The Third Sin

by Aline Templeton

  He listened indulgently. Even if long experience had taught him that there was no point in developing theories before you had some evidence to base them on, throwing ideas around was Hepburn’s role and he was happy to listen.

  ‘Do you think you could really have a situation like that, where everyone was casually sleeping with everyone else, without some people seething with jealousy?’

  ‘No,’ MacNee said flatly. ‘It’s human nature.’ If anyone had ever so much as made a move on Bunty he’d have had him by the throat.

  Hepburn nodded. ‘Right. I’ve been thinking about the Happy Valley set in Kenya in the 1940s, you see. Did you ever see that old film, White Mischief?’

  ‘Not that I remember,’ MacNee said dryly. He’d never been one for the cinema and after Bunty insisted he take her to Gone with the Wind, he’d never been back.

  ‘They were hedonists like that, with all the drug culture and wife-swapping and stuff, and that ended in murder. The jealous husband was charged but he was acquitted, though everyone knew he’d done it. It’s officially unsolved – let’s hope that doesn’t happen with this one.’

  ‘This isn’t the films, though. The guy was a dealer. It’s a lot more likely just to be a dirty row over drug money.’

  ‘Well, I know that, of course. But you have to admit the background really suggests there could be any number of motives …’

  It was amazing how long a woman could go on talking if you made the right noises, MacNee reflected. They were getting close to Ballinbreck by the time Hepburn ran out of speculation.

  ‘Where is it exactly that we’re going?’ Hepburn asked.

  ‘The pub’s just on the outskirts of the village. The Albatross. Funny name for a pub – not many albatrosses around here. I suppose calling it The Seagull would be a bit downmarket for a posh place.’

  ‘The Albatross!’ Hepburn exclaimed. ‘That’ll be Baudelaire, of course.’

  MacNee looked at her uncertainly. The young kept coming up with these new words you’d never heard of. Usually they meant either wonderful or awful.

  ‘French poet,’ Hepburn explained kindly. ‘Sort of a high priest of decadence with poems called Les Fleurs du Mal – the flowers of evil. All dark and angst-ridden – I loved them as a teenager. “The Albatross” was one of the most famous – about how the poet is scorned in ordinary life.’

  MacNee nodded. ‘Right enough – happened to Rabbie Burns too.’

  Hepburn laughed. ‘From the little I know of his activities, he and Baudelaire would have got on just fine. Oh look, there it is! And look at the sign!’

  The sign didn’t show, as MacNee had expected, the magnificent bird soaring in flight, but clumsy-looking on the ground instead, head lowered and great wings dragging on either side.

  ‘That’s the poet when forced to walk not fly,’ Hepburn said happily. ‘You know, Tam, this could be a really interesting case.’

  Far from sharing in her enthusiasm, MacNee’s heart sank. Burns’s poetry was one thing, arty-farty intellectuals, red-hot about their human rights and entitlement to deference, were quite another. The alternative theory, favouring the dark and dirty underworld of drugs, was looking positively enticing by comparison as he drove into the car park.

  ‘Going to be a right doss, this, going off for a jaunt to the seaside,’ DC Debbie Jamieson said gleefully as she was driven out of the Dumfries police HQ car park by DC Lizzie Weston. ‘First time they’ve let us off together without a sergeant – no one to check on what we’ve done and we can take all day – probably tomorrow as well if we play smart. Where do you fancy for coffee? There’s a caff in New Abbey that does cupcakes.’

  Weston shook her head. ‘No way. We’re going to be the ones who find out where the car really went in the water. OK, it might take a couple of days but we’re going to check every single bit of the shore that we can reach, even if it means going down miles of dead-end one-track road and then coming back again.’

  Jamieson stared at her. ‘But Harris’ll never know if we did it or not. It’ll be like a revenge on him for all the stuff he’s put us through.’

  ‘Sometimes you’re dead naïve, Debbie. Don’t you get it? That’s what he wants – us not to find a place where the car could have gone in. If we do, it means DI Fleming was right, when the whole point of this where he’s concerned is to prove she’s just as useless as he is. He’s probably reckoning on us going off to muck about.’

  Jamieson was mutinous. ‘We will if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

  ‘Since I’m driving, you don’t. Look, I’ve heard about Big Marge Fleming and she’s a class act. If we get this one right I could maybe ask her if I could transfer to the Galloway division. I don’t want my career ruined because Harris treats me as if I’m just a totty.’

  ‘I don’t want a career. A job does me fine – and frankly I’m thinking about looking for something else anyway.’

  Weston looked at her in astonishment. ‘You’re not! What could you find that’s better than this? Look, here we are – this road goes down to the Solway.’ She turned down a narrow side road as she spoke.

  ‘What about my coffee?’ Jamieson complained. ‘Oh well, if you insist. But if we find it early, we’re not going back till the end of the shift.’

  ‘With you there.’

  When they came near the Solway shore, the road ended in a farmyard. ‘Back we go,’ Weston said cheerfully. Jamieson only groaned.

  It was a very attractive-looking pub. The original charming Victorian cottage had been enlarged with a two-storey extension at the back but it was in keeping with the style, the harling finish a pristine white, and the window boxes and tubs all round, bright with flowers.

  There was, however, no sign of life; the front door was uncompromisingly shut and there was no doorbell and knocking produced no response.

  MacNee looked at his watch. ‘Nine o’clock, and nobody up,’ he said. ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘Probably about not finishing work till after midnight.’ Hepburn wandered off round the back as MacNee peered in through the windows of the bar but came back to report that the kitchen, too, was deserted and it hadn’t been any good knocking there either. ‘Do they even live here?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s the address they gave the court. And those windows right above the bar – those look like they could be bedroom curtains.’

  ‘We could throw a stone at them,’ Hepburn suggested.

  ‘Oh aye, and put it through the pane instead? I’ve a better idea.’

  MacNee went back to the car and started leaning on the horn. Seconds later, the curtains rattled back and a furious face appeared at the window, tugging at the catch until it yielded and he could fling it open.

  A plump, bald-headed man, red with fury, leant out. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  MacNee stepped out of the car. ‘Mr Stewart? Sorry to disturb you, sir. Police.’ He held up his warrant card. ‘You weren’t answering the door.’

  ‘Of course we bloody weren’t! We were asleep. What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘Four minutes past nine, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’ He turned to say something over his shoulder to someone in the room, then called down, ‘Perhaps you could come back in half an hour – give us time to wake up and get dressed.’

  ‘Afraid not, sir. We don’t mind you in your dressing gowns.’

  ‘You may not, but I do. Are you refusing to come back later?’

  ‘Not exactly refusing, sir, but we have many calls on our time and it’s important that we talk to you as soon as possible.’

  MacNee saw uncertainty on the man’s face. ‘What’s it about, anyway? If it’s about some licensing infringement—’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘We’d rather talk to you directly. It’s a serious matter.’

  Logie Stewart stiffened visibly. Then he said, ‘Oh, all right, then. I’ll come down, though I can’t imagine what it’s about.’
He shut the window.

  MacNee grinned at Hepburn. ‘There, you see? Smart thinking, not brute force. That’s what gets results.’

  The man who opened the door looked only half-awake, his eyes puffy with sleep and a growth of stubble on his chin, but his dressing gown was a resplendent red with a gold-tasselled tie-belt, with slippers to match. MacNee introduced himself and Hepburn and walked in.

  ‘This had better be important,’ Logie Stewart said tartly. ‘This way.’

  The pub was very smartly furnished with highly polished wooden tables and shining brass around the bar and dark-blue upholstery on the banquettes and chairs. Sailing prints on the cream walls suggested a nautical theme, presumably in tribute to the seabird outside, but there weren’t any of the usual ropes and anchors, or even imitation portholes. Tasteful, MacNee supposed they would describe it, though he’d have called it dull. He preferred his pubs to have a bit more life about them.

  It still had the slightly fetid smell of yesterday’s alcohol and sweaty bodies. As Logie waved them to seats at a table near the door, he went round opening the windows wide. He had his back turned to them as he said, ‘What’s all this about, then?’

  ‘Connell Kane.’

  It was deliberately brutal; MacNee had expected the man to spin round, but he didn’t. His back went rigid, but he went on to open another window and his voice sounded casual.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘We just wondered if you had seen him recently?’

  He turned at that. His expression was guarded, but he said with some force, ‘Seen him? Since he’s been dead for a couple of years it would be a bit tricky, wouldn’t it?’ He sounded sarcastic but he was definitely uneasy as he came to sit down at the table.

  ‘So when was the last time you saw him, then?’

  Logie shrugged. ‘Not sure I can remember. Somewhere around the time poor Julia Margrave died, I suppose.’

  ‘You weren’t at the hearing in court?’

  ‘No. Look, I really had very little to do with him – he was just another customer.’

  ‘And a member of the Cyrenaics, like you,’ Hepburn said.

  Logie’s face coloured. ‘That didn’t mean anything. It was just a sort of joke, a passing idea.’

  ‘For a passing idea, it seemed to have quite a history, according to the report on the inquest.’

  He looked at Hepburn with dislike. ‘I wasn’t at it. And I was here, in the bar, the night Julia died. That was just the tragic consequence of her drug problem – I don’t see what it’s got to do with me. And anyway, what’s this nonsense about Connell? Are you telling me he’s still alive?’

  MacNee ignored the question. ‘What were you doing on April 14th?’

  Logie froze, but MacNee didn’t read too much into that. Being asked by the police to account for your movements made even the purest soul tense up. He filed it away, though.

  ‘How on earth would I know? In the restaurant, probably. What day was it?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Ah, then I wouldn’t have been – we’re closed on Mondays. So …’ He shrugged. ‘Could have been anywhere.’

  ‘Need to push you to think, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps my wife might be able to help.’ He jumped up; there was no mistaking his eagerness to get away. ‘She must be dressed by now – I’ll go and fetch her.’

  MacNee didn’t see any need to stop him, but as he went towards the back of the room the front door opened and a woman in a pink overall appeared. She hesitated, peering curiously at the officers.

  ‘Oh – Sandra!’ Logie said. ‘You’ll be wanting to get on with the cleaning.’ He turned to the officers. ‘Do you mind going upstairs to the restaurant? You won’t be disturbed there. Light switch on the left.’

  MacNee and Hepburn climbed the stairs he indicated.

  ‘Did he know or didn’t he?’ Hepburn murmured. ‘Couldn’t make up my mind.’

  ‘Some gut reactions, but I couldn’t be sure what they meant. Cool customer, that one.’

  The restaurant on the next floor was a cavern of darkness. MacNee fumbled for a second then found the switch. They both gasped.

  The long room was all purple and silver, the walls so dark they were almost black and the velvet drapes covering the windows and the upholstery of the chairs true imperial colour. There were silver-framed mirrors on every wall, causing glittering reflections that went deeper and deeper towards infinity. And then there were the botanical prints.

  MacNee stopped in front of one. It showed the cross section of a mottled pink, fleshy plant, formed like a cup with a pool of liquid in the bottom, a trap where the helpless bodies of flies floated, slowly dissolving.

  He read the inscription. ‘Pitcher plant. Yeuch!’

  ‘This one says it’s a sundew. There’s a wasp or something entangled with it.’ Hepburn walked along, studying them. ‘This is a Venus flytrap—’ She stopped. ‘Of course! These are symbols of the Flowers of Evil that I was talking about. This room’s practically the definition of decadent. You can see why it’s a destination pub – people love that sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t. Put me right off my mince.’ MacNee spoke lightly but it was making his flesh crawl. He went across to the window and pulled back one of the drapes. ‘That’s better. Let’s get some daylight in here.’

  But he was beginning to have a worrying feeling about the likely effect of daylight on the situation they were starting to explore.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘We’ll do Falconer first,’ DS Andy Macdonald said to DC Ewan Campbell as he drove into Ballinbreck. ‘He’s retired so he should be at home, and being a teacher Jen Wilson’ll be busy first thing – taking the register and stuff.’ He paused. ‘That’s if they take the register now. They always did when I was at a school.’

  Campbell snorted.

  ‘Oh, I know, doesn’t prove anything. When I was in primary you could still get the strap across the back of your legs – you’d get locked up for that now.’

  ‘First left, then,’ Campbell said, pointing to the street name.

  Donald Falconer’s house was in a smart new development at the back of the village. They could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner as they rang the bell and the door was opened by a sweet-faced woman with very bright blue eyes and a fluff of grey curls who greeted them with a friendly smile when they showed their warrant cards.

  ‘Oh, police,’ she said with the happy confidence of the blameless. ‘What can I do for you? Donald? Oh, the neighbourhood watch, is it?’

  Not waiting for an answer, she led them towards the back of the house. ‘He’s in his study. Keeps him out from under my feet while I get on,’ she confided, then opened the door.

  ‘Police to see you, dear. They’ve discovered your guilty secret!’ She ushered them in, then went back to her hoovering.

  Donald Falconer put down the newspaper he was reading and stood up. ‘Don’t recognise you,’ he said brusquely. ‘Not from the local station, are you?’

  Macdonald explained. ‘Wondered if we could have a word with you, sir.’

  A look of caution came over Falconer’s face. ‘Ah. Is this about my daughter? I suppose I should have reported it to you immediately. She’s turned up, like a bad penny. I’m sorry you’ve had to come all this way for nothing but I’m impressed that you’re still working on it.’

  Awkwardly, Macdonald said, ‘I’m glad to hear it, sir, but it’s not about that.’

  Falconer looked alarmed. ‘Dear God, she’s not in trouble again, is she?’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘The dreadful business over that girl’s death – Julia Margrave. It was bad enough then. Is she going to bring more shame on us?’

  ‘She’s in no trouble at the moment, as far as we know. We weren’t aware she was back in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘I didn’t know myself until she dropped in, calm as you please, on Monday. Not a word of apology for what she’d done to me and to her poor mother.’

&nbs
p; ‘I see. Do you know where she’s staying, then?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.’ The man was almost visibly bristling. No fatted calf for Skye, it seemed.

  ‘Is there anyone you can think of who might know?’

  Falconer sniffed. ‘She was always thick as thieves with Jen Wilson. She was another of them – and still teaching children. Should have been sacked when it all came out.’

  ‘We’ll follow that up.’ With a glance at Campbell Macdonald got up. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. Just one last question – when was the last time you saw Connell Kane?’

  ‘The drug dealer? I’m happy to say there wasn’t a last time, since there wasn’t a first time either. I’m not ashamed to say I was delighted when I heard he’d done the decent thing and killed himself.’

  ‘Not very effectively,’ Campbell said as they went out, leaving him staring after them.

  Primary 4 was proving challenging this morning. Someone was having a birthday and since the mother had been thoughtless enough to hand out invitations to the party to some children and not to others, there were first hurt feelings to be soothed, then tears from the birthday girl when one of those not included was nasty to her.

  Jen Wilson grimaced at the teaching assistant. ‘Roll on break,’ she muttered, just as the door opened and Mrs Pearson the head teacher appeared.

  ‘Miss Wilson, could I have a moment?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ With a murmured, ‘Sorry!’ to the assistant she went to the head’s study, wondering what was so urgent that it couldn’t wait for break.

  There were two young men there and Mrs Pearson gave Jen an acid look as she came in.

  ‘These gentlemen are from the police. They want a word with you.’

  Jen’s heart sank. She wasn’t the head’s favourite person; she’d almost lost her job two years ago and she still hadn’t managed to live it down.

  ‘I’ll leave you with them,’ Mrs Pearson said frostily and withdrew.

  Swallowing nervously, Jen sat down, nodding as the taller officer introduced them and the red-haired one took down her details.