Cradle to Grave (58 page)

‘It was probably self-defence,’ MacNee argued. ‘And whatever Lisa might have done, she’s more than paid for it now, poor lassie.

‘But it’s looking like the most they’ll be able to pin on Ryan is conspiracy to murder, and if we can’t make your imprisonment stick against Cara, she’ll probably walk free.’

‘At least when it comes to Black they’ll throw away the key,’ Fleming said. ‘Do you think Cara paid him to kill Lisa herself, or was it just a little present from Crozier’s pals?’

‘She’d be their next partner. Probably their idea of a wee welcome gesture. Or it was something to keep her sweet, so’s they could deal with Ryan instead of someone who’s likely to be high one minute and spaced out the next. But I tell you one thing – we’ll get nothing out of Black. A stint in Barlinnie is just a wee walk in the park compared with a swim in the Clyde in concrete boots.

‘Look, the rain’s gone off.’ MacNee got up. ‘I’d better go and give the dogs their walk. They’re going stir crazy. Thanks for the coffee.’

At the door, he turned. ‘By the way, I sent a bunch of flowers and a wee note to Bunty. I thought I’d maybe do that for a while, till she’s ready to see me.’

‘How are you getting on, Hayley?’ Susan Telford looked critically around the hall. ‘The floor’s looking nice.’

‘I’ve just got the brasses to do and then I’m finished,’ Hayley said.

‘Thanks very much, Hayley. See you tomorrow. Is that rubbish? I’ll take it through to the back for you.’

Susan picked up the waste basket and went out to the garden. Most of it seemed to be paper for recycling. She was just about to tip it into the appropriate bin when something caught her eye.

On a folded sheet the word ‘JAN’ was written in block letters on top of some typescript. She picked it up, frowning.

Could it be a goodbye note from Lisa? Forgetting the rest of the rubbish, she hurried through to the lounge.

‘Jan, I’ve just found this,’ she said, holding it out.

Jan Forbes raised her eyebrows, then unfolded it.

‘Oh! It’s from Lisa!’ she exclaimed. She read it in silence, her brows knitting together. Then she put it down and said, her voice shaking, ‘Oh dear. I think we’d better get this to the police.’

That night Marjory and Bill sat in the familiar sitting room in their comfortable, slightly shabby chairs with the familiar pale-gold Bladnoch in the crystal tumblers and Meg in her familiar position between them. It was a chilly night and the fire was dancing in the grate, the logs scenting the air with pine resin.

The room was just as it always had been, humdrum and comfortable, a place where you were secure and cosy and safe. Only you weren’t. There was a cold, evil world out there that could break in at any time and the haven they had created was no more than a terrifyingly fragile illusion. Marjory stared sombrely into the flickering flames.

At last Bill said, ‘What’s happened to your friend? Is he caught up in this?’

Marjory shrugged. ‘He’s gone back to the States. There’s no suggestion that he’s implicated in the murders. He and Cris Pilapil were obstructive because they were party to a serious fraud – the authorities may even try to extradite him. Mercifully it’s nothing to do with me.’

He nodded. There was a crackle from the fire as a spark flew out and Meg sat up with a jump and looked accusingly around her.

Without warning, Bill said, ‘Have you ever wished you’d chosen the other path, Marjory? The walk on the wild side, where you could always be nineteen instead of having a boring farmer for a husband?’

‘Oh, Bill!’ Marjory looked at him, hesitating. Then she said, ‘Yes, if I’m honest, occasionally, when I’m in a rebellious mood. And then I look at you and the kids and I wouldn’t change a thing. I was wise enough to recognise real, lasting love when it came, Bill – you have to believe that. We’ve had years and years and years of happiness. And more ahead, thanks to Tam and poor Kim.’ She bit her lip.

‘I owe them,’ he said, coming across to cradle her bruised face and kiss her gently. ‘And don’t think you’re alone in your rebellious moments. I had my dreams too, you know. Professional rugby – I wonder how far I might have got if the farm and a family hadn’t come first. In fact, I still play an occasional game for the British Lions before I drop off to sleep at night.’

Majory pulled a sceptical face. ‘You must be substituted pretty early on, then. I’ve never known you take longer than five minutes before you’re snoring.

‘Anyway, right at the moment I have to tell you that a seriously boring life looks amazingly attractive.’

They both laughed. Later, when Bill went out with Meg to shut in the hens, Marjory raked out the fire and straightened the cushions. She couldn’t bring herself to open the curtains for the morning before she left the room, though, as she usually did, even if her panic in the kitchen that night had been no more than paranoia. Probably.

Oh, she would get over it, put it all behind her, but it would still be there, at her shoulder, ready to whisper that happy confidence was laughable naïvety. She had been haunted lately by lines from a poem she had studied at school:

Like one that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turn’d round, walks on

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

Friday, 28 July

‘Marjory!’ Superintendent Bailey said, as DI Fleming limped into his office. ‘I thought I told you to take time off.’

‘I did, Donald. Yesterday.’ She sat down without waiting for an invitation, though: her feet still felt as if someone was playing about with red-hot needles.

‘Dear me! Is this a sense of duty or just rampant curiosity?’ he demanded jovially. He was looking particularly pleased with himself this morning.

‘Mostly curiosity,’ she admitted. ‘Any developments?’

Bailey chuckled. ‘Oh, I think you could say that.’ He reached into a tray on his desk and took out a sheet of paper. ‘They brought this in to me yesterday. I was going to give you a call today before we released it to the press, but better that you can read it for yourself.’ He handed it over.

Fleming glanced at the typewritten side, headed ‘Welcome to the Rowantrees Hotel’, with ‘JAN’ written across it. Then she turned it over.

The writing was careless and childishly ill formed, and it began abruptly.

Ive had to tell a lot of lies in my life but Im going to kill myself and this is Gods truth.

I never killed Poppy. I loved her. Somethings wrong with Nico, could kill again – not his fault poor little bugger.

Alex Rencombe – never knew about this Jason must have gone back to the house after I left. And I never killed Gillis Crozier either I saw who did, though.

Lee – Jason was hiding in the wood I was up above then Crozier came up the path and he hit him again and again. A lot of blood.

He must of seen me. I didnt tell the police I dont trust them they did me over.

I got back to Kirkluce and he texted me there was money in it for me. I didn’t trust him Im not stupid. So I said the hotel garden so I could scream if I was scared but it was dark he came from behind put his hand across my mouth hed an iron bar in his hand I just grabbed it threw all my weight on it. Then he stumbled and I swung it at him he tried to get away and I went after and hit him on the head he fell I wiped the bar on my jacket and threw it down.

I knew Id killed him I didnt care. He would of killed me.

Thats all. I just want people to know I never killed Poppy, like they said I did. I loved her.

Lisa.

Then there was a brief postscript: ‘You were kind to me no one else was. Thank you goodbye.’

Fleming finished it and laid it down. ‘That’s so pathetic! Poor, sad girl,’ she said. ‘Never had a chance, did she?’

‘Oh, absolutely, absolutely,’ Bailey said heartily, clearly not wanting to sound unfeeling.

Fleming went on, ‘It’s more or less exactly what MacNee and I worked out – applying Occam’s razor, Donald, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

Bailey smirked. ‘Can’t go wrong. But this wraps it up, Marjory. A truly positive result – and we don’t need to waste resources on further investigation into either Crozier’s death or Williams’s.’

‘We’ve got to go all out to nail the Ryans for conspiracy to murder, though,’ Fleming pointed out. ‘We should be able to get fingerprint evidence that Williams was in the house, and MacNee can state he heard Ryan telling Williams Crozier would be coming up the path.’

‘And we have evidence already of money from the Ryans’ bank account going to Williams,’ Bailey went on, ‘so I have every confidence we have a case.’

‘That’s good. But Cara . . .’ Fleming shook her head. ‘She lined us up for the hitman and presumably she was behind poor Lisa’s death too. But Tam says she’s got a good brief and certainly at the moment it’s only my word against hers – no case to answer.’

‘Ah, that’s where I have some more excellent news to give you. Declan Ryan is falling over himself to give evidence against his wife. He’s stated that he heard you battering on the door of the cupboard, that he saw your car at the door and that Cara told him you and Kim were locked up there to be killed by Black. Her saying to him you were there isn’t proof that you were, of course, but taking it in conjunction with your evidence, the procurator fiscal has agreed to charge her.’

Fleming stared at him. ‘That’s fantastic news! No wonder you’re looking smug, Donald!’

‘Not smug,’ he protested. ‘Surely you can tell the difference between being smug and taking pleasure in justice being done.’ But he was smiling, and Fleming grinned back.

She got to her feet, wincing. ‘I’d better return to the paperwork.’ Then she hesitated. ‘Er . . . I assume you’d have told me if there was any news of Kim?’

‘Critical but stable – that’s all they’ll say,’ Bailey said heavily.

Fleming nodded and hobbled out. Her buoyant mood had disappeared.

The auxiliary nurse came into the high-dependency unit’s nursing station. ‘There’s a funny wee guy outside wanting to see Kim Kershaw. Says he’s a detective – he’s got ID and the constable on guard duty knows him. He says he needs to ask her some questions – I’ve told him there’s no point, but he’s insisting.’

The staff nurse looked up from the notes she was writing and shrugged. ‘There isn’t, but I don’t suppose he can do much harm. Tell him he’s got ten minutes – he’ll probably give up before that.’

‘Fine.’ She returned to the man sitting in the waiting area. ‘That’s OK. No more than ten minutes, though.’

‘Thanks, Nurse,’ he said, getting up.

She smiled because he had smiled at her – at least she thought it was a smile, though she wasn’t quite sure.

Kim Kershaw was lying on a high hospital bed, ghostly pale and gaunt, with her eyes closed. She was wired up to a machine, and there were drip stands and tubes and things . . .

Tam MacNee averted his eyes. He wasn’t good in hospitals. Even visiting made him feel faintly queasy. Still, he hadn’t much time for what he wanted to do.

‘Hello, Kim,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s Tam MacNee.’

She could almost be dead, except that he could see the faint movement of her breathing. She certainly wasn’t responding, but he’d read somewhere that even deeply unconscious patients could hear what was said to them. Hearing was the last sense to go.

Her hands were lying on top of the sheet. She had slim, fine-boned hands and he took the one not connected up to the drips and focused on it – easier than looking at that lifeless face. It felt limp and cool in his warm one.

‘I’m here to say sorry,’ MacNee began. ‘I didn’t realise about your poor wee girl. I was jealous, I suppose, because you had a bairn when my wife was desperate for kids and we could never have them, and I was too wrapped up in my own problems to think about anyone else’s. I’m sorry, Kim. It’s easy to say the word, but I mean it, right from the heart.’

He felt kind of daft, talking to himself, but he went on anyway, ‘You’re a brave lassie. When you come back, I’ll say sorry again, in front of everyone, and we’ll get on fine, you and me. We’ll be pals – I’ll make it up to you.

‘Tell you what – I’ll take you to a Rangers game in Glasgow, pies and Bovril on me, and you can laugh when the other side scores and I’ll not say cheep – only you better laugh quietly, maybe, because there’s other fans not as tolerant as me.’

She hadn’t moved. The hand still lay limp, but somehow he’d a funny feeling she’d heard that. He went on, ‘I’ll tell you what’s happened with the cases. We’ve it all sewn up. The Ryans have been charged . . .’

He gave her a brief outline and he could swear that she was listening. There was no actual sign, none at all – his imagination, perhaps – but it still encouraged him to go on.

‘The thing is, we’re needing you to work hard at getting better. You’re important, Kim – we need you on the team. You’ve got a good brain there – not a lot of that in Kirkluce CID, except you and me, eh?’