Cold in the Earth (37 page)

It had been Fleming herself who had broken the news to Max of the finding of the body in the field; she would still swear that he believed it to be his mother’s. She had written ‘Reaction: immediate – cold triumph; delayed – grief.’ He’d said, she remembered, ‘I knew he’d killed her. She’d never have left me like that.’

And there was, too, the undeniable fact that Max was the person who had authorised the field being dug up for a burial pit. He could have easily objected without arousing suspicion: Laura had heard the conversation and said he hadn’t. Fleming added ‘Check with MAFF’ and another red circle, but she didn’t think they’d tell her anything different.

Conrad was the one who had objected strongly, Conrad with his moods and his violent temper. She’d seen it herself; looking back to that extraordinary disciplinary meeting, remembering the knitted brows, the contorted expression and the clenched fists, she wondered if he had been struggling then to control one of the transformations Laura had described, and had only just managed to pull himself back from the brink. He had been exhausted afterwards, sweating and strange.

She shuddered, thinking of those powerful hands. What might have happened to her, if . . .

Yes, there could be no doubt that Conrad fitted the profile Laura had outlined. She’d mentioned problems with close personal relationships: Conrad was notorious for having a string of girlfriends and never keeping any of them. And his relations with his mother, too, were clearly far from easy.

‘Faulty relationships’ appeared against Brett’s name too, though, and it was hard to imagine that the egotistical Max’s interactions would be anything other than superficial. Which, of course, brought her round full circle.

Then, too, there was the bellowing Laura had talked about. Fleming hadn’t allocated that to any of the names on the page. Not that she disbelieved Laura; she was sure she’d heard something but was sceptical about what it might have been. A girl who’d never lived in the country wouldn’t confidently be able to identify natural sounds; hear a vixen calling and you’d swear someone was being murdered. And footprints, in what was more or less a lay-by on a narrow country road, weren’t conclusive either. Still, she added ‘Bellowing?’ and sat back, tapping her pen against her teeth.

At last she wrote in the small space left at the bottom of the page, ‘Gut reaction: CM. Analyse all interviews. Word-check reports for mentions.’ She outlined it in red, then sat back. She had enough to be getting on with, and presenting herself as taking a cool, cautious approach to the informal evidence James Macdonald had given her might do something to placate Bailey.

After all, with Laura safely at Mains of Craigie and probably doing far more good to Bill than she could herself, there wasn’t any reason, either operational or personal, to make waves about a few days’ delay on a fifteen-year-old case.

‘Will you be wanting to head back now, Bill? We’ve had a good walk.’

Hamish wasn’t looking for a reply; Bill had made no response at all to the other farmer’s occasional remarks about the weather and the scenery. The most he expected was a shake of the head or perhaps a silent turn in the direction of home.

But Bill said, ‘No.’ Then, with difficulty, ‘This – is good.’

‘Well, that’s rare! Good man! On we go, then.’

The sun was making a brave attempt now; there was even a patch of watery blue the size of the proverbial sailor’s trousers appearing as they set off again up the stony slope of the hill ahead, Meg describing ever-widening circles around their path.

22

A door to the right of the hall was standing ajar. Laura found herself pushed through it, into the long, low sitting-room which ran from front to back of the house, and flung violently into one of the armchairs by the side of the fireplace. There was a pile of accumulated wood-ash from long-dead fires; tiny flakes rose like a puff of smoke as the air was disturbed then floated down again to settle on the dusty surface of a side-table.

He stood towering over her, not touching her but by his physical presence making it an act of intimidation. He was shouting at her, roaring almost, so that the words were indecipherable, a jumble of sound.

She’d never realised before how bull-like he was. Or – her heart missed a beat – had he
become
more bull-like as she watched? His shoulders seemed to swell as he tossed his head back and forth, his eyes were bulging and his hand went to tear the fabric of the black polo-neck sweater he was wearing, as if some expansion of his massive neck made its constriction intolerable. He opened his mouth wider so that looking up from below she could see his open throat. He bellowed.

Laura had heard that sound before, echoing eerily outside on a winter night. Then, when she was safely behind walls, it had scared her. Now, the power of the sound alone was physically distressing and as he lowered his head and stooped so that his arms, clenched into fists, came below his knees, she gave a sob of terror.

He swung away, breathing stertorously, snorting, almost, as he began to pace up and down the length of the room, faster and faster. He seemed to be working himself into a frenzy, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. He began to trot, turning at each end with a swivelling movement of his haunches. As a bull would.

Her heart was pounding now. Perhaps she would die of fright before the charge came, before that powerful head smashed the bones of her face – a hundred gothic tales, a hundred horror films clawed at her mind.

But even in the grip of panic, an inner voice made itself heard above the thundering of her heart and the superstitious clamouring of her imagination:
They aren’t true. It doesn’t happen. He only thinks it does. He’s a man with a mental problem, like your patients. You know what to do. It’s your job.

And then there was another voice, repeating the advice she’d been given at the Women’s Refuge, long ago in another world:
Make like you’re big and calm.
It had worked when she’d braved women’s partners who were maddened by drink or drugs or anger, or all three. To look small and vulnerable was always to invite disaster, but even so, standing up now was probably the bravest thing she would ever do.

Keeping the movement controlled and unhurried she raised herself from the chair. ‘Conrad!’ She spoke in a voice of calm authority. ‘I’m calling you back. The bull is leaving you now. Leaving you.’

He didn’t react to her change of position or to her voice; at first she thought he was oblivious to anything but his mania. Then his bloodshot eyes rolled towards her and his pace faltered.

Her voice monotonous, hypnotic, she went on talking. ‘I can see you again now, Conrad, the bull has gone. It’s all right. Gone, Conrad, gone. It’s all right.’ Again and again, for what seemed an eternity, she repeated the soothing phrases until at last he stood still, shaking and twitching, his head lowered like a bull in the ring, weakened physically and mentally and awaiting the
coup de grâce
.

Still she talked. At last he raised his head and shook it, looking about him as if he barely recognised his surroundings. ‘What – what did I do?’ he muttered thickly, then he collapsed to begin banging his head against the floor. Laura could smell his acrid sweat – the smell of fear – and he started to cry like a child, huddling himself into a foetal position.

She was aware, suddenly, of sharp pain. She looked down at her hands and saw the half-moon shapes of her nails, dug so far into her palms that some were filling with blood. She took a shaky breath as she looked down at the man who had inspired such fear, pitiable and helpless as he lay at her feet. She wasn’t afraid now.

‘Conrad, did the bull kill my sister?’

‘I – I don’t know.’

‘Did he want to kill me?’

‘You told – you told,’ he said brokenly. ‘I was angry. You liked Max – you didn’t want me. She didn’t either. I don’t know –
I don’t know!
’

The anger was still there. She was taking no chances. ‘I’ll get you a drink of water,’ she said, walking confidently to the door and resisting the temptation to look nervously back over her shoulder.

At last the solid wooden door was shut behind her with the old-fashioned key turned in the lock. There was a phone in the kitchen; she dialled 999, delivered her message with calm precision, put down the phone and realised that her legs were buckling. She collapsed into the sagging chair by the Aga and even when she heard the sirens twenty minutes later couldn’t summon the strength to get up.

They found him asleep. They led him past her, handcuffed, but he didn’t turn his head to look towards her as he shambled out. Laura’s eyes followed him with sadness and pity and – yes, even regret.

There was only one thing Donald Bailey disliked more than being wrong and that was someone else being proved right, but even for the sake of diplomacy and their future relations, there wasn’t anything Marjory Fleming could do to fudge it.

‘We’ve charged him with assault and breach of the peace for a start. We’re not ready to detain him for questioning on the murder charge as yet, because of course the minute we do the clock’s running and we’ve only six hours before his brief can roar in breathing smoke and demand we either press charges formally or drop them. And it’s not as if we don’t know where to find him.

‘He’s not exactly denying that he killed Diana Warwick, anyway. He keeps saying he doesn’t know, it was the bull not him.’

Bailey groaned. ‘Should he be sectioned?’

‘The police surgeon’s checking him over now, but he’s rational enough at the moment and he’d hardly be the first killer to use insanity as a defence. I’ve put him on suicide watch, though – he’s utterly humiliated.’ He had presented a pathetic figure when she interviewed him, a bully whose bluff was called, even looking physically diminished as he sat slumped over the table in front of him.

‘Dear, dear. It’s a bad business. Promising young officer, too.’

She didn’t correct him. ‘Can I take it we can apply for a search warrant? We’d want to take away the computer, for a start.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Bailey said testily. ‘Obviously. I’d better alert the Chief Constable to the probability of another complaint. I simply shudder to think of his mother’s reaction. Has she been informed?’

‘Not so far. I gather they’re drawing lots downstairs for who’s to do it and who’s going to ride shotgun.’

This was what was known as the bad method of attempting to lighten the atmosphere, she reflected a moment later, as the joke backfired.

‘Yes, it’s going to be a very delicate business. In fact,’ Bailey said with a wintry smile, ‘I think you should go yourself, Marjory. That way, I can assure the CC that we’re taking all possible steps to treat this sensitively. All right?’

He rose and went to the door to hold it open for her. As she went out, Fleming consoled herself with the thought that if this was his pay-back for her being right, at least her penance would be over and done with by tea-time.

And she’d take Tam with her. Why should she suffer alone? After all, he’d been right too.

‘As a reward, I’ll let you have a free quotation, if you can think of one,’ Fleming said as they drove along the all-too-familiar road to Chapelton. MacNee, having been lucky in the previous lottery, had been loud in his complaints against the injustice of it all.

He sighed.

‘May coward shame disdain his name,

The wretch that dare not die,’

he quoted lugubriously.

Fleming laughed. ‘What do you think she’ll say, Tam?’

‘It’s not what she’ll
say
that’s bothering me. It’s what she’ll
do
. It’s all right for you – you’re bigger than me. But I’m only a wee fellow.’

‘And delicate with it. Your douce nature’s a by-word down the nick. But seriously, it’s going to be a terrible shock for her.’

‘Unless she knew.’

Fleming shot him a look. ‘Knew?’

‘Well, you’d think if your son was charging around going off his head and bellowing, you’d maybe notice.’

‘Right enough.’ She was much struck by this idea. ‘But you’d cover up for him, even so?’

‘I can’t see her being fashed about anything except what suits him.’

‘And she’d be bothered about herself too, Tam. I’d a pretty clear impression from Conrad about the demands she made on him. She had the money and she used that to jerk him around.’

‘He’s like a puppet with his strings cut, the now. I even feel kinda sorry for the guy.’

‘Hasn’t had much of a life, it seems to me. Laura says people with delusions like his often sort of use the animal personality to express what they daren’t themselves. And even now, when he’s at rock bottom, you can see how angry he is.’

MacNee shook his head. ‘Weird. So – if you were an animal, what kind would it be?’

‘A dog. I’d take people in my teeth like rats and shake some sense into them.’ It came out without reflection; she was taken aback herself. ‘I don’t know where that came from,’ she admitted awkwardly.

‘Aye, well. Not surprising, maybe.’ MacNee waited, but she didn’t choose to elaborate and a few minutes later they turned in at the Chapelton sign.

As she stood on the doorstep, Fleming squared her shoulders in preparation for the ordeal ahead and she noticed that MacNee, after he had rung the doorbell, did the same. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, it would be Max Mason who would answer the door and they could legitimately delegate the task of breaking the news to his aunt . . .

It wasn’t. They could see the outline of Brett Mason’s square frame through the etched glass of the inner door even before she opened it.

She didn’t look well. Her complexion, always florid, had an unhealthy, purplish tinge and the whites of her eyes were muddy and bloodshot. Fleming remembered uneasily that her brother had succumbed to a stroke as Brett’s face darkened into an expression of fury at the sight of them.