Cradle to Grave (48 page)

Rencombe’s killing was definitively reactive. Something happened, something that meant Williams had to stop him doing – what?

There had to have been a threat of some kind. Physical violence? Unlikely. Rencombe was only a proxy, after all. The threat must have come from Crozier: do this, or else . . . Or – and that fitted better –
don’t
do this, or else. Had the situation been the other way round? Had Williams presented some sort of threat to Crozier and Rencombe had been sent to see him off?? A rich and powerful man wouldn’t go himself.

Fleming warmed to the thought. Blackmail of some kind, something Crozier had done that Williams was going to expose – his persecution of Lisa Stewart, perhaps? But that was a go-ahead-and-do-what-you-damn-well-like situation – Crozier had only to say he was unbalanced by grief to get sympathy.

No, it still didn’t feel quite right. She was convinced she was on to something, but there was still more to it than that.

And Crozier would reasonably be expecting a prompt report back. If it didn’t come, he’d get on the phone to find out why. Unless the wires were cut.

Fleming was approaching the turn-off now, but at last she could feel the tingle of excitement that told her she was getting somewhere. She drove past the road end, barely glancing at it.

A broken phone line would be restored, though. And even if it wasn’t, once Crozier became concerned at not hearing from Rencombe, he would drive off to where he could get a signal. Sooner or later he was going to find out his solicitor was dead, and he would know Williams had done it. So Crozier’s fate was sealed.

Would they be able to prove Williams had killed him too? The labs would be checking all his clothes and his shoes, and analysis would show if he had been in the copse. It wouldn’t show when, though, and it wouldn’t, most frustratingly of all, show why.

And then, of course, who had killed Williams? The initial forensic reports had been unhelpful. A crowbar was often the weapon of choice, keeping the assailant at a distance from the victim and avoiding clothes contamination, and this one had been meticulously wiped. Fleming sighed. The strong line of thought was beginning to peter out and she was suddenly aware of her extreme tiredness.

She’d driven almost to Glenluce. She turned in to a side road and set off back, still desperately pursuing her reasoning.

Had Lisa Stewart, standing on the hill, seen her partner in the act of murder? She had little reason to trust the police, and she was unlikely to feel that Crozier had a right to justice. It would explain, too, why Williams had wanted to meet her later on.

Had she then taken her chance to kill him? Revenge for his working for Crozier, for his treacherous persecution? But no, Jan Forbes had told MacNee that the idea that her partner could have been Crozier’s spy in the camp had come as a complete shock.

The argument was beginning to go round in circles. And there was Mains of Craigie now. Fleming turned in to the drive.

The house was dark, apart from the light over the back door. It felt very empty when Fleming went into the kitchen, though Meg as usual was pleased to see her. There was a note on the table; Bill and the kids had gone to see
The Da Vinci Code
and would have a pizza afterwards.

They’d all been planning to go, she recalled, before this hit her. A cheerful family outing – when was the last time she’d had one of those? Bleakly, Fleming went to the freezer. There was nothing there she fancied (why did she buy macaroni cheese, when she didn’t like it?) and she couldn’t be bothered to scramble eggs. Toast, Marmite, a Nurofen and a cup of tea – she daren’t risk a drink with her headache.

She ate without enjoyment, had a long bath and was asleep when Bill and the children came back, and even their giggling and shushing didn’t wake her.

The car that had overtaken Fleming on the A75, a white Vauxhall Vectra, slowed down as she got near to Mains of Craigie. When her car didn’t turn in, the driver, looking in his mirror, frowned. Had his information been wrong?

He kept a steady distance ahead of her on the long, straight road, and when, after a time, she went into a side road, he braked, ready to go back and follow her along it. But then he saw the lights fan across the road as she turned and drove back the way she had come.

Going home now? Odd behaviour, but he found another turning and went back himself, pressing on a little to catch up. This time, Fleming signalled and turned in to Mains of Craigie. He drove a little way past, then pulled into the side and switched off his headlights.

He saw the car arrive at the darkened house at the top of the track, and the lights go on as she entered. His big chance?

But he hadn’t built his reputation on impulsive decisions. There was one way in, and one way out. A slow, narrow track, so the noise of his engine would announce his arrival and there would be no quick getaway. It looked, too, as if the family he knew she had were out; they could come back anytime and he would be trapped.

No, it was urgent but not that urgent. Later, maybe. Catch a bit of shut-eye, then go back to have a sniff around.

24

‘Name?’

‘Cris Pilapil.’

The young man looked seriously rough, unshaven and scruffy, and from the way he winced at the brusque voice of the sergeant at the charge bar he was in the grip of the mother of all hangovers. He’d certainly turned the crystals in the breathalyser an interesting shade when they’d pulled him over for erratic driving.

‘Address?’

‘Don’t have one.’

The sergeant sighed. ‘Come on, son – if you give us an address, you can probably be bailed to go and sleep it off. If not, we’ll have to keep you here. Where did you spend last night?’

‘Can’t remember.’

Wearily, the sergeant pulled across a thick pad of forms. ‘Have it your way. Let’s start again. Spell your name for me.’

Nico Ryan sat in his room playing
Grand Theft Auto
. He was in Liberty City tonight, and he’d moved up a level since he’d started. He could get really good, now he’d enough time. He’d played for hours last night till he was too sleepy to go on. But tonight he wasn’t concentrating like he should. He’d even made one or two silly mistakes.

His parents had gone on and on at him, and they’d searched his room today when he was out. It was all messy with his things out of place when he came in, which unsettled him. It had taken him ages to put everything back properly. He liked everything arranged in his own special way, and he hated broken and spoiled things.

She’d
torn one of his books. She’d grabbed it in her horrid fat, pudgy hands and ripped it, but she hadn’t got punished, like Nico had when he’d ripped up her pink rabbit.
She’s only a baby
. That’s what that nanny said, but the baby was getting bigger all the time, doing more things, and he knew what that would mean. She was messing up his life. She’d no right to do that.

Anyway, it was fine now. He didn’t think about it any more, really. Except he was sure it was the nanny he’d seen that day, even if her hair was brown, and that had upset him again. She’d never liked him. She’d said . . . things. And then talking about it to that policeman made it all come back, and he didn’t like that either. The policeman was a bit scary, and though Nico didn’t believe him about getting locked up, he wasn’t comfortable.

His parents were quarrelling again. He could hear his mother yelling at his father. She probably needed a fix and Dad was holding out on her. He didn’t know why – as long as she got it, she was OK.

The yelling stopped. He went to his door and listened; he was safe enough as long as he knew where they were, but if they came upstairs, he’d have to hide the laptop. There was a little space at the back of the bed, not as safe as having it outside in his den, but it was OK while he was in the room.

A door opened and Nico heard his mother’s feet clipping up the stairs. Quickly, he closed down the laptop, thrust it out of sight and was reading a comic when she came in.

She’d obviously got what she wanted. She always did in the end. She was smiling, a bit dreamy, and she gathered him to her, pushing his hair back from his face in a way he particularly detested.

‘How’s my precious?’

‘Gerroff,’ he growled, pushing her away.

Cara sighed. ‘You’re getting to be such a big boy now! Darling, you would tell me if you had that laptop we asked you about, wouldn’t you?’

‘I told you.’ Nico picked up the remote control and switched on the TV. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He became instantly immersed in
Big Brother
.

Cara sighed again. ‘I know, I know, sweetheart. Daddy wanted me just to check one last time. But Cris has disappeared now, so perhaps it was him.’

Nico didn’t turn his head, but he heard what she said. After a moment he said casually, ‘Yeah, I saw him with a laptop yesterday. Took it to his room.’

His mother was pleased at that. ‘Did you? I was sure he must have it, but Daddy didn’t believe me. I’ll go and tell him.’ She drifted out.

Stupid woman! Nico looked without interest at
Big Brother
, but he daren’t risk going back to his game. It was long past his bedtime, and if she wasn’t too spaced out to care, she’d come back and fuss.

He climbed into bed without washing. Once she’d been back to check on him or else gone to bed, he could play for as long as he liked. And if they thought Cris had taken the laptop away, he wouldn’t have to smuggle it in and out of the house any more.

Marjory Fleming had fallen asleep instantly. But perhaps Bill creeping into bed later had broken the pattern of her sleep waves, because she embarked on a series of vague, uncomfortable dreams, culminating in one that inspired in her such a sense of terror that she woke up gasping for breath, but with no recollection of the detail.

She sank back on her pillows and tried to drift off to sleep, lying first on one side, then on the other. That was usually enough on the few occasions when her sleep was disturbed, but it wasn’t working tonight. More wide awake than ever after a quarter of an hour, she slid out of bed with an envious glance at her slumbering husband and went downstairs.

When she switched on the light in the kitchen, Meg looked up from the basket by the Aga, gave her a dirty look and went back to sleep.

Marjory laughed. ‘It’s all right, Meggie,’ she said softly, ‘I’m not going to disturb you. Unless you want a crust of my toast.’

She was hungry – that was most likely the problem, not having had a proper supper. She lifted the lid of the range, pushed across the kettle and picked up the toasting grid. Agas made the very best kind of toast.

With her snack ready, she sat down in the old chair beside it, glad of the cosiness on this cool, damp night. The light ticking of the clock on the dresser seemed loud in the quiet house; Meg was snoring gently, and from the field near the house she heard a snort from one of the beasts. Familiar, comfortable sounds. A good way to soothe yourself to be ready for sleep.

Only somehow, it wasn’t. She hadn’t drawn the curtains across the kitchen windows – she never bothered – and now they were great yawning squares of darkness as she sat in the lighted room, a room that had suddenly lost its cosiness. Someone could be out there, looking in at her, and she wouldn’t know. She was exposed, vulnerable – what sort of security was that? And she could hear movement too.

It was the stirks, restless in the field behind the house. Marjory knew that, of course she did. But was she absolutely sure? And if it was, why were they restless?
Because they always are
, the common-sense part of her mind insisted, but there was another voice that said,
Because someone’s moving among them
.

If she was going to go on sitting here, and finish her tea like a sensible person, she was going to have to close the curtains. She just didn’t want to get up, walk across, exposed, a target . . .

But she was a target already, sitting where she was. Come on!

Her legs felt like jelly as she got up and walked across the room, to the switches by the door that would put out the light in the kitchen, and put on the light in the yard. If nothing happened, if there was no one there – and of course there wasn’t – she could draw the curtains and be comfortable again.

Marjory had just done that and was peering fearfully out into the yard when the door behind her opened. She spun round in the darkness and screamed.

She had not seen the panicky movement outside as someone shrank into the shadows, like some creature of the dark for whom light is pain. But behind her, framed in the doorway to the lighted hall, was the burly form of her husband Bill in his pyjamas.

‘Marjory, what on earth’s the matter?’ he said.

She had given herself too much of a fright to be calm. ‘Oh, Bill, Bill,’ she said, hurling herself into his arms.

‘It’s all right, it’s all right – I’ve got you.’ He patted her back, and Meg, who had shot out of her bed in alarm and was now looking extremely reproachful, came to push her nose against her mistress’s legs.

‘I woke up and realised you weren’t there,’ Bill said when, laughing shakily, she let him go. ‘I wondered if you were all right, but I had no idea that my well-intentioned concern would provoke terror. Let’s put the light on again and I’ll make myself a cup of tea while you finish yours and tell me all about what’s going on. And toast – toast seems a good idea. Where’s the syrup?’