Lamb to the Slaughter (35 page)

‘The thing is, you said you had to hurry straight on home, but when I passed your house five minutes later, your car wasn’t there.’

Wilson’s frown grew blacker. ‘Tansy, are you spying on me?’

She was indignant. ‘Of course not! You may remember I said I’d go and see one of my mates instead, if you’d to go home immediately? She lives in Lauder Road, so I had to drive down your street or take a massive detour, which seemed elaborate. All right?’

There was an edge to her voice which made Wilson say hastily, ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just that Aileen always grills me about where I’ve been and what I was doing. Sorry again.’

Kerr didn’t reply. He’d assured her again and again that he and his wife had agreed to lead entirely separate lives. She was beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable.

He went on, ‘She phoned and I had to go to the Spar to pick up some stuff for her. Toilet rolls – isn’t it always?’ He flashed a smile at her. ‘If you’d passed ten minutes later, you’d have seen me lugging in the grocery bags.’

She spent her professional life listening to people telling lies in response to accusation. She could probably write a ‘How-to’ manual on the subject, and if she did, this was an example she could quote. Anger, swiftly concealed, a play for time, a rapidly constructed story to cover the known facts and a neat little detail to make it sound authentic.

Sick at heart, she said, ‘Oh, I see.’

Changing the subject, Wilson made an anodyne comment about the Forbes-Grahams, then a few minutes later said, ‘Look, there’s a pub. Shall we pop in for a bite? I’m ­starving.’

‘No. We’re on statement-reading and checking stuff this afternoon, remember, presumably as a punishment for being late yesterday. I think we ought to put in an appearance at the canteen, or someone’s going to notice we’re never there.’

He didn’t argue. Reaching across to take her hand, he said, ‘Good thinking, love. We don’t want to have Big Marge on our case.’

He put her hand to his lips, then released it. She folded her arms across her body, tucking her hands into her armpits.

‘Could we have a word?’ DS MacNee held up his warrant card.

Norman Gloag looked from the small man to the tall woman with disfavour. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’ He stood aside.

‘Thank you, councillor.’ Fleming stepped forward and followed him into the house. They had tried his office, but been told he was working from home today.

MacNee shut the door behind them. The house was very quiet, and Fleming had noticed that only one car stood in the driveway. ‘Home alone?’ she said lightly, and saw him scowl.

‘My family is away – out,’ he corrected himself.

The stumble caught her attention. ‘Out – or away?’ she asked as she sat down in one of the chairs by the coffee table in Gloag’s study.

‘I don’t see that as being any of your business,’ he said coldly.

MacNee, sitting down opposite the inspector, had taken out a notebook. ‘Refused to answer,’ he murmured, writing it down.

‘I didn’t say that!’ Gloag was immediately agitated. ‘I demand that you score that out! I only indicated that this was a personal matter. If it’s important, my wife was talking of paying a visit to her mother, and I’m not entirely sure whether she has gone yet, or is planning to return to do some packing.’

‘Thank you for clearing that up, sir. Strike it from the record, sergeant,’ Fleming said gravely, with a look at MacNee which dared him to smirk.

‘That’s all right, then.’ Gloag had to take the chair which stood between them, which meant he must turn his head to field the questions from either side.

The inspector went on, ‘I don’t intend wasting your time or mine, councillor. You told me that your son Gordon had come to tell you of the plan to pay another intimidating visit to Wester Seton farm before it took place. You may remember our conversation?’

She fixed her eyes on him in a way she knew to be unsettling. MacNee, on Gloag’s other side, did the same, and she watched with satisfaction as Gloag licked his lips.

‘Yes – well, we were talking on a vague timescale when we spoke, weren’t we? I had no clear idea of the time involved.’

He had a point there, and she saw with annoyance that he knew he did. ‘I can appreciate that. But I have a report which states that you asked your son to change his story about what time it was when he told you.’

‘You asked him to lie,’ MacNee put in helpfully.

Gloag ignored MacNee, addressing himself to Fleming. ‘I know you have a teenage daughter, inspector. You will understand, all too well, how stubborn teenagers can be. When I discussed the evening in detail with Gordon, after I had spoken to you, and heard when the tragedy had actually taken place, I realised that he was confused in his impression about when he had actually given me the information.

‘Having had recent, and unpleasant, experience of police tactics – like, if I may say so, your sergeant’s recent implication that I was asking my son to lie – I was very reluctant to let Gordon sow seeds of doubt in your minds about what happened because of a misunderstanding and a teenager’s determination not to admit he was wrong.’

That was dead-horse territory, and Fleming wasn’t dumb enough to go on flogging it. ‘So, after this – misunderstanding, did you spend the rest of the evening in the bosom of your family?’

Gloag shifted in his seat. ‘No, I had work to do and I drove back to the office after supper.’

Like a dog scenting a rabbit, MacNee was suddenly alert. ‘What time would that be?’

‘Oh, come, sergeant!’ Gloag gave an uneasy laugh. ‘Do you make a note of the time when you go back to do some work of an evening?’

With a quelling glance at MacNee, who looked set to explain to him the principles of overtime, Fleming said, ‘In the circumstances, sir, you will of course understand that we have to be as precise as possible.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Gloag looked suitably grave. ‘We finished family supper around – what? Perhaps eight o’clock, eight-thirty...’

‘That’s awful late to finish your tea,’ MacNee suggested.

‘We don’t have “tea”,’ Gloag said acidly. ‘We have supper, and it could even have been later than that. As I said, I really didn’t notice the time.’

‘For a busy man, who has work to do in his office,’ Fleming said mildly, ‘it does seem curiously late for your evening meal. However,’ she went on over his attempted interjection, ‘let’s accept that – for the moment. Can anyone confirm when you returned to your office?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. I was there on my own.’

He was definitely uneasy now. ‘Presumably your wife could confirm when you finished supper and left?’ Fleming suggested.

‘I doubt it.’ There was sweat appearing on his brow. ‘Let me be frank with you, inspector. My wife and I, for some time now – well, our relationship has not been good. We didn’t eat at the same time, and though I don’t like to say this, anything she tells you about me would have to be taken with a pinch of salt.’

‘Rather like what your son says?’ She watched, with clinical satisfaction, as the shaft went home, then went on, ‘But am I right in saying you have other children who can confirm when you actually left the house?’

‘The others?’ He got out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘I shouldn’t think they’d have the first idea. They wander to and fro, grazing like cows. It’s all about TV programmes, with them. Hardly sit down at the table at all.’

‘Ah! Then presumably they will have a good idea when you went out, in line with the TV schedules?’

‘How do I know what they’ll remember?’ he said wildly. ‘Most of the time they don’t seem to notice my existence, except when they want money.’

‘Yes, a growing family is pretty expensive, these days, isn’t it?’ Fleming said sympathetically. ‘The cost of trainers alone...’

‘Indeed.’ He picked up eagerly on that. ‘And nothing but the best will do. They seem to get more and more expensive by the week.’

‘So money’s pretty important, then,’ MacNee said, snapping the trap shut.

Brought up short, Gloag paused, then said coolly, ­‘Fortunately, I have a good business. I often wonder how families in less comfortable circumstances manage with all the demands made on them.’

There was no doubt about it, he was tough. His voice sounded as if he was making polite conversation; only the sweat which obliged him to dab at his forehead again gave him away.

‘You stood to gain a great deal from handling property transactions if the superstore deal went through, didn’t you?’ Fleming’s voice grew harder and Gloag bristled.

‘What are you implying, inspector?’

‘How far would you have gone to make sure it didn’t fall through?’

Gloag took a deep breath. ‘I am trying to keep my temper. It is not easy. I demand that you clarify my status in this investigation.’

‘Your status is as a suspect, the same as a number of other people. In your case, we believe that you might have benefited financially from Colonel Carmichael’s death and we also have on record a complaint you made against the second victim, Barney Kyle.’

Gloag got to his feet. ‘If the interview is going to continue in this vein, I wish my lawyer to be present. You have just misrepresented my position for a second time: my “complaint”, as you term it, was the action of a concerned citizen, an informal warning to the police who can’t seem to see what’s going on under their noses – or if they can, are reluctant to deal with it. Perhaps, if action had been taken at the time, this second tragedy could have been averted.

‘So, if you will excuse me ...’ He went towards the telephone on his desk.

Fleming, with a glance at MacNee, rose as well. ‘I think we’ve covered the ground for the moment, apart from one thing. I understand you have a licence for a shotgun. Would you have any objection to telling us what kind?’

‘It’s a matter of record,’ he said stiffly. ‘A Browning
12
-bore.’

‘Thank you, sir. We won’t take up any more of your time.’

As he showed them out, MacNee turned on the doorstep. ‘Just a wee bit of friendly advice. You should really try and find witnesses who can speak to exactly what you did on Monday night. You’d sleep easier in your bed, that way.’

When he had shut the door behind them, Gloag went back into his study and headed for the drinks cabinet. He filled a tumbler with Scotch, his hands shaking so badly that he spilled some as he poured. He sat down, and swallowed almost half of it in two gulps.

When the phone rang, he was feeling so shaky he almost ignored it, but it was most likely the office and he’d be as well dealing with it now as later. Better, probably, given his immediate plans. He was still clutching his glass as he answered it.

It wasn’t the office. When he heard the voice at the other end, he tried to sound upbeat, dynamic. Then he listened, with increasing consternation, to what it had to say.

‘You’re not serious, are you? But – can’t you do anything? Surely—’

Gloag took little part in the rest of the conversation, only saying glumly, ‘I see,’ and, ‘I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?’

He put down the phone and slumped into his chair. He banged the glass on the desk, put his head in his hands and groaned. Then he yelled, ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ and in a blind rage brought both fists down hard, knocking over his drink. He didn’t even notice as whisky soaked through the papers spread out in front of him.

‘What did you make of that?’ Fleming asked MacNee as they went back to the car.

‘Not sure. He’s lying, of course, but I wouldn’t like to say why.’

‘He obviously doesn’t have an alibi, and he was smart enough to have worked out that knowing about Kyle’s whereabouts before the time he was killed is dangerous. Given the distances, he could have walked either from his house or from his office to Wester Seton in – what, twenty minutes? And he’s got that direct link to both victims too, which is more than we’ve established for anyone else.

‘But—’

‘Aye, but ...’ MacNee agreed, as they got into the car. ‘Seems kinda flimsy, somehow. Would you kill one of your son’s pals just because he’s messed up your car?’

‘He was worried about his influence on Gordon as well, and like they say, it’s the first killing that’s hardest. And we don’t know what Barney may have happened to know. But I’m putting him down on the list of suspects.

‘So what next? I want to get a grip on this, Tam – I need to feel we’re making progress, at least on the elimination front if nothing else. The Farquharsons? They’ve a lot of questions to answer.’

‘I tell you who I’m wanting to see. Ellie Burnett. I was talking to Alanna Paterson who does pottery in the Craft Centre on Monday,’ MacNee said, then at a look from Fleming added hastily, ‘just a wee unofficial chat in the shop, same as any customer might have. Anyway, she said Ellie and the Colonel were just like this.’ He crossed his fingers to demonstrate.

‘Ellie Burnett,’ Fleming said thoughtfully. ‘She’s the invisible woman in this. No one’s managed to interview her – we tried on Monday, but she wasn’t answering the door after the Colonel was killed, and it wasn’t as if she was a suspect – after all, she’d everything to lose by Carmichael’s death.