Bad Blood (23 page)

It was a shock to see Bill lying there, linked up to machines and drips and somehow looking smaller. Marjory heard Cat give a sharp little gasp of dismay and she found it hard herself to look suitably cheerful.

Bill, though he looked very strained and shaken, was smiling bravely. ‘Sorry about that. Must have given you a hell of a fright,’ he said, then, ‘What happened?’ He wasn’t talking about his own dramatic collapse.

‘7–3 to us,’ Cammie’s voice sounded a little flat. ‘I scored.’

His father beamed. ‘That’s my boy! All set for your full Scotland jersey in another year!’

‘Oh, we’ll see,’ was all that Cammie said and Bill looked across at Marjory with a raised eyebrow.

Cat was at her father’s side, holding his hand. ‘Don’t do that again, Dad.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘It really wasn’t a clever idea.’

‘Stupid, that’s me. But don’t worry, lassie. I’ve learnt my lesson. Maybe I should go veggie from now on, eh Cammie?’

His son managed a weak smile at the reference to his ex-girlfriend and Marjory said, ‘That might be too much of a shock to the system. But take it from me, fry-ups are out – the doctor sounded like prosecuting counsel when he asked me about your diet.’

The nurse was hovering, ready to show them out. Marjory hung back to kiss him. ‘Hope it all goes smoothly tomorrow,’ she said. ‘No more frights, OK?’

‘Piece of cake,’ Bill said sturdily. ‘The doc seems quite relaxed about it.’

‘Of course he is,’ Marjory said. Agonising wouldn’t help and with
Bill determined to keep it all low-key, the last thing he needed was her screaming hysterically, ‘It’s still an operation! I’m still scared!’ Instead, she said, ‘I love you, Bill.’

He smiled up at her. ‘Oh dear – bad as that, is it? I’ll be fine, I promise. Oh, and I love you too.’

Just as she left, he said, ‘I do feel upset about spoiling Cammie’s triumph. He seems very down – tell him we’ll celebrate once I’m home.’

‘I will,’ Marjory assured him but she had a nasty feeling that there was more to Cammie’s low spirits than just the anxiety about his father.

‘Yes, of course I can,’ DC Hepburn said when the phone call came from DS MacNee. ‘That’s awful about the boss’s husband. Do you think he’ll be all right?’

‘Can’t tell you. I only spoke to the daughter – she said Marjory couldn’t come to the phone.’

‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

She felt the fizz of excitement that made her job such a rewarding one. A last letter from the dead woman, and she was going to see it before anyone, apart from Marnie herself. She could find that she was holding the key to the whole case.

And she would have to leave her mother to do it. The fizz dispersed, leaving her with the flat feeling of misery she had been struggling with all day. The neighbourly warning had perhaps made her more alert to the signs of confusion but Fleur seemed to have deteriorated rapidly.

It was making her unhappy too, for the first time. She had fretted all day about her husband’s absence and Louise was reduced to lying that he was away on business. Perhaps she should tell her again that he was dead, but would it mean her mother reliving the shock and horror? She needed to talk to a doctor before she did that.

If she left her, might Fleur decide to wander out to look for him? She could lock the doors, of course, but what if something happened –
what if Fleur managed to set the house on fire and couldn’t escape?

Perhaps she should phone Tam MacNee and say she couldn’t manage after all, not until she could find a carer to stay with her mother while she wasn’t there herself?

Louise looked into the sitting room. The television was on and Fleur was on the couch in front of it. She looked very comfortable and peaceful and quite often she was happy to sit half-watching the screen for hours on end.

It wouldn’t take long, just to go in, hear what the letter had to say and mop up Marnie if necessary. To back out now would mean telling Tam her problem and asking for compassionate leave that, given the situation, might turn into resignation. It was a decision she wasn’t ready to take just yet.

She slipped out of the house quietly, feeling leaden with guilt. But as the miles passed and her thoughts went ahead to what Anita Loudon’s letter might tell them, the excitement began to build again.

No one seemed to be feeling chatty as Marjory drove back from Edinburgh. In the mirror she could see that Cat had again put in her earphones and had her eyes shut, but Marjory didn’t think she was sleeping. She still looked drawn and there was a little furrowed line between her brows.

Cammie had been limping as he walked to the car and the bruise on his cheek was starting to take on lurid colours. He’d got off lightly, then, Marjory reflected wryly.

‘You’ll need a long hot bath when we get back,’ she told him as Cammie winced, getting himself settled in the front seat. ‘You’ll probably have to chip the mud off – it’s set hard.’

‘Maybe I’d better just start in the sheep dip,’ he said, making an effort at humour.

‘Will you have to come back for physio tomorrow? We’ll be over to see Dad anyway.’

Cammie shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said, then lapsed into silence.

Marjory had found the journey over quite constructive for thinking about the investigation but now all she could think about was what lay ahead of Bill tomorrow, and even that was better than going back: the terrible moments when she had thought Bill was dead.

He’d always been the strong one, the one she could rely on always to be there for love and support and good common sense. She’d taken all that for granted; she hadn’t given his exceptional tiredness a thought, or his constant munching of indigestion tablets. He must have been struggling with that narrowed artery, feeling awful, and she hadn’t even noticed the warning signs. Too wrapped up in the absorbing job, of course, the vampire job that Cat – and even Cammie – felt had sucked the blood out of their family life. She felt crushed by guilt.

At last, desperate to escape her own thoughts and the oppressive atmosphere in the car, she turned on the radio. ‘Let’s get the Scottish news,’ she said brightly. ‘Maybe they’ll have a report on the game.’

Cammie agreed though without much enthusiasm and Cat took out her earpiece. Marjory half-listened to the latest spat in the referendum campaign between the Yeses and the Noes and tuned out another episode in the ongoing disaster that was the Edinburgh trams. It was only the last brief tailpiece that caught her attention.

‘
In what the Galloway Constabulary are describing as an arson attack, a cottage by Clatteringshaws Loch, near Newton Stewart, was burnt to the ground in the early hours of this morning. There were no casualties but police are appealing for witnesses.

‘
And now, sport
…’

Marjory felt the shock ripple through her. She could hear Marnie Bruce’s voice: ‘just an old cottage’ – and it was a cottage beside Clatteringshaws Loch that Karen Bruce had been living in when she’d been visiting her all those years ago.

An arson attack – someone had tried to kill Marnie Bruce. At
least they hadn’t succeeded, but would someone see to it that she was allocated some sort of protection?

Her thoughts must have shown on her face. She glanced in the mirror as she pulled out to overtake a slower car and saw Cat’s eyes on her.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said fiercely. ‘Just for once, try concentrating on your own family. Dad’s having an operation tomorrow – oh, they make it sound nothing but he’s still in danger. If you loved him you wouldn’t even be able to think about anything else.’

‘Cat, of course I feel that. But someone may be in danger—’

‘And no one else will be able to look after them – just you? Either you’re delusional or all your colleagues are incompetent. I back delusional. But you’re allowed to choose.’ She got her mother’s mobile out of her bag.

‘Here it is. Take it if you like and make your call. But I meant what I said.’ Marjory waited for Cammie to say something – anything, but he didn’t. He was staring out of the window as if he hadn’t even heard.

She bowed her head. ‘All right,’ she said.

DC Hepburn felt quite shocked when she went into the waiting room with DS MacNee. Marnie Bruce’s bright red-gold hair was dull and stringy, with a patch of frizzled ends near the front; her eyelids were heavy with purple, bruised-looking shadows and puffy with tears and lack of sleep. The room was warm but she was shivering visibly.

‘Sorry to keep you, Marnie,’ MacNee said. ‘You know DC Hepburn, don’t you? She’s brought along a couple of letters from your lawyer that we need you to read. We’ll want to read them afterwards, with your agreement.’

Marnie looked at him coolly. ‘And if I don’t agree?’

‘Then we would have to get a court order. Obviously we’d prefer not to.’

Hepburn held out the letters and Marnie looked at them incuriously. ‘Who are they from?’

‘This one’s from the lawyer, I expect.’ Hepburn indicated the typewritten one. ‘This one – it’s addressed to you in what we believe is Anita Loudon’s writing.’

Marnie’s eyes sharpened. ‘But Anita’s dead!’

‘She left this with her lawyer some time ago.’

Marnie took the letters and examined them with frustrating carefulness. Then she gave a little shrug and opened the typewritten one. She read it, then held it out to Hepburn.

‘He’s just asking to see me on Monday, that’s all. About her “legacy”, whatever that may mean.’

Hepburn glanced at it but said nothing. Marnie was examining the second letter now. She made to open it, then stopped.

She’s scared of what it’s going to say, Hepburn thought. And no wonder, with what had hit her these past few days. ‘Do you want me to open it for you?’ she said gently, but Marnie shook her head.

At last she slipped her finger under the flap, opened it and took out the letter. There were three sheets, covered on both sides in Anita Loudon’s looping writing. She read it slowly.

Hepburn found she was holding her breath. MacNee, standing beside her, shifted impatiently. Marnie read the last page then put it down in her lap.

MacNee, unable to contain himself any longer, said, ‘Well, what does it say, then?’

The woman looked almost dazed. ‘I-I don’t quite know,’ she said. ‘There’s too much …’

‘Shall I take it?’ Hepburn said softly and with a gentle, unhurried movement held out her hand.

For a moment nothing happened, and then Marnie gave a little shrug. ‘Why not?’ and handed it over.

As DC Hepburn sorted the pages of Anita Loudon’s letter into order she wondered what a graphologist would make of it: written in blue-green ink, florid, with little round circles as dots over the ‘i’s and floating ‘t’ strokes that only sometimes connected with the upright. She began to read, with DS MacNee peering over her shoulder.

There was a brief silence as the officers finished reading. Then MacNee said, ‘Right. Thanks, Marnie. I’ll leave you with DC Hepburn.’

After he had gone, Hepburn said nothing, waiting for Marnie to speak. Reading it must have been a very emotional experience and
though the prolonged silence felt uncomfortable she was determined not to break it.

At last, her voice flat, Marnie said, ‘The house – that’ll be a lot of money, right? I didn’t know about the house, I swear. I expect you’ll really think it was me that killed her, now.’

‘No, I don’t. I suppose you might have known – she could have told you she was leaving it to you when you met – but the cottage being petrol-bombed is a good indication that you’re another victim.

‘What Anita said about your mother, though – does that make you feel any better?’

Marnie grimaced. ‘Better? I don’t know. I’m not sure I can feel anything any more. She was always sort of his puppet, being jerked around. OK, he was controlling her but she let him, didn’t she? I was just … nothing.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Do you know what I wish? I wish to God I’d never started this.

‘Maybe my mother’s dead, maybe she isn’t. But Anita Loudon wouldn’t have got killed if I hadn’t come asking questions, would she, and I wouldn’t be scared to death because Drax is trying to kill me.’

‘We don’t know that,’ Hepburn pointed out. ‘There are other angles we’re checking out but what’s certainly true is that your life’s in danger. DS MacNee says you’ve refused police protection – I really think that’s crazy. You ought to take it.’

Marnie shifted restlessly in her seat. ‘It’d be like being a criminal myself, being watched – and anyway they can’t protect you all the time, can they?’

‘So what are you going to do, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ It was a wail, and then she started to cry. ‘They’ve given me a loan because all my belongings were burnt and they told me to stay somewhere nearby. But that woman from the B & B in Bridge Street put me on a blacklist and I don’t know who would take me. They’d know who I was, too, and I can’t trust anyone, can I? What am I to do? I’m – I’m scared.’

She looked so helpless! Wrung with pity, Hepburn said, ‘You could come and stay with me.’

As she said it, the advice ‘Engage brain before putting mouth in gear’ came forcibly to mind. She must be mad! If anyone got to know she’d find herself out of a job. But she’d said it now.

‘Look, perhaps this is crazy,’ she went on, not waiting for a response, ‘but that way no one would know where you were. And come to think of it, you’d be doing me a favour too. My mother’s started getting very confused and I’m worried about leaving her alone all day. Until I get proper care arranged it would be a relief to know someone was around.

‘Oh, she’s not mad or difficult or anything. She’s a really sweet person, though I have to warn you she doesn’t speak English – just French. She’s very used to people not understanding, though – she gestures and smiles a lot.’

Marnie had stopped crying and was looking bemused, as well she might. Probably reckons I’m off my head, Hepburn thought, and she could be right.

At last Marnie said hesitantly, ‘That’s – that’s kind of you. I hate taking favours, but I don’t know what else I can do. If it helps with your mum I’ll feel better.’

It was just what Hepburn had suggested and she managed to say, ‘Great!’ with suitable enthusiasm, despite a chill of foreboding. ‘I’ll just go and have a word with DS MacNee, then I’ll come and fetch you.’ Then she added awkwardly, ‘I – I won’t mention this arrangement to him. It’s just between the two of us, OK?’

‘This going to get you in trouble, then?’

Hepburn grinned at her. ‘Not if they don’t find out,’ she said cheerfully as she left.

DS MacNee was brooding over Anita Loudon’s letter in the empty CID room. From the lawyer’s date-of-receipt stamp, she’d written it
quite recently, some time after she’d made the will. Maybe she’d been thinking about it, reckoning Marnie deserved to be told – or maybe it had just been a relief to confess after all the years of living a lie.

What it definitely showed was signs she’d been beginning to crack and Marnie Bruce’s arrival would just have piled on the pressure. Did Lee know how much it was preying on her mind? Anita could even have been ready to tell Kirstie’s daughter the truth, face-to-face. If she had, and she let him get wind of it, she’d probably signed her own death warrant.

What he’d read confirmed everything he’d thought about that slimy bastard and what he most wanted to do was to get straight up there, put his hands round his throat and choke a confession out of him.

How was it that men like that got such a hold over women? There were plenty of examples – Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, just for a start. And as for an alibi – with the circles Lee moved in, that wouldn’t be hard to arrange.

But could he go and pay another visit to Zombies? Fleming had been very specific: they’d been warned off by the Cairnryan branch until further notice and he wasn’t going to kid himself that he’d win in a face-off with DCI Alexander. The letter, of course, didn’t prove anything except that Drax had escaped being charged with conspiracy to murder when he was – what, eleven, twelve? No one was going to revisit that now, especially when the witness admitting to perjury was dead anyway.

No, that was something else that would have to wait until Monday. Before he knocked off, he’d better work out a rough schedule for the team on the assumption that Fleming wouldn’t be coming in on Monday.

At least DC Ewan Campbell would be back on duty. He never said much, but when he did say something it was always to the point – and at least MacNee wouldn’t have to spend his time refereeing spats between Macdonald and Hepburn.

He was just thinking that when Hepburn herself appeared. ‘How did Marnie react?’ he asked.

Hepburn pulled a face. ‘Punch-drunk, I reckon. She was more worried than pleased to hear she was being left the house – thought we’d arrest her on sus immediately.

‘I think she’s almost past caring about her mother, anyway. By the time someone’s been murdered and you’ve only just escaped, it’s not surprising you’d kind of lose interest in tracing a mother who showed no sign of giving a stuff about you and might even have tried to kill you herself.’

‘You could say.’ MacNee sighed. ‘Has she left?’

‘She’s waiting till I come back. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to speak to her again yourself.’

‘Not much point. Where’s she going? I wish she’d agreed to protection – I’m not happy about her at all.’

‘She doesn’t want anyone to know where she is,’ Hepburn said with perfect truth. ‘Says she feels safer that way.’

‘Thought that the last time too, didn’t she?’ MacNee said darkly. ‘Anyway, that’s her choice.

‘Right, Louise, thanks for coming in. I’ll see you at the briefing on Monday. I’ll need all the help I can get. It doesn’t sound as if the boss’ll be there and Hyancinth’s off at a meeting in London so I’ve been dumped right in it.’

The Asian man came out of a fish and chip shop in Kirkluce High Street and walked back to the small grey car with the dent in the wheel arch, eating chips. He was hungry and cold and bored.

He looked over at the police station he’d been watching for hours now. He’d been starting to wonder if somehow she’d left without him seeing her, but just then he saw her coming out, with another woman, heading for the car park. He sprinted the last fifty feet to his car and jumped in, spilling his fish supper onto the seat beside him,
and started the engine. His heart was racing. He could have missed her and he dreaded to think what Drax would have done then.

He’d checked before and the exit from the car park was round the back in a quieter street; it would take them a minute to reach a car and get in, so he should be just in time to follow them.

It was starting to get dark. He turned the corner and pulled in at the side. He didn’t recognise the first car to come out but the car he’d tailed before came next, still with its courtesy light on, and before it faded he saw the driver’s red-gold hair. He smiled, waited for a moment, then eased the car out along the street behind her.

Shelley Crichton was sitting in front of the wide-screen TV in her sitting room. It was showing a manic popular quiz show but the gales of hysterical laughter didn’t bring a flicker to her face.

She was waiting for the news. She had seen it twice today already but there hadn’t been any more detail about the cottage at Clatteringshaws and when at last the bulletin came on the item had been dropped completely.

She clicked the remote to turn it off then sat, stony-faced, still staring at the blank screen. Should she just leave it now – let it drop? Or should she …

Shelley’s eyes went to the big photo that stood in a silver frame on the little table beside her chair where she could always see it just by turning her head – her Tommy, bright-faced, with that cheeky grin of his that had always melted her heart, Tommy alive.

As always, her eyes filled with tears. That girl deserved it. And then maybe her mother might learn what it felt like to lose a child.

The bed felt terribly big and empty when Marjory Fleming climbed in at night. She tried not to look at Bill’s pyjamas, folded neatly on his pillow.

She was exhausted so it should be easy enough to get to sleep, but
putting her head down on the pillow seemed to be a signal for the show to start: Bill collapsing at her feet, her own horror, the sense of panic till the paramedics arrived after minutes that felt like hours, on and on. And guilt, guilt.

She’d have nagged Bill to go to the doctor if she’d noticed something wrong, but she hadn’t. A good wife would have noticed. She hadn’t been a good wife – or mother, according to Cat.

Supposing the operation didn’t turn out to be as simple as a junior doctor thought. Supposing the worst happened – what would she have left?