie being married, despite the phone call from his alleged wife, which was what set off the whole thing about Beatrice. I’ve agreed to let him loose on whatever paperwork we find as a sort of quid pro quo.’

  It really was Sod’s Law that so much should have happened in the time he was away. He could feel his chance to take back control slipping away. ‘So what’s the current situation?’ he asked, sounding as positive as he could.