A Double Death on the Black Isle (37 page)

He turned down a lane with no idea where he was going.

Who could contradict her? Certainly not her husband. Was there any evidence? Any facts, as Don always said, to prove Patricia's version of events?
Nothing,
Rob thought,
not one eencyweency smidgen of a suggestion that Patricia was being anything other than truthful.
So why do I not believe her?

Rob found himself at the end of the Victorian covered arcade. He saw the station clock. He had half an hour before the trial would restart. He changed his mind about the coffee and went into the splendidly plain, unadorned—except for a wrinkled calendar featuring Castle Urquhart at sunset, tearoom in the covered market. He took a stool at the high bench in the window. He ordered a tea—perfect with bacon roll. He sat staring at the traffic, feeling vacant. When Patricia appeared, center stage, on the steps from the Station Hotel, he registered her companion.

Well, well,
he thought,
I have to hand it to you Patricia, you've managed to entice Calum Sinclair into your web.

He watched her stumble.
Deliberately
, Rob thought. He saw Calum hold out his arm for support. He saw them cross the station car park. He saw Calum hold the car door open—
nice car
, Rob noticed—and he watched, and Calum too watched, as Patricia drove away.

Rob grinned to himself. Poor man, he will never know what's hit him. Rob would love to share the incident with Joanne, but thought she would disapprove of his cynicism.

“Don, I'm taking a fifteen-minute break, that OK?” Joanne asked.

“You're a big girl now, you don't need teacher's permission.” He didn't look up from the copy he was marking.

Joanne took the flight of steps down to the Castle Street car
park. The café where she was meeting Patricia was across the road. Halfway down the stairs, she noticed Patricia climbing out of a sleek, black car.

“Hello,” Joanne called out and waved.
She's noticeably pregnant now,
she thought.

Patricia turned, saw Joanne, waved back, and waited.

“What do you think?” Patricia asked. “My new car.”

“Goodness, it's very smart,” Joanne said.
Very expensive too
, she thought. “So your mother relented at last.”

“Oh no. This car is all mine, bought with my own money.” Patricia linked arms with Joanne and, steering her across the road, said no more on the subject of the car.

They took a table in the window. A waitress, in an old-fashioned black dress and white frilly apron, appeared.

“Tea for me,” Patricia said. “Coffee makes this little fellow kick.”

“Coffee for me,” Joanne ordered. “I need it on deadline day. So, how are you keeping?”

“I'm so healthy it's ridiculous,” Patricia grinned. “Also running around like crazy. I am doing most of the work on the farm, as poor Mr. and Mrs. M. have to be here.”

“How are they coping?”

“They are coping—just. It's hard on both of them, but it's Mr. M. that I worry about. He seems so withdrawn.”

“Everything will be back to normal soon.”
What tripe you talk,
Joanne said to herself,
it will never be normal for Mr. and Mrs. Munro.

“I hope so,” Patricia put her cup down and tried to look casual, but all she managed to do was make Joanne more alert.

“I met Calum earlier this morning. He called me last night to check if Sandy and I saw anyone the morning Fraser
was killed. He had read my statement, but felt he had to ask again.”

“He is only doing his job, Patricia.”

“Exactly what I said. He's rather dishy don't you think?”

“Patricia!”

“I know. I've been a widow two months, I am five months pregnant, but I can
fancy
Calum, can't I? Like you with John McAllister?”

“Patricia!” Joanne was dismayed at the remark.
Were people talking? Had her mother-in-law heard some gossip? Was that why Bill accused her? But,
she would only ever admit this to herself,
there was something fascinating about McAllister.

Patricia grinned and sat back in the chair. “There is no harm in a private fancy.”

“You are incorrigible.” They laughed.

“Thank you, Joanne. I knew I could count on you.” She touched Joanne's hand. “That's the first good laugh I've had in a long time.”

“Me too,” Joanne smiled back.

“So, as I was saying,” Patricia was all business again, “when Calum phoned to check my statement about the morning Fraser was found, I said no, I didn't notice anything unusual. But in the wee hours—I have to constantly get up to the lavatory in the night now, I remembered. I hadn't thought of it before, it was so familiar, you don't notice.

“As we came down the driveway, I heard the rattling and at the turn into the main road, the man and his boy were there, loading the churns onto the lorry that collects the milk from the end of the farm road. I'm sure the driver will remember seeing us.”

“Patricia, you know no one would doubt your word.”

“I know. But . . .” she smiled, “I don't want Calum to have any doubts about me.”

Goodness, she is serious about him,
Joanne thought. “I'm sure he has none.” She hoped her qualms weren't obvious.

“That's what he assured me.” Patricia sighed, a deep slow soul shaking sigh. Her voice, when she spoke, was deeper, sadder, a reminder to Joanne of why they were friends.

“What a mistake I made. I should have had the courage to have a baby out of wedlock. If Sandy had lived—God, that would have been a nightmare!”

“Why did you, you know . . .” Joanne didn't know how to ask.

“‘Lie with him' as the Bible says?” Patricia giggled. “Because he asked . . . he was the first man to show me real attention. And it was fun at first . . . sneaking out . . . defying my mother . . .” She was watching out the window as passersby labored up the hill, leaning forward against the steepness of the climb. “I may not show it, but I'm really sorry Sandy died.” Her face had a faraway look. “He didn't deserve that.”

For the first time, Sandy Skinner was acknowledged in a genuine eulogy. They were quiet for a moment.

“Joanne, you remember the bedrooms in our house?”

“I remember the one I stayed in.”

“The rooms in that wing are all the same. We had them modernized three years ago.”

Joanne was wondering where this was leading.

“The plumbing was hugely expensive. We had a bathroom put in at the end of the hall, and washhandbasins in the bedrooms.” Patricia leaned across the table. “That was how I knew I could never stay married to him.” She dropped her voice. “Sandy, when he needed to go, couldn't be bothered walking twenty yards to the bathroom. He would wee-wee in the basin.”

Joanne stared, half-disgusted, half-transfixed at the information.

“I now understand why, in spite of the scandal, you left your husband,” Patricia continued. “It's all very well taking a fancy to a good-looking man, but when they are not in your social class, it can be quite confronting, can't it?”

Patricia noticed Joanne's face and realized she might have gone too far. “Joanne, no one blames you. We all know your marriage was unavoidable. You couldn't help it that your husband turned out to be a bad lot.” She glanced at her watch. “Heavens, court will be starting in fifteen minutes. We'll have to hurry.” She stood. “We'll catch up properly when the trial is over.” She dropped half a crown on to the table. “Are you coming?”

“I must call into the office first” Joanne said, making the only excuse she could think of.

“I'll see you later then. Bye-ee.” Patricia was gone in a rush of bags and coat and matronly headscarf, her bump preceding her.

It was only when the waitress asked, “Can I clear the table,” that Joanne came to. As ever, an encounter with Patricia had left her completely mystified.
What did Patricia want? Why had she made her feelings for Calum obvious? Why had she told her about Sandy Skinner's distasteful personal habits? Why were they friends?

She had no answers to all except the last question—they were friends because they had gone through ten years of schooling together. They had snuggled up together in the dormitory, two lonely little girls. As they grew older, they were drawn together when the other girls talked of missing their mothers. It was a given that one loved one's mother, but Patricia and Joanne had shared their suspicion that their mothers did not love them.

We share a loveless childhood,
Joanne concluded,
we share a history, a history longer than my marriage, that's why we're friends.

And as she climbed the steps to the
Gazette
, Joanne had trouble erasing the image of Sandy using the washhandbasin as a lavatory. Surely it was not enough to kill someone over?

She found Rob's suspicion that Patricia might be responsible for Sandy's death ridiculous. She
knew
Patricia. She was certain that Patricia was clever enough to have found a sound, legal way out of the marriage, without a stain on her reputation.

When Joanne walked in, McAllister was sitting at a typewriter in the reporters' room, the desk covered with what looked like extra large confetti.

“I'm trying to think what to lead with if the trial doesn't finish on time.” He pulled a sheet of copy paper from the typewriter and tore it in half, throwing it up in the air to fall and settle with the other discarded thoughts. “Any ideas?”

“Sorry?”

“You look away with the faeries.”

“I've been with Patricia Ord Mackenzie.” Joanne sat at her typewriter. “I know I'm being unfair, but I felt she was using me. Goodness knows why.”

“Do you feel the same when you're with your friend Chiara Corelli?”

“Kowalski now,” Joanne reminded him. “No, I don't. I always feel great after being with Chiara. She's a ray of light. We have fun. With Patricia I always feel . . .” she searched for the word, “defensive.” She looked at him. The room was too small, the spaces between the high chairs and typewriters too narrow, and he was too close.

“McAllister, I know you know I don't have a lot of self-confidence, but why do I have even less when I'm with Patricia?”

“Perhaps she's the same. Perhaps that's why she's so bossy.”

“Really?” The thought took Joanne by surprise.

“Don't ask me. I know very little about women.” He grinned. “I know newspapers though, and as we are on deadline, here's what we'll do: you spend the rest of the day in court. It should be over by this afternoon, then you and Rob can both turn in a story. I need to fill these holes here . . .” he tapped the front page, “and here.” He tapped a large space on page three of the dummy. “Rob will do the factual stuff. So, go and get me a humdinger of a story with pathos, even bathos.”

“Sir.” She clicked her heels to attention, saluted, and left.

McAllister rolled another sheet of copy paper into the monster and started to retype his editorial, grinning all the while.

Joanne spotted her mother-in-law. She had to squeeze past two stout women in slightly different shades of green. Both were in tweed skirts, twinsets, and hats with lethal hatpins—so beloved by early detective novelists—anchoring the felt creations to their skulls. Rob, in the row below, turned, grinned, and gave a wave.

“How are you, Mum?” Joanne asked.

“I'm fine. But poor Agnes is worn to a frazzle. She didney get much sleep last night.”

“It will be over soon.” Joanne patted Mrs. Ross's arm. She hated seeing Mrs. Ross shrink in the presence of the panoply of the court.

The court was told to rise, the sheriff entered, the trial recommenced.

Calum Sinclair began by calling Mrs. Munro to the stand.

“Mrs. Agnes Munro,” announced the clerk of the court. Joanne remembered him. He was the man Rob had bought his motorbike from.

Mrs. Munro took the oath then took her seat. Joanne noticed how much the woman had shrunk in body and spirit. Even sitting up straight, she was tiny in the chair.

Mrs. Ross was leaning forward on the bench, as if to catch every word and whisper and sigh. Joanne noticed that Patricia, slightly to her left and two benches down, did the same.

Calum Sinclair gave Mrs. Munro a slight smile and a nod, trying to reassure her. He hated what he was about to do.

“Now, Mrs. Munro, I want you to recall the night your son didn't return from the village.” He was trying to keep his vocabulary as inoffensive as possible.

“Yes.”

“That evening, when did Fraser go out?”

“The back o' six.”

“Did he tell you where he was going?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you who he was going with?”

“No.”

“Did you see or hear anything more of your son that night?”

“No.”

“You said you didn't see or hear anything of
Fraser
that night, but did you see or hear anyone else?”

“I heard the lads across the farmyard come home.”

“How do you know it was them?”

“Their dogs didn't bark, but mine gave a yelp or two. That's what woke me.”

“Anything else?”

“One of them, I don't know who, called out, ‘see you in the morn.'”

“Did you hear
anything
more that night?”

She hesitated, and thought. It had taken her a long time to get back to sleep, she remembered. Every whisper of wind, every move of her husband she heard, every chime of the clock in the hallway, but no sound of Fraser returning. The dogs in the big house had barked in the early hours, but they were always a bit
flighty those ones—pets, not real working dogs like the farm dogs.

“No. No, I never heard anything more that night.”