Evil for Evil (18 page)

‘Oh, that’s right. She said she wouldn’t be home. There’s a party or something.’

‘Right,’ Marjory said slowly, prodding the bacon. ‘I was wondering about her, because it was a bit odd. I was shopping at lunchtime and saw Mary Irvine. I haven’t seen her for ages, and I wondered if she’d heard from Will. She barely stopped – said she was dashing to a hair appointment, but it wasn’t like her. Usually I can’t get away from her, once she starts. You – you don’t think there’s anything wrong there, do you?’

Bill looked alarmed. ‘I’d hate to think so. He’s almost one of the family now.’

‘I know. And it would be awful for Cat, starting out somewhere new, if … Do you think we should pop up to Glasgow to see how she is?’ She made the suggestion hopefully, trying not to show that she was grasping at any excuse just to see Cat, to have her physical nearness – always supposing Cat would allow a hug, in her present frame of mind.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Bill firmly. ‘You’ve got to accept that she’s left home. And if you’re uptight because Mary didn’t stop to talk, it’s daft. Maybe she did have an appointment.’

‘I know, but I’ve got a feeling—’ Marjory was saying, when the kitchen door opened and Cammie appeared.

‘Is that bacon I smell? Oh, great!’

His father grinned. ‘Better than rabbit food, eh? Pity it didn’t work out. She’s a nice enough lassie.’

‘Mmm,’ Cammie said, but looking at him with a mother’s eye Marjory wasn’t as sure as Bill was that the spell cast by those big brown eyes had been broken.

Eddie Tindall let himself into the darkened flat with a heavy heart. In the lounge, where in his mind’s eye his wife was always sitting smiling up at him, her gold hair gleaming in the pool of light from the lamp on the table behind the sofa, there were only great luminous patches of pale orange on the polished floor from the street outside in the oppressive, artificial silence the double glazing created. He pressed the switch to turn on the lamps and reflexively clicked the TV remote, though he went back out again immediately.

Clive hadn’t called him, and Marianne had kept Eddie too busy to have much time to think about Elena. He was thinking about her
now, though; he’d been late back, so perhaps Clive had left a message here. But through in his study there was no red light blinking on the phone.

Without expectation, Eddie checked the bank account, but there were no new transactions. He could phone and check the credit card again, but it was a lot of effort to make, knowing it would be pointless. He was feeling very tired tonight, tired and old.

He wandered through to their bedroom, then into Elena’s walk-in closet. Perhaps there might be a clue in what she had packed. But as door after door swung open to his touch, he looked helplessly at racks of skirts, dresses, trousers, piles of shelved sweaters. For all he could tell, she might have taken half her clothes with her, or nothing at all.

Jewellery – he was more familiar with that, having bought most of it himself. The good pieces were kept in the built-in safe in his study, but when he opened it nothing was missing. A guarantee of her return? He tried to console himself with the thought, but though Elena enjoyed luxury, she had never been acquisitive.

He could phone her. Hearing her voice would be the highlight of his evening, but he was becoming afraid to try her number. What if she didn’t answer? What if she never answered again? What if she did, and told him it was all over? ‘Eddie, I’m sorry, but …’ He buried his face in his hands.

She’d barely been away two days. She’d often gone for three or four in the past, and she’d warned him she planned a longer break. So why did it seem like a crisis? He was being a fool. A stiff drink, that was what he needed. A drink, and a good talking-to.

Back in the lounge, he poured himself a Scotch. On the big plasma screen, some birdbrained woman was simpering and giggling at an equally birdbrained man. Irritably, he killed the sound, though the flickering images were company, in a strange way.

Sitting there with his whisky soothed him, same as always. OK, Elena wasn’t there and without her the flat was bleak and empty, but in another week or so she’d be back. He’d be able to laugh at his fears, unless he blew it now by overreacting. The problem was with his own idiotic imaginings. As if someone else had spoken the words, Eddie nodded affirmatively.

But it didn’t convince him. The bank account and credit card were evidence that this time was different; he just didn’t know why, or what it meant for his marriage, and it was getting to him. He downed the Scotch in one and went for a refill.

The phone ringing startled him so that he almost dropped the glass. Clive, was his first thought, but no – it was Elena. She usually only phoned when he’d been trying to reach her.

He tried to sound casual, unsurprised. ‘Hi, doll! I was just going to call you. How are you doing?’

She was fine, it seemed, thoroughly enjoying the peace and quiet, having long walks. She wanted to know how he was, what kind of day he’d had, what Lola had left him for supper, and when he said he hadn’t eaten yet, warned him not to get stuck into the Scotch when she wasn’t there to keep an eye on him. At the end of the conversation, when he said, ‘Love you, sweetheart,’ she said, after a tiny pause, ‘I miss you, Eddie.’

He switched off the phone and sat down again. On the screen, a woman was yelling at a girl with a trout pout and a Croydon facelift.

He should be feeling reassured. Elena had said she was missing him. She’d been concerned, affectionate, forthcoming if not explicit about where she was and what she was doing there.

His Elena was cool, reserved, detached, almost. This was totally unnatural. What could it mean? His hand was shaking as he brought the glass to his lips. What was he to do? He had to do
something
.
Maybe Clive had found some clue, some promising line of enquiry. He could phone Clive – he had his mobile number.

Clive, though, was not helpful. Eddie was a good client, but even so his irritation at being disturbed in the middle of his supper came through. Yes, he had feelers out and was hopeful. No, it was too early to expect results and he’d certainly contact Eddie immediately he’d anything to report.

So there was nothing Eddie could do but sit there, amid the trappings of his wealth and success, meaningless now that they could no longer buy him his heart’s desire.

Elena switched off the phone and grimaced, feeling drained and faintly nauseated. She just hoped this wifey-wifey performance would keep Eddie happy, stop him getting twitchy for a bit, at least. She didn’t need worry about him on top of everything else.

She felt as if her nerves were being stretched taut, and then stretched some more, until they might snap at any moment. She was becoming irrational. Any sudden sound outside sent her heart racing; this evening she had drawn the curtains before it was even dark, and checked twice that the door was locked when she knew it was. But if she was locking some of her fears outside, she was locking herself in with the rest.

Cal had seemed badly stressed. She’d been relying on Cal, Cal who before had seemed solid, imperturbable. Today he’d gone on a lot about his mother; she’d been driving him to the edge for years, and Elena was afraid that might actually tip him over – really afraid.

Calm. She had to be calm. She had plenty of practice in that too, even when she was having to drown out the screaming inside her head.

Yoga. That helped; sometimes she even felt her sanity depended on
it. She sat down on the floor, took a deep breath, and tried to relax.

The only problem was that as she lowered her head gracefully she found herself looking at the broad cuff bracelets on her wrists, which reminded her that in the drawer in her bedroom there was a pretty little knife which held the promise of even greater relief.

Brodie was late tonight bringing fresh scoff, much later than usual. Fergie had meant to pluck up courage and ask for a radio, just for company – he’d keep it low, of course, and watch for any boat coming across.

After one look at Brodie when he eventually arrived, Fergie thought the better of it. The man’s face was black with temper and he dumped down the carrier bag as if he had some personal grievance against it.

‘Thanks, Sarge,’ Fergie said, but very quietly, and he wrapped his arms across his thin body as if to make himself smaller and less visible. Invisible, preferably. Brodie looked ready to lash out, and famously wasn’t particular about his targets.

He was eying even this diminished Fergie with distaste. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ he said with venom. ‘You.’

Fergie shrank back, which seemed to rile Brodie even more. ‘God, how did I get myself into this? Sooner or later, you pay for every good deed – that’s the truth. There’s people sniffing around, and we can’t bring in a boat till we’ve neutralised them. You’ll have to stay here for as long as it takes.’

Dismay made Fergie incautious. ‘Can you not just get me out of this place? Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe. Being alone all the time’s messing with my brain.’

It gave Brodie the excuse he needed for venting his fury. ‘Your brain? Your
brain
? Don’t make me laugh!’

Fergie quailed under the tirade of obscenity that followed, putting his arm up to cover his head as if he were being physically attacked.
‘Sorry, Sarge,’ he whimpered when his assailant paused for breath.

Brodie looked at him with contempt. ‘You really are a snivelling little sod. Just get this into your tiny head – I won’t turn you in because you’d come apart. And I won’t knock you on the head and push you off the cliff because you’d come ashore on the current and they’d come around here asking questions. You’ve got food and shelter – think yourself lucky. Do as you’re told and it’ll all come right in the end.

‘These are your orders. Keep a strict watch. I’m giving you a key so you can lose yourself in the wood if someone’s coming that might search the building. And I don’t want it looking lived-in. Nothing left visible. Clear?’

Fergie could feel Brodie’s eyes boring into him. ‘Right, Sarge,’ he said.

Brodie maintained his laser gaze for a long moment. ‘And don’t go wandering about for the fun of it,’ he warned as he left. ‘Anyone sees you, we’re buggered, both of us, and don’t think you won’t pay.’

As the door shut, Fergie’s knees gave way and he collapsed on to the mattress on the floor. He’d always been wary of Brodie, and Brodie when things were going wrong was seriously scary.

He’d counted on the boat coming any day now. The way Brodie talked, it could be weeks – weeks of solitary in this creepy place. He felt a tightness in his chest and started taking gasping, shallow breaths as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air.

It was getting properly dark now. The moon was casting beams of pale light on the splintery floor through the gaps between the slats. Under the eaves the restless shadows shivered. Fergie got up and went to look out.

In bright moonlight the familiar landscape seemed strange, bleached of colour, with black spectral trees and dark mysterious hollows in the grass, but the air coming in was fresh on his face, damp and cool. His breathing quietened.

For the first time, Fergie could go out and walk around. He’d
heard the boat take Brodie back. He’d be disobeying orders, but who would know? Just a little walk. Freedom to take more than ten paces backwards and forwards. Freedom to look at something more than four wooden walls.

He opened the door as quietly as he could, winced at the squeaking step, though there was no one to hear. Downstairs, the storeroom was musty with the smell of the feed for the deer, but once outside in the clear air he snuffed it like an animal. Trained not to offer a target, he kept close to the house and only moved towards the wood when he had the building between him and the mainland.

From inside it had looked inviting, but under the sheltering branches it was deeply dark. The undergrowth was dense, and he tripped on an unseen tree root and almost fell. As he saved himself, a bramble raked the back of his hand and he licked at the ragged scratch, wondering how he’d explain if Brodie noticed it. Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all.

The noises unsettled him too, stealthy noises from movement he couldn’t see. The deer, of course, it was just the deer, he told himself, but he didn’t know much about them anyway. Could they attack, if they took against you?

Perhaps it would be better just to go back. He’d had his breath of air, and when he got that suffocating feeling he was free to come out. He turned, retraced his steps.

As the trees thinned out, the moonlight caught eyes, glowing from a bush nearby. He jumped, stepped on a stick which cracked like a pistol shot. He heard a bark, like an angry dog, and giving a shout of fright himself, stumbled back to the bothy without a thought for any watcher on the mainland. His heart was pounding as he stumbled up the stairs, flung himself into the room and shut the door, like a captive animal rejecting freedom for the security of its cage.

It was mid afternoon on Thursday before the DNA analysis of the bones in the cave landed on DI Fleming’s desk and she seized on it eagerly. She’d been trying to temper expectation; while you could learn a lot from DNA, it didn’t come with name and address attached.

Usually. But this one did – a name, at least. Delighted at this stroke of luck, Fleming read on.

They had scored a hit with one on the police database in Manchester. There was no further information, no indication of a date or of any offence he had been charged with.

Perhaps there wasn’t one. In Scotland, unless there was a conviction samples were destroyed after three years, but in England they were kept indefinitely, even if no charge followed the arrest. So that was another stroke of luck; innocent or guilty, they had his name, Andrew Smith.

Andrew Smith. She said the name under her breath. It held the ghost of a man, where before there had been only dry, anonymous
bones. If he had a record, she could flesh them out from interviews, details of associates, addresses – a treasure trove for investigation.

If not … In that case, the missing person’s register would be almost their only hope, since trawling through phone books and voters’ rolls for one particular ‘Andrew Smith’ wasn’t likely to prove rewarding.

She mustn’t be pessimistic, though. At least they had a starting point: a request for information from Manchester. But official channels were hardly noted for their speedy response, and it wouldn’t be easy here to argue for top priority. They’d have to be patient, and Fleming had never been good at that. She sat tapping her finger on her front teeth, thinking.

She had a contact in Manchester, DCI Chris Carter, who had worked with her on an earlier case. They’d hit it off a little too well, and she’d discouraged his attempts to keep in touch, but that was years ago. He was probably married by now with a couple of kids, and she was pretty sure he’d do her a favour. She still had the number of the North Manchester Divisional HQ somewhere. She tracked it down, then keyed it in before she could change her mind.

She crossed her fingers as she asked to speak to DCI Carter. Given Sod’s Law, he would probably be off duty, or even not there any longer …

But that was his voice saying, ‘Marjory Fleming? Well, well! That’s a name from the past. How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks. How’s the scene in Manchester?’

‘Oh, same old, same old. Kids have gangs now instead of families – doesn’t make for an easy life.’ He sounded weary.

‘Sorry to add to the workload, but I’m looking for a favour. We’ve an interesting one at the moment,’ Fleming said. ‘Skeleton in a cave.’

‘I read about it,’ he said. ‘Made the nationals with the creepy little detail about the watch.’

‘Yes. Pretty sick, that. But it turns out from the DNA report that he’s one of yours – one Andrew Smith.’

Fleming could almost hear his shrug. ‘Doesn’t immediately ring a bell. Common enough name, of course.’

‘That’s the problem. We’re reckoning he’s been dead twelve years, give or take, but they’ve given me a reference for the sample. Any chance you could run a check for me? It’ll take weeks if I make it official.’

‘Sure. I’ll get someone on to it …’

Fleming crossed her fingers again. ‘Any chance you could just press a few buttons right now? You’re obviously at your desk …’

Carter groaned. ‘If you could see my desk, you wouldn’t ask.’

‘Yes, I would. I’m gallus.’

‘Gallus?’

‘Shameless, with an added dash of chutzpah.’

‘You’re certainly pushing your luck. Well, I suppose, just for you, Marjory. Give me the number. I’ll call you back.’

‘You’re a star,’ she said gratefully, and switched off the phone. This was definitely her lucky day; she ought to stop and buy a lottery ticket on the way home. She had glanced at her watch impatiently several times, though, before Carter called back.

‘I hope you realise crime in Manchester has been going unsolved while three overstretched DCs work for the Galloway constabulary,’ he said. ‘Half an hour, that took. I should bill you for their time.’

‘Tam MacNee’s all yours, any time you ask. But go on,’ Fleming prompted.

‘It’s certainly an interesting one. Goes back to 1998 – quite an early sample.’

‘What did he do?’ Fleming asked, suddenly hopeful.

Her luck wasn’t that good. ‘Nothing, officially. Seemed to have
been in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong company, and got swept up.’

Her spirits sank again. ‘So – no record?’

‘Sorry, no. But I can tell you he had some very nasty little chums – about as nasty as it gets. They were into all the vice stuff in the city – gambling, drugs, prostitution – you name it.’

‘But he wasn’t charged?’

‘No evidence. There was a big clampdown and he was arrested after a raid on a bar, drinking with a couple of them, but there wasn’t anything to say he was involved. Like I said, found in bad company.’

‘Right,’ Fleming said slowly. ‘Thanks, Chris, I owe you one.’

‘I’ll get them to send you on the reports, and do a bit of a sniff-around as well.’

‘Brilliant. I’ll keep you posted.’ She paused, then added lightly, ‘So, how’s life down there?’

Carter’s voice warmed. ‘Good, thanks – very good, in fact. I’m engaged now – great girl. You’d like her, Marjory.’

Fleming smiled. ‘Glad to hear it! Come up to Scotland for your honeymoon and visit us.’

‘Might do just that. Good hunting!’

She was still smiling as she rang off. Chris deserved a great girl and he’d sounded truly happy. Her mind, though, was already racing ahead.

Lack of evidence wasn’t proof of innocence. Maybe Andrew Smith had just been careful – or lucky. The sadistic manner of his death had made Campbell ask, ‘What did he do?’ Carter had just suggested what it might be.

There would be victims of the vice trade, and their relatives, who might well feel no suffering was too great. But there would also
be men, dangerous and utterly ruthless, who might feel that Smith escaping justice was unfair—

Or even, she thought suddenly, suspicious. He’s in the bar along with these guys. Suddenly it’s raided, he’s taken in along with them and then released. Could he have been grassing?

Fleming seized a pad and began scribbling. There’d be no records kept at that time, of course; a snout would just talk directly to an officer he knew, be rewarded with some greasy notes, or a promise to overlook a crime, say … And to safeguard him, they’d arrest him and then let him go. She felt a surge of excitement; she could really be on to something there. But what was the connection with this remote, all but unknown Scottish island?

Brodie? MacNee had talked of some bad stuff there. She could get him to dig about a bit. If Manchester came up with names of associates, someone would have to head down there, but right now they could find out if any Innellan residents knew Andrew Smith.

Or at least, they could ask. Finding out might be something else.

Kerr Brodie was simmering with barely suppressed fury as he left the Kirkcudbright police station, which he had attended ‘by invitation’.

That always sounded polite, but it was no tea party. He had been grilled for an hour about his past activities and his present activities and had left with the warning ringing in his ears that his future activities had better be confined to knitting and the perusal of the less inflammatory sections of the Bible, if he didn’t want to find himself with the sort of problems that would make the trials of Job look like a walk in the park.

Brodie was fairly sure the local busies were all piss and wind. They’d got nothing on him – his record was clean and better men had tried and failed to rattle him. It was his guess that now they’d put the frighteners on him they’d relax.

But even if Ogilvie hadn’t tipped him off, he’d have guessed who was behind it. MacNee would do anything in his power to destroy him, and he certainly wouldn’t give up. While MacNee had him in his sights, there’d be no chance of bringing anything in – or getting anyone out. He couldn’t keep the wretched Fergie in the bothy indefinitely.

So MacNee had to be neutralised – at least for as long as it took to call in the boat without finding a customs cutter waiting. And suddenly, as Brodie was driving back, the idea came to him. He was fishing for his mobile when it rang.

He glanced at the number. ‘Lissa,’ he said, without enthusiasm. ‘What do you want?’

There was a sort of twitter from the other end. He gritted his teeth. ‘I asked what you wanted, Lissa? Right, if it’s nothing, I’ll ring off. I’ve stuff to do.’

She had started to cry before he switched off the phone, and he grimaced. He’d begun to realise recently that he’d dropped himself right in it, there. She wanted to make it some great love affair, when it was just a sort of sly marking of his territory as alpha male. She now seemed hell-bent on creating some witless drama, without understanding that it would probably lead to them both – or him, at least – being kicked out, which would be a disaster. Lissa’s hysteria could bring everything crashing down about him. She had to be stopped.

But there were more immediate problems to deal with. He scrolled through his phone book.

‘Sammie? I’ve a job for you. Go down round the usual places and see if you can find old Davie. I’ve a wee job for him.’

Christie Jack was passing through the hall on her way to the kitchen for her tea break as the doorbell rang. When she saw two uniformed
officers on the doorstep, a sergeant and a woman constable, she was pleased at first. Admittedly, she almost said, ‘Better late than never,’ but she was inviting them in politely as Matt came through from the office, Mika as usual at his side.

The officers looked askance at the dog as Lovatt stepped forward, but it sat on command and neither said anything, though Christie noticed the constable keeping a wary eye on it.

They had come, she then realised, not to investigate the gate which had been deliberately opened, but ‘acting on a complaint from a member of the public’ about negligence in keeping dangerous animals. No, it was not policy to disclose the name.

No prizes for guessing who, though. Looking up at Matt, Christie saw his jaw tense and his face go red, apart from the burn area, starkly white in contrast. For a moment she thought he would lose it completely – she would have – but with a restraint that made her admire him even more, he said calmly, ‘Let me take you out and you can see for yourself what precautions we take. We’ve just improved the security.’

He led the way down the short drive and along the rough road by the shore, Christie beside him and Mika at his heels. The officers followed, the constable making sure she was as far away from the dog as possible.

In the field nearest the farm buildings, the red deer hinds were restless, roaming to and fro and sniffing the air, ready for mating. The barking roar of the penned stags as evening came on was so familiar to Christie now that she barely registered it, but she could never get used to the musky, acrid stench and she heard the sergeant gagging. Served him right!

Still, the separate enclosures were gravely inspected. The stags became unsettled, more aggressive – and indeed they were an alarming
sight, dripping saliva as they bellowed a challenge. Matt pointed to the heavy padlocks on the gates, and they were solemnly rattled in turn.

‘That seems quite satisfactory,’ the sergeant said. ‘Thank you, sir. We won’t take up any more of your time.’

Christie could sense Matt’s frustration, but he said, mildly enough, ‘What progress have you made about finding who turned the stag loose on Sunday?’

From the blank look on the young woman’s face, Christie guessed that she knew nothing about it; the sergeant said, indifferently, ‘I understand the injured lady doesn’t want to make a complaint, so there won’t be any follow-up. Maybe you should have installed the padlocks sooner, but—’

That was when Christie lost it. ‘
She
doesn’t want to make a complaint? Well,
I
do. I was in charge of that animal,’ she pointed towards Rudolf with a shaking finger, ‘and someone deliberately opened the gate I had shut. I had to put myself in danger to stop him having to be shot. Someone is victimising Major Lovatt. What more has to happen before you take all this seriously? Someone getting killed? And you could try looking at who’s behind it—’

‘Christie!’ Matt’s voice, the voice of military authority, cracked across her like a whiplash, stopping her in mid breath. ‘That’s enough.’

Blinded by tears, she turned away and half-ran back to the house, stumbling up the stairs to throw herself on her bed. What a fool she was, what an idiot, losing her temper when Matt was trying to keep the police onside! It made her sound hysterical and unbalanced.

And perhaps she was. Christie had been badly shaken and she was having problems again, not sleeping because she was afraid to dream.

The atmosphere in the house, too, was growing more toxic day by day. Lissa was blatantly flirting with Kerr, sometimes with a sidelong
look at Matt as if she were taunting him. She kept making sly little gibes at Christie too, the sort you couldn’t reply to without sounding oversensitive, but they were demoralising.

Christie hadn’t had a full-blown flashback for weeks now, but though she did her best to avoid the thoughts that might prompt it, she could sense them hovering in the dark recesses of her mind, along with the other things she had resolved not to think about, waiting, waiting for the barriers she had tried to put up to crumble.

‘Good news tonight,’ Fleming said as she started the evening briefing. ‘First, break-in at the off-licence. Our two prime suspects’ alibi was that they were drinking all evening at the Brig Inn in Newton Stewart along with a third, who confirmed it – except he said they were at the Masonic Arms.’

Amid laughter, she went on, ‘And curiously enough none of the bar staff in either pub remembers seeing them, so with any luck they’ll cop a plea. We’re not exactly talking master criminals here, but it all improves the clean-up rate. Well done that team.’