Evil for Evil (8 page)

Christie’s eyes flickered over their faces, then went to his. ‘How … how do you know them?’

Macdonald winced. ‘I’m in the force.’

‘Detective Sergeant,’ MacNee put in helpfully.

‘Oh,’ Christie said flatly.

Macdonald’s face fell. ‘Let’s go and sit down,’ he suggested. ‘There’s a table over by the window.’

As they moved away, Fleming said coldly, ‘You really are a sod, Tam. That wasn’t kind.’

MacNee conceded that. ‘No, but it was kinna fun. Should have told her at the start, shouldn’t he?’ He went on sententiously, ‘
The honest heart that’s free frae a’ / Intended fraud or guile, / However Fortune kick the ba’ / Has ay some cause to smile
.’ He did just that, favouring Fleming with a choice specimen.

‘A man who threw up on a journalist isn’t in a strong position to sneer at others,’ Fleming pointed out and saw with satisfaction the smug grin disappear.

Kerr Brodie drove into the car park near Kirkcudbright harbour, looked round, and swore. His instructions had been clear enough. Where the hell was the man?

It wasn’t a good day. As if things weren’t problematic enough already, this was seriously threatening to his plans. It was tempting to drive away and leave the stupid bugger to his fate – but a loose cannon careering round the deck could sink the ship.

Ill-temperedly he parked, got out and went into a bar with a window he could watch from, but he’d finished his sandwich and almost finished his pint when a lorry drew up and a painfully skinny
young man climbed down from the cab with a bulging carrier bag in his hand, waving a thank you to the driver. As the lorry drove off, he looked round him with a sort of helpless misery.

Brodie drained his glass and hurried out. ‘What kept you?’ he snarled. ‘Get in the car. Over there.’

The youth’s face cleared. ‘Thanks, Sarge. I didn’t know what to do—’

‘Spare me.’ Brodie slammed the car door and took off almost before his passenger was inside. ‘Shut up, and take on board what I’m telling you, Crawford. It’s important. Get it wrong and you’re done.’

Crawford’s pinched face registered alarm as he listened to Brodie, but he didn’t speak until Brodie finished. Then he only said, ‘Right, Sarge.’

They drove on in silence. At last Crawford ventured, ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a smoke, Sarge?’

Brodie gave him an exasperated look, then jerked his head towards the glovebox. ‘Tin in there.’

The young man rolled a joint with shaking hands, took a long draw and sat back, his hunched shoulders relaxing as the tension drained from his slight frame.

Georgia Stanley glanced out as a large van drew up in the street outside the Smugglers Inn.

‘That’s the telly again,’ she said. ‘They’ll be thinking they live here.’

‘Right. Tam, let’s move.’ DI Fleming put down her mug. ‘I want to see this Major Lovatt anyway and clear our lines before anyone else arrives on his property. Thanks, Georgia.’

MacNee followed her out of the back door, with a glance back at Macdonald and the girl, who seemed to be having a rather stilted conversation. Outside, PC Hendry was keen to assure the boss that boats were coming from Kirkcudbright and would stand by until required. The pathologist was expected in around half an hour.

‘That’s more like it, Constable,’ Fleming said. The lad looked relieved as she turned and headed towards the house Georgia had pointed out.

It was a brisk five-minute walk away, standing on a rise above the rough farm road which skirted the shore: a substantial, white-harled
farmhouse in its own garden, a little apart from farm buildings and enclosures and with a small wood of mature broadleaves round about it. The original, more modest house had been extended with a wing at the back and spoke, if not of wealth, then certainly of solid prosperity. It was well maintained and the garden was laid out to grass and paving, to an effect undeniably more military than artistic. Near the house there was a spacious dog-run and kennel, surrounded by chain-link fencing and empty at the moment.

Matt Lovatt answered the door himself. Georgia had prepared them for his disfigurement, but even so the taut, shiny skin under his right eye distorting his cheek was shocking, perhaps partly because he would otherwise have been a good-looking man: tall, dark curling hair with a hint of a widow’s peak, very dark grey-blue eyes. Fleming found it hard to assess his age; he probably looked older than he was. He seemed surprised by their warrant cards, but waved them in without question.

The square hall was panelled in varnished pine and dark after the sunshine outside. Fleming, glancing round, encountered a pair of pale amber eyes, glowing in the light from the open door, and recoiled.

There in the shadows of the staircase was – surely not a wolf? But those eyes, slightly slanted, the ruff of silver-fawn fur, the huge feet …

‘My God!’ MacNee spoke first. ‘What the hell is that?’

Fleming sensed Lovatt stiffen and saw the creature’s ears prick. ‘My dog,’ he said flatly.

‘It’s not a dog, it’s a frigging wolf!’ MacNee exclaimed.

‘I don’t know what his father was. His mother was a German Shepherd of sorts.’

The Wild Animals Act, 1976 – the words hovered in the air. Fleming said, ‘A hybrid? Do you have a licence, sir?’

‘I have no reason to suppose the father was a wolf.’ Lovatt was
defensive. ‘Look, Inspector, I was in Bosnia with the army. This stray came into the camp and produced pups, two of them, and she died along with the other one. I raised this fella myself.’

The dog, sensing it was being talked about, moved to stand beside its master and Lovatt fondled its head.

‘There are plenty of dogs like this around the Bosnian villages. OK, he could be second-, third-generation wolf – how would I know? Maybe more. The point is, he’s domesticated, he’s intelligent, he’s extremely well trained.’ At a hand gesture, the animal sat.

Lovatt was clearly familiar with the legislation. First-generation wolf, licence needed. Second generation, fine.

‘How did you get it into the country?’ Fleming asked, and saw his face take on a wary look.

‘I spent a bit of time in France. He was quarantined there and came over on a pet passport.’

‘Vouched for by an army vet, do I take it, sir?’ Fleming’s tone was dry.

‘As it happens, yes.’ Lovatt met her eyes squarely.

‘I see. Well, Major Lovatt—’

He interrupted her. ‘I don’t use the rank. I prefer Mr or Matt – that’s fine.’

‘Mr Lovatt, then. I’ve seen the provision for the dog as we came in and I believe it would comply with the regulations anyway. I take it there have been no complaints?’

‘No,’ he said firmly.

‘Then I think we can leave it at that.’

Fleming noticed the dog’s pricked ears relax even before the man nodded and said, ‘So what can I do for you, Inspector?’

The door was standing open on a room looking out over the bay, and she could see chairs and sofas. ‘May we …?’

As she spoke, a door at the back of the hall opened and a woman appeared. She was slightly built, with long dark hair, pale-blue eyes and an air of helplessness.

‘Matt, I need you,’ she said.

Lovatt turned with evident irritation. ‘What’s the matter, Lissa? I’ve got people here—’

‘It’s the jelly.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s not gelling – it’s all runny. I need you to come and see …’

‘I can’t come just at the moment,’ he said with elaborate patience. ‘I’ll come when I’ve finished here – all right?’

She gave him a tragic look. ‘Oh, I know. It’s not important, is it? Fine.’ She drifted back through the door under the stairs.

Fleming blinked. Wow! Straight off the ‘passive aggressive’ page in the psychology textbook. Still, not her problem. She followed Lovatt into the sitting room.

It was a big, square, very traditional room – fireplace in the middle of the wall opposite the door, double sash windows across the front of the house – and very traditionally furnished and decorated too. The deep sofa had chintz covers in a Jacobean print and there were armchairs and occasional tables which were definitely antique. The Regency-striped wallpaper, celadon green and gold, was faded and rubbed in places, with darker patches where pictures had once hung. It was a functional, indeed comfortable room, but clearly one which had not benefited from recent attention.

On the to-do list, perhaps, Fleming reflected. Setting up a deer farm couldn’t be cheap and there would be other priorities. Running it as a sort of unofficial charity, as Georgia had told them he was, wouldn’t help cash flow either.

MacNee was asking him about the island, and Lovatt looked puzzled.

‘Yes, I’m over there most days – if not me, then Kerr Brodie who is … well, my foreman, I suppose you could call him. We’ve fallow deer over there.’

‘Ever been in the cave round the back of the island?’

Fleming eyed Lovatt narrowly. The rigidity of the damaged side of his face made for a certain lack of expression, so it was hard to be sure, but she couldn’t see any sign of sensitivity to the question.

‘The little cave? I took a boat in once, shortly after we got here, but it’s not much of a cave really, just a hollow in the rock face.’

‘Didn’t notice anything?’

Fleming stepped in as Lovatt shook his head blankly.

‘Mr Lovatt, I understand you inherited from your grandmother. Did you visit regularly?’

‘Well, no. My parents divorced when I was young and my mother never got on with her. I don’t think there were even childhood visits, unless I was too young to remember.’

‘So the first time was after she died?’

‘Yes. The will, frankly, was a shock. I knew my father came from Scotland and nothing else. But I was just coming to the end of my commission and I’d always wanted to farm – perhaps it’s in the genes.’

‘And your father – would he have expected the farm to come to him?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps, but we’re not in touch – I lived with my mother and they were estranged. But can I ask what all this is about?’

Fleming gave him the bald facts, and he looked amazed.

‘And it’s been there for years? It was there when I went into the cave?’

‘We’re not in a position to say just yet. But depending on the tide it was above eye level, so it certainly could have been. You have no idea who might have had access in past years?’

She wasn’t hopeful of an enlightening answer and she didn’t get one. ‘Anyone with a boat,’ he said, and she knew that already.

‘Tell me about Brodie,’ MacNee said suddenly. ‘How did you come to employ him?’

‘Kerr? He was in the regiment. NCO, short-service commission. Stood on a landmine a month before he was due to leave. Unbelievable bad luck. Then when I was setting up here I talked to a vet who pioneered deer farming in Scotland, and when he told me about the research showing that shooting the animals on site was more humane than sending them off for slaughter, I thought of Kerr Brodie immediately. Handy man with a gun, Kerr.’

‘I can imagine,’ MacNee said dryly and Fleming looked at him sharply. There was something about the way he said that …

‘He was at a pretty low ebb,’ Lovatt went on. ‘But this place helped him, like it helped me. And he helped us – Lissa and I both have had …’ he hesitated, ‘Well, problems of one sort and another. Kerr’s been very helpful in the past.’

In the past? Fleming noted the curious phrase, but said only, ‘And you’re giving a chance to other soldiers, I hear.’

He looked awkward. ‘Oh, well – we can manage one, or perhaps two – and of course they help round the farm. I just hope the TV interview won’t raise expectations we can’t fulfil.’

‘The television people are back today again, which may be even less welcome.’ Fleming got to her feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Lovatt. There will be officers dealing with the situation on the island, but they shouldn’t have to trouble you here.’

As they walked back towards the inn, Fleming said, ‘What did you make of him? Seemed straightforward enough.’

MacNee was more cynical. ‘Oh, an officer and a gent, no doubt. They’re always so good at the surface stuff you never get to see what’s
underneath. And if he’s a pal of Kerr Brodie’s,’ he almost spat the name, ‘you’d better count your fingers after shaking hands.’

So she’d been right: there was some sort of history with this man. But with TV cameras and some obvious reporters waiting around the inn, it wasn’t exactly the moment. Fleming groaned.

‘The vultures are gathering. Take a deep breath, Tam, and count to ten before you open your mouth.’

He muttered something about whisky and facing the devil – Burns, presumably, but she didn’t stop to listen.

There was something mesmeric about driving at speed up the sweeping northern motorway, the traffic thinning as she crossed into Scotland and on through the brooding moorlands of the Borders. Elena Tindall had the car radio on but lost in her own thoughts she was hardly aware of it.

Until the news bulletin. She gasped. It couldn’t be! Not now! The car behind her blared its horn as she suddenly slowed down. Shaking, she got out of its way and it flashed past her with another angry blast.

She drove on in the inside lane until she reached a lay-by, then pulled in thankfully. She collapsed over the steering wheel, dizzy with the thoughts whirling in her head.

It was so cruel, when she had at last a chance of healing the wounds that had tormented her for so long, when she had everything in place and her way clear. To abandon it now …

But why? The question came from somewhere in that steely core that had saved Elena from going under long ago. It needn’t matter; viewed from another angle it could even be an advantage.

She still felt shaky, but she sat up and started the car again. All she needed to do was stay calm and confident.

Christie Jack walked back from the pub in a thoroughly bad mood. Andy Macdonald had apologised for his deception several times while she assured him it didn’t matter – which wasn’t true – until at last she snapped, ‘Look, let’s talk about something else, OK? Why are your pals here anyway?’

Once he’d told her about the skeleton on her lovely island, which she’d have preferred not to know, the conversation stalled. It got stickier and stickier until at last she’d finished her drink and could leave.

Oh, it wasn’t that she’d any particular problem with the police. Some of her own early experiences had been, well, unfortunate – Andy must somehow have picked up on that – but she’d been in the army since and her attitude to authority had changed. His job was like any other – you got good cops and bad cops. There’d been some right psychopathic bastards in the army.

Christie just couldn’t take being conned. He’d sized her up and decided to deceive her. Maybe he’d reckoned once she got to know him she’d be too charmed to walk away, or maybe he wasn’t planning to be around long enough for it to matter. Either way, it wasn’t a good start. In any case, right now she wasn’t looking for involvement with anyone. Anyone else.

Not that Christie was what you could call ‘involved’ with Matt Lovatt. He treated her like just another army comrade, and sometimes she wondered if he even noticed she was female. A couple of times, though, they’d really connected and he’d laughed like she’d never heard him laugh before.

It had been just hero worship, a teenage-type crush on this really great guy. Even though he and Lissa slept in separate bedrooms – separate wings, in fact – how their marriage worked was none of her business. Maybe he snored. Or she did.

But then, last night …

Last night, Christie had come home late from the pub. She’d enjoyed talking to Andy; she hadn’t talked and talked that way since she left the army and she was high on the unaccustomed pleasure. Her head was buzzing and there was no way she could sleep until she’d come down.

She went to sit at her bedroom window, as she often did, looking out over the bay towards the islands. The moon had gone down and as the Innellan street lights went out the night sky suddenly become a pitch-black background to a million million stars. Yet even with that deep peace, broken only by an occasional startling bellow from a stag, Christie’s mind was still sparking and fizzing.

Tea – that was the answer. She’d make a cuppa – and grab a biscuit or two as well. It was a long time since supper. She opened her door, then heard another door being quietly opened. She drew back, closing hers over, and swore silently.

That would be Lissa. She and Christie had the only two bedrooms to the front of the house; Matt’s was in the wing towards the back, up some stairs which came off the landing on the main flight, and Kerr had a bedsitter and bathroom on the ground floor, near the kitchen.