Lamb to the Slaughter (17 page)

They were luckily at the front door, since Macdonald was uncertain how much more of this oleaginous performance he would be able to take without throwing up. ‘I’ve noted your concern, sir, and will pass it on. Thank you for your time.’

As he and Campbell walked back down the path, Macdonald said, ‘That was a good call, suddenly asking him about handling the properties. It was the question that really got him rattled.’

Campbell didn’t look at him, or smile. ‘Can’t stand canting bastards,’ was all he said.

Tam MacNee was feeling tired as he drove back into Kirkluce. He was feeling angry about feeling tired: what the hell had he done today to make him feel tired, except talk to a couple of people? And he had the beginnings of a headache as well.

He pulled off the road to take two – no, three of his painkillers. If his headache developed fully, he’d have no alternative but to go home and go to bed, and then Bunty would phone and tell the doctor and he’d be off for another six weeks.

The black depression he’d had to fight ever since his injury was descending again. Perhaps he’d never get back. The waters would close and they’d all forget about him, except to say, ‘Poor old Tam – real bummer, wasn’t it?’ occasionally. No doubt even now Marjory was assembling a team to operate without him. And even if he did return, could he be sure he’d be able to contribute as once he had?

Leaning his head back and shutting his eyes as he waited for the painkillers to take effect, he tried to sort what he’d heard this morning into some sort of order. He hadn’t been able to take notes, but then in the past he’d only done that because it was the procedure. He wasn’t in the habit of referring to them.

Now, the thoughts swirling in his mind were incoherent, indefinite. They weren’t organised, suggesting a way forward, and for a moment he felt panic. He had to fight it. That was something he simply couldn’t afford.

‘It’s always like this, remember?’ He spoke out loud in ­defiance of the self he refused to recognise, the self that all his life had told him he was somehow less than the people around him, that he always had something to prove, the self that had got it all its own way, these last painful months. ‘At this stage, you’d just be taking in what people told you, not trying to come to conclusions. You hear what they say and see what comes to the surface later.’ Rutherford would probably shove him in the funny farm if he heard him talking to himself like this, but it was more convincing when you said it out loud.

What the rest of the CID would be doing was no different from what he’d done so far. They’d be listening, thinking, then discussing the next stage – which was, of course, where they had the advantage. They shared a pool of knowledge and they could get access to whatever they wanted. Tam was denied that.

It was a challenge, though, and he liked challenges. He hadn’t quite seen it as a competition before, but if he’d been put out of the team ... He began to feel better.

Kyle had a shop, and so did Ossian Forbes-Graham and Johnny Black, even. Ellie Burnett too, once she opened it again. And he wondered if Marjory had thought of talking to the butcher, who stood to make a huge amount from selling his property, and Senga Blair, come to that. There was nothing to stop him having a chat over the counter, even if as far as Senga was concerned, he doubted whether she could lift a shotgun, let alone knew how to fire one.

He’d have problems getting at Giles Farquharson, though. He stood to benefit most directly, which had to put him right up there as a suspect – especially if he believed his uncle was about to refuse ALCO’s offer and lose him hundreds of ­thousands. But Tam couldn’t march up to the front door and ask for a chat, and he could hardly pretend to be interested in paint-balling or motocross next.

Probably his best bet was to drop in on Annie Brown. She’d been one of their neighbours when he and Bunty were first married, before they’d moved to the larger villa which gave Bunty scope for her mission to mother anything with four legs or, even more often, with three – a mission he’d never questioned since he knew the heartache of childlessness which had prompted it.

Annie was a good soul and she’d been fond of the Colonel. It would be no more than a neighbourly act to drop in and see how she was. And Annie would know all there was to know about Farquharson’s relationship with his uncle.

Tam was feeling better. He sat up. Home first for lunch, then he’d tell Bunty he planned to have a good long walk. She and the doctor were keen on good walks. She’d probably insist he took a couple of their present lodgers with him, but fortunately dogs weren’t in a position to clype and tell her they’d been shut up in the car for most of the afternoon.

He’d drop in at MacLaren’s and Blair’s shops, then pay a visit to Annie. That was a good, clear plan of action. Nothing wrong with his brain.

And he’d finish off by dropping in at the Salutation. Even if he couldn’t find a colleague prepared to defy Big Marge, the local grapevine would no doubt be able to tell him everything the police had been doing today. He drove off with a lighter heart.

Romy Kyle, with her ear protectors on and her back to the door, was hammering with a wooden mallet at the edge of a round of Britannia silver which was on its way to becoming a beaker. She didn’t hear her partner approaching, and only realised with a start that he was there when he came into her line of vision.

‘Well,’ she said, pulling the headpiece down to hang round her neck, ‘this is an unexpected honour. Something wrong?’

She couldn’t remember the last time Pete had come to the workshop. Perhaps seeing her skill made him feel inadequate or something, but there wasn’t a lot she could do about that.

He came over to her, tipped her chin up and kissed her on the mouth and, as always, she couldn’t help responding. She could be clear-minded about Pete when he wasn’t there, touching her, but the physical side of their life together, she often thought, was actually addictive, blotting out everything else.

He released her slowly, then smiled down at her. ‘You do worry about me, don’t you? No, there’s nothing wrong. Just thought I’d pop in and say hi.’ He picked up a silver bracelet from the counter display and fiddled with it, draping it over his wrist to admire the effect, without looking at her.

Romy’s heart sank. This wasn’t normal – what the hell had he been up to this time? ‘Hi, then,’ she said warily, picking up a cloth and needlessly polishing the piece she had been beating.

‘Had the police round then, have you?’ Pete asked with elaborate casualness. ‘I was in a shop and someone there was saying they’d seen them coming in.’ He’d put down the bracelet and picked up a dangly earring now and was squinting in the small mirror on the counter as he held it up to his ear.

‘That’s right. Just going through the motions – did I know anything, which I don’t; did I suspect anyone, which I do – that sod Gloag or one of his pals; what were my own movements—?’

‘What did you say?’ he interrupted.

‘What did you expect me to say?’ She had a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I told them I was here till I went home to make supper.’

‘Did you say anything about me?’

‘They didn’t ask me anything about you, Pete, if that’s what’s bothering you. I said Barney was at home but I didn’t say you weren’t.’

‘So you could say I was,’ he said eagerly. ‘That you just hadn’t thought to mention it.’

‘I could. But it wouldn’t be true.’ Romy put down what she was holding. ‘Pete, look at me. What’s this about?’

‘Nothing,’ he said vehemently. ‘Nothing at all. Except that I know how their minds work. First thing they’ll do, they’ll go to the files, see who’s got a record. Saves time, you see, if they can lean on some poor bastard, scare them into a confession. I just don’t want to be the poor bastard they pick on.’

‘You’re paranoid,’ Romy said flatly, relief surging through her. She’d been afraid it really was something serious and she knew that whatever it was, whatever it cost her, she would still have protected him. ‘Listen, love – there isn’t a reason in the world for them to suspect you. You were caught in a silly scam, but you’ve kept your nose clean since and there’s never been a question of violence. I should think the only time you’ve even held a shotgun was when Danny took you to shoot clays that time.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t tell them that!’ he cried. ‘That would be all they’d need.’

Romy picked up the silver round again. ‘You’re just being stupid now. Look, I’ve got work to do.’ She was just about to replace her ear protectors when she stopped. ‘There isn’t anything to connect you to Andrew, is there – I mean, apart from this place?’

‘Of course not. I’m probably just being paranoid, like you said.’ He gave her a big, confident smile. ‘I’ll get out of your hair, then. But you’ll watch what you say to the filth, won’t you?’

She grunted, settling the ear-muffs in place again. He went out, but she didn’t immediately go back to her work. Her lovely Pete, charming, feckless and amiable, would never have harmed Andrew, of course he wouldn’t. She had to believe that, even if it left her with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answered.

‘Do you suppose someone actually designed that, or did someone just get a Lego set with real bricks for Christmas one year?’ Tansy Kerr viewed the Scottish baronial front of Ravenshill House with some amazement.

‘If they did, it was something they dreamed after a heavy supper,’ Will Wilson agreed as they parked on the gravel square outside the front door. ‘Nice view, though.’

The house stood on rising ground and beyond the mature trees in the parkland in front, moorland stretched to forest-clad hills. In front of the mullioned windows to the left of the imposing entrance, a sculpture group showed a stag having its throat torn out by three leaping hounds.

Wilson pointed. ‘Nice thing to look at when you open the curtains in the morning.’

Kerr shuddered. ‘No wonder Ossian’s weird. What do you reckon the parents are like?’ They walked into the ornamented stone porch, then she pulled a brass bell-handle and heard a clanging somewhere inside.

The heavy wooden door was opened quite promptly by a man who, while his appearance fitted perfectly with his surroundings, looked a most unlikely father for the Byronic Ossian. Murdoch Forbes-Graham had iron-grey hair, the reddened face of a man who spent much of his time outdoors, and a paunch and jowls which suggested more time enthusiastically spent with a decanter of vintage port after a hearty dinner.

‘Yes?’ He looked from one to the other without enthusiasm.

Wilson showed his warrant card. ‘DCs Wilson and Kerr. May we have a word, sir?’

‘Ah, is it to do with this most unfortunate Carmichael affair? You’d better come in, then. I’ll call my wife.’

The hall was cavernous, with a positive forest of stags’ antlers on the walls. At the foot of an oppressively carved staircase a huge, moth-eaten stuffed bear reared up in a threatening pose. Forbes-Graham, cupping his hands round his mouth, shouted up, ‘Deirdre!’ There was a muffled response and he called again, ‘In the morning room!’ then, turning to the officers, said, ‘This way.’

As they followed him across the polished parquet floor, Kerr reflected that a son like Ossian must be a considerable disappointment to a man like this, who would surely prefer a rugger-bugger type. Like Rory Douglas, whom she’d vowed never to think of again. And she didn’t, not much. Not now. She stole a sideways glance at Will.

The morning room was at the back of the house, with low windows looking out over an expanse of smooth green lawn. It had a massive oak mantelpiece with a high brass fender topped with green leather cushioning you could sit on and the furnishing of the room was conventional – two sofas facing each other across a huge tapestried stool piled with back numbers of
Country Life
and
Scottish Field
, as well as books you would need a small crane to lift, with covers featuring houses and gardens so lush and inviting that they classed as property porn.

What was astonishing, though, was the pictures on the walls. There were no representations of stags at bay here, nor improbably purple mountains with a Highland cow or three, and not even a mounted salmon in a glass case. What hung on the walls was modern, three huge artworks which Kerr had no difficulty in recognising as produced by Ossian.

Forbes-Graham saw she was looking at them. ‘My son’s work,’ he said with unmistakable pride. ‘Do you like them?’

Kerr was able to say, quite truthfully, that she did, and he beamed. ‘Ossian is a seriously talented artist, internationally recognised. Do you know what his most recent paintings sell for?’

He mentioned a figure which sent Kerr’s eyebrows shooting up almost into her hair. Perhaps that explained the man’s admiration for his son – money would talk, where he was concerned.

A woman came into the room. She was wearing what Kerr thought of as wispy clothes, layers of soft blue fabric and a couple of scarves that fluttered when she moved in a way which somehow made her edges look blurred. She had greying fair hair, worn long, and with her good bone structure and a softer version of Ossian’s blue eyes she must once have been a very pretty woman, though middle age had slackened and wrinkled her pale, fine skin. She drifted across to settle on one of the sofas; Forbes-Graham took his place beside her and she waved the detectives to the sofa opposite.