Lamb to the Slaughter (10 page)

No, he wasn’t going to mention taking the licence. But he would pop into HQ and have a word with the desk sergeant, say they needed to send someone round again to those little sods to spell out that if it happened again it would be more than just a warning. Threaten to pursue the case and ask for confiscation of the motorbikes – that might do it.

And if he was in the station anyway, surely someone would tell him what was going on.

‘And then she just walks straight past me, into her bedroom, like she was a zombie or something. I go, “What’s wrong, then?” but she didn’t say anything. Ossian Forbes-Graham and Romy were there, down in the courtyard, so I went down and they told me what had happened.’

The roar and whine of Formula One engines were almost drowning out Dylan’s agitated recital. Johnny Black, just back from organising a motocross event at the Forbes-Graham estate, was lounging with a beer on the sofa in the front room of the flat which occupied the space above the showroom on the High Street and the repair workshop and yard at the back, watching TV. He picked up the remote control and killed the sound.

‘Carmichael’s been shot? Do they know who did it?’

Dylan shrugged. ‘Don’t think so. There’s police cars and all sorts at the house now.

‘Listen, do you want to come round and talk to my mum? It’s really, like, weird the way she’s acting. Ossian was wanting to come in and speak to her but when I go to ask, she’s just sitting on the bed and doesn’t say anything. And when I say would I just bring him up, then, she starts shaking her head and going, “No, no, no, no,” on and on. It’s like I said – weird.’

‘Don’t blame her,’ Johnny said. ‘I’d go, “No, no, no,” too, if you were going to land Ossian on me.’

His reaction was in itself calming, and Dylan’s laugh was one of relief. ‘Yeah, you could be right. He’s a real tosser. So – what about Mum?’

Johnny paused for a moment. ‘Look – she’s had bad news, poor girl. The old guy was good to her, wasn’t he? She’ll be upset, need time to get over the shock.

‘Tell you what. You make her a cup of tea and take it in to her – women like that. You can do sympathetic, can’t you? Oh no, I forgot – you’re a teenager.’

Dylan grinned. ‘I can fake it.’

‘Then say, would she like me to come round. I don’t want to push in where I’m not wanted, but if she says yes, give me a bell and I’ll be there.’

‘Thanks, Johnny. That’s cool.’

Feeling a burden lifted, Dylan went back along the High Street to the Craft Centre.

Kirkluce was a typical Scottish market town, with shops, pubs and a couple of take-aways lining the main street and one or two side streets as well; the slate-roofed houses were grey stone or white harling, though occasionally a more ­adventurous householder challenged the monochromatic townscape with a daringly pink, green or even, unwisely, purple paint job. On Sunday, though, the town was dead. There was a local saying that if you’d become a nudist and wanted to keep it quiet, walk down Kirkluce High Street on a Sunday afternoon.

But a group of people had gathered outside Fauldburn House, just beyond the door to the Craft Centre, and Dylan walked on to join them. There wasn’t anything to see, except some blue-and-white tape and a bored-looking constable at the entrance to the drive. After a moment, when nothing happened, he went back into the courtyard.

There was no sign of Ossian now, though he could see Romy working in her studio. He went upstairs and let himself into the flat.

‘Mum!’ he called, but there was no answer. Following Johnny’s advice, he put on the kettle, fetched a mug and raked around for a herbal tea-bag. She liked those; it would show he was being sympathetic and understanding.

He didn’t get it, really, though. So the old bloke had been good to her, OK, but he’d have been popping his clogs soon anyway, wouldn’t he? Dylan could go along with her being stressed out about maybe losing the shop and the flat now the Colonel wasn’t there to stop it being sold – he felt a bit edgy about that himself – but even so ... Still, if Johnny thought a cup of tea was the answer, he’d give it a go.

With the mug in his hand, he went along to his mother’s bedroom and tapped on the door. There was no answer, and when he went in it was like she hadn’t moved at all. Her face was blank and she was staring out of the window, but he reckoned she wasn’t looking at anything.

‘Here, Mum,’ he said awkwardly, ‘brought you some tea. Peppermint. You like that.’

She turned her head and for a moment there was a flicker of animation. ‘Thanks, that’s kind. You’re a good boy.’

She took a sip and he went on, ‘I saw Johnny. He said, would you like him to come round? It’d be good for you to talk to him, Mum—’

The blank look came back to her face. ‘No,’ she said. She jumped up, letting go of the mug as if she were unaware it was in her hand, and it fell to the floor, spreading a pool of the hot, pale liquid on the carpet. ‘Leave me alone! Leave me alone!’

Baffled and scared, Dylan retreated.

5

Marjory Fleming was less than pleased, when she came back to the station after seeing the pathologist, to find Tam MacNee at the desk, talking to Jock Naismith.

She did not try to hide her irritation. ‘Tam! What are you doing, back here again?’

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Naismith suppressing a smile. MacNee turned an innocent face to her and put his hand to his heart.

‘Mine,’ he declared, ‘is “
an honest heart, that’s free frae a’ intended fraud or guile
”. How could you think I’d try and get in on the case, with you telling me I was banned?’

‘Can’t imagine,’ Fleming said crisply. ‘So – what
are
you doing here?’

‘I’m a concerned member of the public, come to share information useful to the police, just like I’m supposed to.’ He spoke with some dignity. ‘And I’m entitled to be treated with due respect and maybe even given a wee cuppie tea.’

Exasperated, she turned to Naismith. ‘What’s all this about?’

It was MacNee who replied, more soberly. ‘It’s not really a joking matter. I was away seeing Christina Munro today – her that’s being hit on by those neds on motorbikes – and if you ask me it’s a nasty situation.’

Fleming’s annoyance evaporated. ‘Burnett and Kyle?’

MacNee looked surprised at her tone. ‘That’s right. And Councillor Gloag’s son too, Jock tells me. Och, they’re just doing the intermittent harassment bit – we know all about that. But she’s an old woman all by herself and they’re leaning on her. She’s reached the dangerous end of scared. She could take a heart attack and drop dead – either that or she’ll take the gun she’s got for potting rabbits and use it.’

‘And these are Cat’s latest school chums!’ Fleming said hollowly. ‘No chance we can arrange for them to be committed for detention, preferably tomorrow?’

‘Yesterday would be better,’ MacNee said.

‘Jock, we’ll have to get on to that, come down heavy. But frankly, we can’t spare the manpower right now. All this today has left us seriously overstretched and everything else has to take second place.’

‘Any leads on that?’ MacNee’s question was elaborately casual, fooling no one.

‘Mr MacNee,’ Fleming said formally, ‘thank you so much for your public-spirited action in reporting to Sergeant Naismith a matter of legitimate concern. Your cooperation is much appreciated. There is the door. Goodbye.

‘And Jock, may I remind you that Mr MacNee is, as he explained, a member of the public and as such not party to the internal details of a police investigation.’

As she headed for the stairs, Naismith shook his head. ‘Aye, she’s a hard woman, Big Marge.’

‘She is that,’ MacNee agreed solemnly. ‘Lucky you told me all that before she told you not to.’

With a wink, he sauntered out, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, whistling ‘
Will Ye No
’
Come Back Again?
’ which, even if it hadn’t been penned by the Great Man himself, seemed suited to the occasion.

It wasn’t often that Pete Spencer could be found in the bedroom he shared with Romy, working at the table which served as a desk, on a Sunday afternoon. In fact, even on weekdays he spent as little time there as he could. His skills were people skills and you couldn’t exert them alone, pushing paper. Figures resolutely refused to be charmed.

And however you looked at these, they came out the same way. He put his head in his hands and groaned.

Finding Dan Simpson, a local lad, but one with a background as a broker on the London Stock Exchange, had seemed an amazing piece of luck. It had given credibility to his own idea of setting up an Investment Club, and there had been no need to say, in the glossy prospectus they produced, that Dan had come back home under a cloud, any more than to mention Pete’s own chequered past. It didn’t do to dwell on unfortunate misunderstandings and it wasn’t as if they hadn’t both suffered for them. Dan had a boring job on the Forbes-Graham estate, and Pete himself hadn’t enjoyed the success a man of his talents deserved.

They’d worked out the investor profile they wanted with great care. The younger female pensioner, sixties and early seventies, preferably widowed: everyone knew that, whatever the bleeding hearts said, pensioners were the ones with money. And greedy with it; they got a taste for exotic holidays and cruising and it didn’t come cheap.

They weren’t the internet generation, and in any case, as Dan pointed out, the fraud squad had officers whose job it was to trawl the sites, and if there was one thing that mattered to Pete more than money, it was not going back inside. It was still a vivid and terrifying memory; sometimes he woke at night sweating and crying out.

Pete was good at chatting up the ladies in that age group. They liked his cheeky charm, and he had an instinctive ­understanding of the buttons to press. They were familiar with women’s book groups, so a Ladies’ Investment Club was a reassuring idea. Explaining to them that insiders in the business world, like Dan, all knew how to get a proper return on their money at the expense of ordinary folk, played neatly to an existing prejudice. He cautioned them that, though of course they were welcome to get their friends to join (a natural female instinct), he couldn’t pay them commission since it would be illegal – a masterstroke, that, suggesting strict attention to the law – but as founder members they would be in Tier One, entitled to a yearly bonus once there were enough members to form a larger Tier Two, which converted them into supremely effective recruiting agents. Then, of course, he had taken care to give the usual caveats about the stock market going down as well as up, but not until he had seen the pound signs flashing in their eyes and knew they wouldn’t listen.

One day it would unravel, without a doubt. Dan had an exit plan: if they were lucky, the market would have one of its periodic crashes, and the alarmist stories in the newspapers would mean that the failure of the Ladies’ Investment Club was explicable, if unfortunate. And if it got awkward, by then Dan and Pete would have the money in the offshore account to allow them to disappear quietly to some pleasant haven, preferably one with no extradition treaties.

Pete looked grimly at the figures in front of him. There certainly wasn’t enough for that yet. Not by a long way.

It was his own fault. He had made a stupid misjudgement, one he should have been able to foresee. He’d said nothing to Dan about it, though. He hoped he’d done enough to stop it all coming out in the most disastrous way, but he couldn’t be sure: if they came after you, it would be every man for himself, and Pete didn’t plan to be the one left holding the baby.

Recently he’d been seriously contemplating leaving Romy anyway. In his indolent, easy-going way he’d been happy enough; her support meant he could dabble in this and that, always hoping for the big break, rather than getting a steady job. But recently, as her son had grown older, his comfort had been eroded.

He’d more or less been able to ignore Barney when he was young, but increasingly the boy was intruding on his personal space, sneering and making veiled comments about Pete’s past. He was nosy, too; Pete had recently caught him going through the papers on his desk. Then there was his constant rowing with his mother – Pete hated arguments, especially when Romy kept trying to draw him in. And to add to all that, Barney was getting very expensive.

The motorbike was a case in point. Romy had ignored Pete’s objections: she felt guilty about walking out on her marriage and Barney was skilled at rubbing her nose in it. Pete could almost admire his talent for manipulation, but not when it impacted on his own lifestyle.

He’d tried to persuade Romy to talk to Gloag about compensation from ALCO but, pig-headed as usual, she wouldn’t listen. A few thousand in their joint account might have given him the escape route he was beginning to think might be necessary. At the moment, if he needed to get out quick, all he had was a credit card, and that wasn’t very far off its limit.

Pete was trapped here, just waiting to see what would happen. He felt sick at the thought of all that might go wrong.

‘Right. The information we have so far: I’ll summarise.’

Macdonald, Kerr and now Will Wilson too, with his face still glowing from the salt sea air, had gathered in Fleming’s office. She had switched the phone to voicemail; it had been ringing constantly and, after three interruptions in the five minutes since the meeting started, it was all she could do, though it would mean a lot of time working through the messages later.