Evil for Evil (6 page)

Andy Macdonald heard the shot too as he walked along the shore on the mainland opposite Lovatt Island, ostensibly having an aimless stroll. He glanced about but wasn’t sure of the direction. The sound wasn’t unusual around here anyway – someone out potting rabbits, probably.

It was years since he’d come down to Innellan, but here he was walking in the footsteps of his childhood self. Every picture told a story: the little cove where they’d managed to swamp the boat; the rock he’d jumped off for a dare and broken his arm; the beach where his ten-year-old self had made a first incompetent attempt at kissing a girl, and got roundly slapped … He smiled as the memories flooded back of those holidays in the family caravan with the gang of other kids who were all but feral by the time the summer was over.

The other guys were still asleep. There’d be sore heads later when they surfaced, but Andy’s head was clear enough. He’d spent the evening talking to Christie while they got on with the solid boozing;
he’d had to take relentless ribbing afterwards but he didn’t care.

She intrigued him. His own job as a police officer had its dangers – last year’s tragedy had been a stark reminder of that – but hers, living with the immediate certainty that people were trying to kill you, demanded a whole different order of courage. And the working conditions: forty degrees heat, no proper accommodation and no proper showers –
no showers!
– for days on end. In a way that seemed almost worse. You’d develop techniques for blanking out danger, but keeping up morale while being sticky and stinking was something else.

Christie had talked compulsively about her army experience, but an innocent question about her background had been stonewalled. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. It wasn’t great’ was all she said and Andy had changed the subject immediately.

She’d said something earlier, though, about the army having ‘saved’ her, a phrase which in his experience often indicated a brush with the law. So when she asked what he did, he said he worked in public service. It was an evasion he sometimes used – not exactly untrue and sounding so boring that follow-up questions were rare. There’d be time enough to confess if the relationship developed. He was hoping it would.

The only thing was, she’d been evasive herself about meeting again. Christie would be working, and when he suggested dropping by the farmhouse she’d recoiled. It wasn’t her house, she was just a guest, she didn’t know when it would be suitable – excuses, excuses. She might perhaps be in the pub at night, if Matt didn’t need her.

There was something about the way she said ‘Matt’ … Andy knew little about the man, except that he’d inherited from his grandmother. And that he was married.

He’d had a starring role in Christie’s conversation – generous,
sensitive, courageous. One of the youngest ever majors in the British Army. It was hero worship, certainly, but her disparaging tone when she mentioned Lovatt’s wife made Andy wonder if there was more to it than that.

He wasn’t about to back off, though. Dogged by nature, he was dogged by training now too and he was scanning the sloping fields above the shore as he walked in the hope of seeing her. It seemed strange to see deer browsing where there had always been cattle – the little black-and-white-belted Galloways, alarmingly fierce with kids who took liberties when there were calves around.

And there was Christie now, coming down one of the higher fields towards a gate. She was holding a basket of potatoes, shaking it temptingly, while behind her, and towering over her, stalked a huge stag, his head crowned with majestic antlers. There was terrifying power in that massive frame.

Andy caught his breath. Neither Christie nor the animal had seen him, and he was afraid to move. Even if it seemed to have little interest in anything apart from the potatoes, there was no saying how it would react to the arrival of a stranger. From a distance he admired the magnificent beast: the summer coat glinting red in the sunlight, the creamy underbelly and scut, the bristle of mane down the back of that powerful neck.

They were nearer the farmhouse now and Christie was leading the stag into one of three paddocks enclosed by planking, laying a trail of potatoes and watching patiently as his greed betrayed him, until she could slip through the high gate and secure it. Andy saw the stag look up and then as if in defiance give a rasping roar.

He hailed Christie just as she turned and saw him. ‘Well done! That looked a bit scary.’

She waited for him to reach her. ‘Only looked,’ she said. ‘Rudolf’s
a pussycat really. Hand-reared, and he’d sell his soul for a potato. But the rut’s starting and then the stags get seriously unpredictable. I wouldn’t be doing this once he gets wound up by being beside his rivals.’

Andy was interested. ‘I’ve heard that roaring a few times since we came down yesterday.’

‘They’ll be doing that night and day soon, challenging each other and announcing to the hinds that they’re ready to mate. We’ve three stags. They’ve to be separated or they’ll fight. There’s a fallow buck on the island too, but he hasn’t any rivals so we can just leave him to it.’

Deer husbandry had its limits as a topic of conversation. ‘What about you today?’ Andy asked. ‘Any chance of meeting me at the pub for lunch?’

Again Christie seemed hesitant. ‘Kerr’s going off to Kirkcudbright later. I’m not sure – Matt’s bringing in the other two stags that aren’t so tame. I should probably hang around—’

‘Just a drink? Half an hour?’ Andy persisted.

‘Well, I could ask, I suppose. I wouldn’t like to stand you up, but if I’m needed …’ She shrugged.

‘OK. I’ll hope for the best.’

She headed towards the farmhouse. Andy walked slowly back to the caravan site.

Why hadn’t he just told her not to bother? There were plenty of eager girls around; he’d never wasted time on reluctant ones. Until now.

‘What’s all this about, anyway?’ DS MacNee looked at the dead doe, neatly shot in the head, its eyes glazing over. ‘Have you a licence for that thing?’ He pointed to the rifle.

Kerr Brodie looked at him coldly. ‘Of course. This is part of my job – slaughtering deer.’

MacNee eyed him in genuine horror. ‘By
shooting
them?’

‘It’s the kindest way. This one never knew what hit it, and the others paid no attention. You coming blundering up scared them a lot more. Try loading them in a van, taking them to the abattoir – they’re terrified.

‘So like I said, what are you doing here, MacNee?’ He was bristling like a dog ready to defend its territory.

‘Crime scene,’ MacNee said laconically, and watched with interest the other man’s sudden stillness.

‘Crime scene? What’re you talking about?’

‘Body in the cave down there.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Know anything about it?’

‘No, of course not. Whose body?’

‘Ah well, that’s just a wee bit hard to say. It’s got no clothes on.’

‘A naked body?’

‘Not exactly.’ MacNee was playing with him. ‘It’s not got any flesh on either. Just bones.’

Brodie gave him a look of disgust. ‘You’ve not improved, MacNee. But then I never thought you would.’

‘Our ways parted a long time ago. You picked yours, I picked mine. And it’s my job now to ask you some questions. How long have you lived here?’

‘Two and a half, nearly three years.’

‘Visited, before that?’

‘Never even been to the area till Major Matt set up the deer farm. Knew me from the army, offered me a job when he heard about this. Bosnia – landmine.’ He pulled up the leg of his trousers to give MacNee a view of his artificial leg.

He made no attempt at conventional sympathy. ‘Lucky to get a job, then.’

‘Aye.’

‘Your gun skills coming in useful too.’

Brodie’s eyes hardened. ‘I don’t know what you mean, MacNee.’

‘Aye, do you!’ There was real bitterness there.

‘It’s a long time since Glasgow. And it was your word against mine.’

‘Mine was the truth, Brodie.’

The man gave a snort of impatience. ‘If there’s nothing else you want to ask in your official capacity, I’ve work to do even if you don’t.’

There was a small tractor with a forklift, MacNee now noticed, parked nearby. As Brodie broke his gun and limped towards it, he called over his shoulder, ‘See much of your da these days, MacNee?’

MacNee’s hands balled into fists at his side. It was an effort to turn away, but if he didn’t, Brodie would succeed again in what he’d been trying to do since they were scruffy kids living on the same stair of a Glasgow tenement – provoke MacNee into doing something he’d later regret.

He turned his back and went to sit on a rocky outcrop looking over towards Innellan, brooding.

Marjory Fleming was in an embittered mood too as she drove down the single-track road which led only to Innellan and the sea. Cat wouldn’t even kiss her goodbye and the worst thing was that Fleming knew there was no real operational need for her to be here – just a cosmetic job, because of the reports that would appear in the media if she didn’t, with a journalist there on the spot. She’d suffered at the hands of the press before and she was conceiving a violent dislike already for this particular representative of the breed.

She’d arranged for the pathologist, photographer and scene of crime officers to be summoned – though how, precisely, you were to secure a crime scene and carry out an effective investigation in a sea cave, and what you could hope to learn from it after so much time had clearly passed, was a whole other question. But at least that was their job, not hers.

Maybe this was a local missing person and it would all be straightforward. She certainly hoped so, since otherwise you were talking DNA analysis and dental records and forensic anthropology, and with no immediate urgency this would go right down to the bottom of the list. It could take weeks to have any hope of ID, and of course, estimates of time of death would be in years, not hours. They wouldn’t get that information quickly either.

The only upside was that the press was always impatient. If there was nothing immediately, the story would go cold. Fleming’s main task today would be to quash expectation.

When she reached the Smugglers Inn she was surprised not to find MacNee there to greet her, only an embarrassed-looking young constable and the journalist who took pleasure in describing her colleague’s problems.

Eying the distance between island and shore, Fleming felt the irritation of the good sailor who sees
mal de mer
as something of an affectation. Presumably MacNee hadn’t done it deliberately, but really! The press was ready enough to mock the police, without making them a present of choice material.

There was no alternative to accepting Drummond’s offer to take her across to see for herself, then bring back MacNee. PC Hendry was dripping around like a wet sheet, the concept of initiative being clearly foreign to him. Muttering under her breath, Fleming sent him to investigate boat hire. A fushionless gomeril, as her mother would say.

Still, at least on the trip out she could fill in on background. She didn’t know this area, and since Drummond lived here, he should be a good source. Journalists always knew the dirt and he might be persuaded to dish it.

It was, at least, a glorious day, with the sea deep blue and sun sparkles on the waves. As they headed out into the bay, a flight of Manx shearwaters came past, skimming the surface on stiff wings and Fleming had to stifle a cry of delight. This wasn’t a trip round the bay on the
Nancy Belle
.

‘Is Lovatt one of the National Trust islands?’ she asked.

According to Drummond, it wasn’t. The Matt Lovatt who owned it was a relatively recent arrival, from England somewhere. Fleming’s knowledge of decomposition was sketchy, but she would hazard a guess that if he’d only appeared three years ago he could have nothing to do with the case, though she’d have to interview him as owner of the property.

Drummond was more than ready to outline Innellan society. ‘There are two families of incomers living here year round – we’re one of them,’ he said, pointing out a newish house on rising ground above the village. ‘It was dirt cheap, fantastic views, great place for a kid to grow up and as long as you don’t expect any contact with the locals beyond good morning if they’re in a particularly loquacious mood, that’s fine. Suits us – my wife and I both work, the kid’s at school all day.

‘What can I say about the natives?’ He shrugged. ‘Scrambled ashore when the Ark grounded, I reckon. Intermarried, naturally – you never say anything about anyone because they’re all cousins. And if you’re going to be wanting information from them, I can only say good luck. If they think – rightly or wrongly – that one of their own might be involved, you’d get more out of a chat with the deceased.

‘And you’d have to think it would be a local crime, wouldn’t you?’ he asked innocently.

Fleming gave a non-committal smile. ‘No comment,’ she said.

‘Just thought it was worth a try.’ He made a rueful face.

Rather against her will she found herself warming to him. ‘How’s your son? Must have been an unpleasant experience for him.’

‘Better in the daylight. What it’ll be like tonight, goodness knows. He’d got hold of ghost stories from somewhere which has made it all worse.

‘It is a bit macabre, mind you. See for yourself.’

They were round the seaward side of the island now and he throttled back the engine as he steered the boat into the mouth of the cave.

It was dim inside even on this bright day and their eyes took a moment to adjust. The tide was higher now and the ledge was just above their heads. As Drummond swung the torch around Fleming felt a twinge of sympathy with Tam as her own stomach turned. Not at the clean bones, no, but at the hideous reality of the torment those clamps represented. How long had it taken him to die – days, a week, straining, lacerating himself, screaming unheard, with the heavy watch on that painfully suspended wrist marking the slow excruciating hours? If the place was haunted by a restless ghost it would hardly be surprising. What sort of monster could inflict this sort of torture?