Dead in the Water (9 page)

Kerr rose, with some relief. Even cosy chats with Big Marge, as she was known to her officers, had a tendency to turn uncomfortable. She was just leaving when Fleming asked, ‘Quiet day? Nothing’s come my way, anyway.’

‘Not bad. But Sergeant Naismith was saying a report’s come in about trouble between the locals and some Poles – a knife involved. He’s going to have a word with you.’

Fleming frowned. ‘That’s been brewing – vague reports of small incidents. All the gutter press talk about the “Polish invasion” is stirring it.’

‘Part of the problem is they all get together and come in a bunch, not just ones and twos. I’ve seen a dozen of them coming out of the Horseshoe Tavern at weekends – wouldn’t be my choice, I have to say.’ Kerr wrinkled her nose. ‘Spit and sawdust, but they say the beer’s cheap.’

‘The clientele’s pretty rough as well. Faults on both sides, no doubt. And it’s human nature – young men like fighting.

‘Anyway, I’d better get on. Tell Tam I’ll speak to him later.’

Kerr hesitated. ‘Er – boss, you might want to know you’ve got dusty marks all over your face.’

‘Oh,’ Fleming said blankly, then looked at her hands and held them up. ‘Not really surprising. I feel as if I’ve got dusty marks all over my brain as well, just at the moment.’

She watched Kerr go out of the door, then shook her head. She recognized that lack of direction, that restlessness, from her own youth. But she had been ten years younger at the time, and she had found her direction the day she joined the Force. She wasn’t sure it was working out that way for Tansy.

‘Miss Lascelles! Homage!’ Barrie Craig, director of
Playfair’s Patch
, came into the drawing room and bent low over the actress’s hand.

Absurd little man! He looked, Sylvia thought, like a tennis ball – very round, very bouncy and with a fuzz of razor-cut grey hair round his spreading bald patch. Still, she murmured, ‘Too kind,’ with a gracious inclination of the head.

‘Are you happy with the script, Miss Lascelles? Any problems, we can fix them.’

‘Oh, Sylvia, please! No, it seems perfectly straightforward. I’m sure we can make any adjustments necessary as we go along. And of course I’m always happy to take direction.’

‘Of course, of course – Sylvia,’ he gulped. He gestured round the room. ‘I’ve just been checking out the house – they told me it was perfect and it certainly is. That wonderful decayed splendour, the curtains frayed, the carpets threadbare, everything starting to fall apart, and you—’

With a certain sardonic amusement, Sylvia saw him realize suddenly where that sentence was leading and collapse into crimson confusion.

Marcus took pity on him. ‘It shows the money and prestige Sylvia’s character once had, and emphasizes the tragic disintegration of her life after her husband’s murder years before.’

Barrie picked up the lifeline with the desperate enthusiasm of a drowning man. ‘And, of course, with lighting we can make it very creepy indeed when she realizes the murderer is now coming for her too, and here she is – helpless! Those French doors there – perfect!’

Then he looked round. ‘And where’s the gorgeous Jaki? She’s staying here, isn’t she?’

‘Oh yes,’ Marcus said. ‘Still in bed, is my guess – hasn’t emerged yet. Great to be young – I’ve somehow lost the talent for sleeping in.’

Sylvia saw the director give him a curious look. She was interested, too, in what this revealed about the Marcus–Jaki situation, but neither of them said anything. In their world you learned that happy coexistence depended on bland acceptance when it came to relationships.

‘I’ll get Mrs Boyter to bring some coffee. I’ve managed to lure her away from her usual clients to look after us this week,’ Marcus said, with some pride. ‘I hooked her with the promise of meeting Sylvia – she’s always been one of her biggest fans. Of course Sylvia was wonderful and Mrs B’s purring like a kitten – can’t do enough!’

‘Darling, I’d have done anything to avoid more of your suppers – I didn’t know it was possible to ruin a ready meal just by putting it in the oven! Barrie, you wouldn’t believe!’

She turned to the director, her intimate smile inviting him to join in the teasing, and pink with pleasure, he laughed.

‘Shocking!’ he agreed, as Marcus, hurling, ‘Ungrateful woman!’ over his shoulder, left in search of coffee.

In the kitchen he found not just Mrs Boyter, resplendent in a bright pink pinny purchased specially for the occasion, but Jaki at the kitchen table eating toast. She smiled at him a little uncertainly.

‘Morning, darling!’ Marcus said brightly, kissing her on the forehead. ‘How’s the headache?’

She took her tone from him. ‘Oh, much better. I slept really well. It’s so quiet, and the light didn’t wake me so I didn’t stir until after half past ten.’

‘It’s very dark with the curtains drawn,’ he agreed. ‘Mrs B, Miss Lascelles would love some coffee. There will probably be five or six of us, if you could bring through a pot.’

Mrs Boyter’s face positively shone. ‘Of course, Marcus. I’ve made some of my wee biscuits as well – she’ll like those.’

‘Thanks. I’m sure we all will.’ He turned to Jaki. ‘Are you finished? Or are you on a toast jag?’

‘I’ve been on a toast jag.’ She got up. ‘I’ve bribed Mrs Boyter not to tell anyone how many pieces I had.’ She grinned impishly at the older woman, who shook her head at her.

‘Oh, you’re a wee terror for toast, right enough,’ she said indulgently.

As Marcus shut the kitchen door, he said teasingly, ‘Mrs B has clearly decided TV stars are almost as good as film stars. I, of course, don’t count because she knew me as a wee boy scrumping apples.’

They were in the long below-stairs passage leading to the front hall. Jaki stopped. ‘Marcus, I don’t know quite how to say this, but I don’t think—’

He turned, reading what she was going to say in her face. ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t think, either. I’m sorry.’

Jaki’s relief was obvious. ‘I’m sorry too. We had fun, didn’t we?’

Marcus stooped to kiss her cheek. ‘Oh, we had fun. You’re a terrific girl, love. It’s just—’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Hold it right there – I’m not into angst and analysis. No agonizing, no regrets. I’ll get them to find somewhere for me to doss down and move my gear.’

He didn’t reply immediately. Then he said, ‘Would you mind very much staying on here? There’ll be so much gossip and whispering – better if we could drift apart discreetly back in Glasgow.’

She didn’t want to do that. She was open by nature and she didn’t fancy having to act off-stage as well as on – and she was desperate to get out of this place too. But he was right enough about the gossip.

After a moment she said, unconvincingly, ‘No, of course I don’t mind. I see where you’re coming from – the conversations that stop just as you come into the room, the fake sympathy . . .’

‘And the “never thought it would last” remarks. Well, I don’t suppose we did either, really. But we’ve been good friends as well as lovers, haven’t we, and I’d like to think I wouldn’t lose the friendship part.’

‘I’d like that too. You could come out clubbing sometimes.’

She was very attractive, smiling up at him like that, and for a second he felt a pang. But he only winced elaborately and, hearing Mrs Boyter opening the kitchen door, they went to join the others.

At half past two, DI Fleming straightened her aching back, thoughtlessly rubbing her hand down her face. She put the papers back carefully in order so that she could find them next time.

She’d had only the most cursory run through to familiarize herself with the background. The hard part would come with the analysis of procedures followed and actions taken, and interviewing Donald about the gaps.

She could pinpoint some already. Despite there being no suicide note and no direct evidence that the woman had thrown herself into the sea, the assumption of suicide had bedevilled the early investigation. There had been no proper search for signs of a struggle on the headland from which, given its proximity and the currents, the body had been pushed into the sea. No casts had been taken of tyre marks, to check against cars known to be in use by the keepers. The questioning of the lighthouse residents had been perfunctory, and she could find no record of interviews with people Ailsa might have talked to when she had been at home in the two months before her death, and only brief and unilluminating statements from colleagues she had worked with as a secretary to a firm of exporters in Glasgow. Worst of all, despite Jean Grant’s accusation, Marcus Lazansky/Lindsay had never been directly interviewed.

The investigation was riddled with flaws. She certainly was not going to be able to pat Bailey on the head and tell him it was fine.

Lacking evidence of anyone else’s involvement, apart from the phone call Ailsa had allegedly received, there had been follow-up only on Robert Grant, though with his alibi from his wife and son, there wasn’t much they could do. Experts nowadays compare the friction burns with the rope found around the farm – and track phone calls – but at that time they had nothing to go on.

Fleming couldn’t discover any details about that phone call. Of course, you didn’t record every informal conversation unless something useful emerged from it, which might well explain it.

Her notebook was full of queries and follow-ups to be done, many of them awkward and time-consuming. Of the four officers most directly involved, only Bailey was readily available: one was dead; one had retired and, she thought she remembered, gone to live in Spain; the other had left the Force and could be anywhere. The lighthouse keepers would be hard to trace too, with the lighthouse having been automated in 1988, and Ailsa’s secretarial colleagues of twenty years ago were unlikely still to be there – even if the firm of exporters was – and more than likely would have married and changed their names.

That would all take time, possibly a lot of time, and Fleming wanted to move quickly. When you lifted a stone, dark creatures, safely hidden before, panicked in the light of day: when the investigation became common knowledge, someone out there would become desperate to stop her finding out the truth, and desperation breeds danger. She had to move fast.

Where to start? If the Grants were farmers, they’d probably still be at Balnakenny – farms rarely changed hands. Marcus Lindsay was definitely around. They might find some locals, too, who had been friends with Ailsa; the pull of Galloway was strong and even if young folks left, a surprising number came back later. It would also be interesting to find out what local wisdom had made of the case. Fleming had a profound respect for the intelligence system which operated in rural areas.

She needed to get to the Mull of Galloway this afternoon, and if Tam MacNee was in the building, she’d take him along, though she’d better wash her face and hands first.

DS MacNee was indeed in the building. He too had been at a desk all day, complaining to anyone who would stand still long enough that this wasn’t what he’d signed up for.

When the phone rang and DI Fleming’s voice said, ‘Tam? Oh good. I’ve been working on this cold case all morning—’ it rekindled his grievance.

‘Aye, I know that. I’ve been at my desk all morning too, doing what you’d have been doing if you weren’t. The Super said it was all to be diverted to me to keep your desk clear and give you time to do it.’

Fleming’s voice sharpened. ‘He can’t do that! What are you working on, Tam? Not budgets, or manpower requirements or—’

‘I wish! I could’ve put in for another couple of lads for the CID and a raise for overtime.’

‘At least I’ve been spared that! The Super must be mad – I’ll have a word with him. There’s nothing that can’t wait.’

‘You know your problem?’ he began.

‘Yes. I’m a control freak. I like it that way. Now, stop playing with my reports. I want you to come out to the Mull of Galloway with me, to do some interviews. I’ll fill you in on the details on the way down.’

MacNee rose with alacrity. ‘This stuff’s all yours. I’m sending it on to you now – or at least, I will be when I find someone to tell me what button to press.’

‘Just one other thing – a report’s come in about an assault with a knife. Can you get the background from Jock Naismith? That sort of thing’s contagious – we need to get on top of that before it spreads and we’ve a serious problem on our hands.’

‘How’s it going, boys?’ Diane Hodge, wearing a DKNY tracksuit in a challenging shade of yellow, with wet hair and a white towel round her neck, jogged across from the swimming pool. It was under a glass dome, covering a tropical jungle of green plants which struck a bizarrely exotic note on this bright, cold spring day.

The four men plastering the walls of a brick construction on one side of the sprawling house glanced up, but only one stopped work. He was much older than the others, with longish greying hair, and a weather-beaten face – a bit rough, admittedly, but the lean, mean type who might be quite good-looking if he wasn’t always so gloomy.

‘Hey, Stefan! Cracking the whip, then?’ Diane always tried to raise a smile; she hadn’t managed yet, but she wasn’t a quitter.

‘We are on schedule to meet your target next week.’

‘That’s brilliant!’

Still he didn’t smile. Looking for a new audience, Diane walked over to admire the work, and noticed that one of them, Kasper, was sporting a bandage on his left arm.