Lamb to the Slaughter (21 page)

‘Fasten your seat belt. Yes. You lied to us. And the boys you were talking to are on their way to having a police record.’

‘So put me under arrest, why don’t you?’

Breathing deeply, Marjory turned out into the main road, making herself look both ways with extra care, since in her present frame of mind she might miss a ten-ton truck bearing down on her at ninety miles an hour.

‘I’m willing to listen to a grovelling apology. Otherwise, it might be a good idea to say nothing until I’ve discussed with your father where we go from here.’

In cold silence, they drove out to Mains of Craigie.

10

‘Enjoy your fish, Mr Salaman?’ the waiter asked, stopping by the table where a young man was dining alone. Like he cared; this place was dying on its feet.

The dining-room of the country house hotel, painted in a historically authentic but oppressive deep red, was all but empty. Of the thirty tables with their crisp white cloths, shining glasses and deep red carnations, only three were occupied. Retired couples were at the other two, carrying on desultory conversations in muted, middle-class voices.

Zack Salaman looked down at his plate, an oblong plate with flared edges, on which there remained most of a sea bass, still resting on a pile of indeterminate greenish vegetables and surrounded by a pattern of drizzled balsamic ­vinegar. ‘As you see,’ he said coldly. ‘My compliments to the chef.’

Sarcastic bastard! Keeping his face studiously blank, the waiter removed the plate. ‘Thank you, sir. I’ll pass that on. Shall I bring you the dessert menu?’

Salaman shuddered visibly. ‘No. Coffee. Black.’ Then he said, ‘On second thoughts, perhaps not. Is there a decent Italian restaurant in Kirkluce?’

The waiter was tempted to suggest the chippie in Market Street which had a fine line in deep-fried pizza, but he needed the job for another few weeks. ‘I couldn’t say, I’m afraid.’

‘Is there a night porter?’ Salaman asked.

‘Not in that sense, sir. There is a key with your room key – there.’ He gestured towards the bunch of keys lying on the table.

‘Of course. I should have guessed from everything else. Perhaps you could ask your manager some time precisely how this could be described as a luxury hotel?’

He walked out. The waiter shrugged, and moved on to the nearby table where one of the elderly couples was looking on disapprovingly. The lady, with greying curls and a plump, kindly face, had finished every scrap of her Death by Chocolate in Three Variations.

‘That,’ she said, in ringing tones, ‘was absolutely delicious!’ Then, as Salaman reached the door she added, sotto voce, ‘Foreign, of course. So I suppose you have to make allowances.’

Tam MacNee had soaked up local gossip until he felt saturated. And if they didn’t let him back to work soon, he’d find himself with a drink problem as well as everything else.

He’d had no joy at the Salutation. He’d gone home early for his tea, then Bunty had wanted to bend his ear about her youngest sister – a sparky girl, and the only one of her family Tam had any time for – who was enjoying her youth rather too enthusiastically. By the time he’d given her the benefit of his considered advice (‘Och, the lassie’s fine! Leave her alone.’) and walked back to the pub, there wasn’t an officer around. Since the Salutation’s only real attraction was its proximity to the Kirkluce HQ, he drank up and left for the more congenial Cutty Sark.

He could always count on finding a few of his cronies there, but by this stage, they were reacting as if the murder investigation was one of those reality shows Bunty liked and Tam couldn’t stand: life, in his experience, was hard enough without deliberately making it worse – and if suffering was your thing, why not just follow Ayr United?

It was a waste of time, even if it was doing wonders for his aim at the darts board. He’d just decided to finish up his pint and go home to get Brownie points from Bunty for having an early night, when the door opened and to his surprise and delight, Andy Macdonald, normally a Salutation man, appeared.

‘Andy!’ MacNee hailed him. ‘You’re a stranger! What’s yours? I’m buying.’

From the expression on the other sergeant’s face, MacNee could see that Andy Mac’s sole reason for being here was a suspicion that Tam would have the Salutation staked out. He was hovering uncomfortably just inside the door.

‘I only looked in to see if Tansy was here,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘She mentioned she was going out for a drink this evening – I’d maybe better—’

‘She’s not here. I am. Pint?’

Feebly, Macdonald agreed. MacNee drained his glass and ordered two pints of Special.

‘Look, there’s that wee table by the window come free. You go and sit down and I’ll bring them over.’

With a resigned shrug, Macdonald complied, but as MacNee brought the drinks to the table, he got his retaliation in first. ‘You’re looking at me as if you’re a cat and I’m a mouse with a wee label round my neck saying, “Enjoy!”. Well, forget it. I’ve had my orders. You’re not in on this until you’ve a piece of paper signed by the doctor. It’s for your own good – and God help me if Big Marge passes and sees me fraternising with the enemy.’

MacNee sat down and took a sip of his beer, with ­exaggerated dignity, before answering. ‘Boot’s on the other foot, the way I see it.’

Macdonald looked at him narrowly. ‘You mean, you think you know something we don’t know?’

‘I never said you were stupid.’

‘And so you’re wanting something in exchange?’

‘Do I look like Santa Claus? What about it?’

Macdonald was always cautious. ‘How do you know we don’t know about what you know anyway?’

‘Oh, I know.’ MacNee sounded smug.

‘But I don’t.’ Macdonald was stubborn, too.

MacNee eyed him with considerable irritation. ‘Take my word for it – this is something you won’t even have considered. There’s only three people know the facts, and one of them’s dead. And I probably know most of what you could tell me anyway – half an hour at the bar’s enough to find out everything the polis have done today.’

‘Oh, not quite everything. Not nearly everything, in fact.’ It was Macdonald’s turn to look smug.

MacNee’s resolve to play it cool snapped. ‘Let’s cut the cackle. If I can point you in a direction you hadn’t thought of, will you tell me what’s going on?’

‘Big Marge will—’

‘Have your guts for garters. I know. But she’s not going to find out. You’re just going to come up with this brilliant new angle, suggested by a source you’re not prepared to disclose. OK?’

‘I suppose so.’ Macdonald shook his head helplessly. ‘But you go first.’

‘I’ll trust you.’ MacNee told him what Annie Brown had said about Pete Spencer’s little operation, and Macdonald pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘That certainly didn’t come our way. And he’s got form, hasn’t he? If the Colonel was planning to shop him, he’d have a powerful reason for wanting him out the way. I’ll make a point of seeing him tomorrow.’

‘Good. Now it’s your turn. I want to know about Farquharson. He’s the obvious suspect. There’s his uncle all set to refuse an offer of serious money, and with him being the heir—’

‘Ah, but is he?’

‘He isn’t?’ MacNee was startled. ‘It’s been left to a cat-and-dog home, has it? Or, wait a minute – Ellie Burnett? There was a suggestion of a bit of the hochmagandy going on with the two of them—’

‘Guess again.’ Macdonald was enjoying himself now, but MacNee gave him a look which made him say hastily, ‘All right, all right. The heir’s his grandson, Zack Salaman – a Malaysian corporate lawyer working in London. The Colonel had a bit on the side when he was serving out there in the Fifties.’

‘A
grandson
? Malaysian? So that would explain the photos!’ MacNee exclaimed. Well, well – the Colonel’s halo was fairly slipping.

Macdonald looked at him with respect. ‘How the hell did you know about the photos? You’re good, I’ll give you that.’

MacNee tapped his nose. ‘I have my sources. So, I guess he’d be the lad I saw going into the motorbike showroom this afternoon. Very slick, driving a top-of-the-range Mercedes.’

‘The showroom – Johnny Black. I wonder ...’ Frowning, Macdonald broke off.

‘Go on,’ MacNee urged him. ‘We’re getting somewhere now.’

‘We know Salaman employed a private detective from ­Glasgow to track down his grandfather, and he met the Colonel less than six months ago. He has a contact in Kirkluce, but he wasn’t willing to say who it was, or give us the detective’s name. Very touchy about it, the boss said.

‘I seem to remember Black was new to the area when I went into the showroom one day, and I know when that was, because it was just after my thirtieth birthday in March.’

MacNee grinned sardonically. ‘Checking out the Harley Davidson, were you? Feeling your youth slipping away? ­Terrible thing, old age.’

‘You should know. But someone living in London wouldn’t be thinking about buying a bike up here. So why would ­Salaman be going in there, unless it was Black who was still working for him?’

‘“Working”?’ MacNee raised his eyebrows.

‘Salaman has what sounds like a rock-solid alibi for ­Saturday night.’

‘Hmm. It would have to be worth Black’s while, though, to throw up a business in Glasgow. Otherwise, why hang around here?’

‘Exactly. It’s a nothing job in the showroom – though of course he’s got a workshop there and someone said he helps run the motocross at Ravenshill as well. We could be on to something here, Tam!’

MacNee was frowning. ‘There’s just one thing,’ he said slowly. ‘Ellie Burnett. I keep thinking she’s in this, somewhere. Have you seen her doing her singing slot here in the pub?’

‘Sure. Hasn’t everyone?’

‘There’s something about her gets to you. And this morning, when I went to the Craft Centre – oh, only as a customer, that’s all,’ he put in, in response to Macdonald’s quizzical look, ‘Black and Ossian Forbes-Graham were having a ­stramash about her. And I saw Black with her when she was singing here on Saturday night. If he’d come down on the job for Salaman, and fancied her...’

‘You believe in love, Tam, do you?’ Macdonald, heart-whole as yet, looked at him with some amusement.

There were not many people who had seen Tam MacNee look embarrassed, but it wasn’t a question he’d ever been asked before and he was an honest man. ‘Yeah, suppose so,’ was all he said. Then, ‘Bloody hell!’

His voice was drowned out by the roar of two motorbikes, racing along the High Street. As the roar faded, Macdonald said, ‘Where are Traffic when you need them? They’ll kill themselves – or someone else!’

MacNee was on his feet. ‘I think that’s trouble, and I think it’s partly down to me – at least, if they’re going where I think they are. Where’s your car, Andy?’

‘Round at my flat. Ten minutes, if we hurry. But—’

‘Never mind “but”. It’s nearer than mine. I’ll explain – I want to catch them at it, before there’s a disaster.’

Dylan Burnett hadn’t wanted to come tonight. He really envied Gordon Gloag, who could say that his father would kill him if there was any more trouble. Dylan didn’t even know where the funfair was at the moment, and anyway Jason Jamison wasn’t the type to come the heavy, given his own attitude to the polis.

Barney had been, like, mental since this afternoon. He couldn’t take anyone dissing him, and there, in front of a dozen of the other kids, a wee man half his size had made the three of them look rubbish. He’d scared them all, Barney too, even if he was trying to cover it up.

But the minute he’d gone, Barney’d started acting like it had just been a joke. Then he said, ‘I’d been kind of thinking we might hang out there tonight. Say hi to the old bag. She’s probably missing us. OK, dudes?’

That was when Gordon had said his piece and Dylan saw Barney sneer, and heard a whisper and a titter from one of the girls. So what could he do but look cool and say, ‘Sure, I’m safe.’

Later, though, he’d tried to tell Barney he was crazy. ‘That guy will get us locked up and throw away the key.’

Barney’s lip curled again. ‘Feart, are you? Away home to your mammy.’

‘No,’ Dylan protested. ‘Just, maybe, wait a bit, till he’s forgotten—’

‘Look.’ Barney’s voice was elaborately patient. ‘Let’s use some smarts here. He’ll think he’s scared us off, OK? In a few days, he might reckon we’d try it on again, that we’ll think he’s forgotten, like you said. He won’t expect it tonight. We make this the last visit, and we make it good. It’s a no-brainer. So they guess it’s us? Guess isn’t proof, when we’re long gone.’

Dylan had been worried enough to persist. ‘So she describes us—’

‘With helmets on? Do us a favour. There’s plenty guys have bikes – bet she can’t recognise the make, even. And it’s all round that we’re up for it. You want to be the one who’s chicken?’

Why hadn’t Dylan said, ‘You go yourself, if you like’? Sometimes he got the feeling Barney needed someone tagging on behind to feel comfortable, and if he didn’t agree it wouldn’t happen. But somehow he hadn’t. Barney always called the shots.

Dylan had gone home feeling a bit sick. He was scared what he’d find there too, but when he let himself into the flat his mother was in the living-room kitchen, looking sort of white and rigid, but she’d asked him what he wanted for supper, in almost the normal way. Then suddenly she said, ‘I was wondering if we could maybe find out where your dad is just now. You could go and spend some time with him.’