Lamb to the Slaughter (6 page)

He was scowling as he addressed Denise. ‘Ask your mother where Gordon is.’

Denise, leafing through the magazine section of the
Sunday Mail
, paid no attention.

Maureen, a small, wiry woman with the sort of neat features which, while pretty enough in youth, sharpen unbecomingly in dissatisfied middle age, took a cigarette from the packet that lay on the table, lit it, and took a drag before she said, ‘Tell your father he’s in bed.’

Gloag addressed the table at large, his face red with anger. ‘Oh, he is, is he? Well, he needn’t think, if he chooses to come home at one in the morning, that he can make up for it by lying in bed all day. Denise, go and waken your brother.’

Denise raised her eyes only to roll them, and went back to her magazine.

‘I’ll go, Dad,’ Cara piped up eagerly. ‘I’ll tell him you’re mad at him and he’s to get up now.’

Gloag looked with approval at his youngest. She was the one most like him in appearance, a sturdy, round-faced child who so far at least seemed to have escaped the attitude of insolent indifference which had been fostered in her siblings by their mother’s attitude.

As Cara left the room, Maureen looked up from her newspaper and said, ‘Tell your father he’s a bloody idiot. That’s bound to cause trouble.’

Gloag glared at his wife. ‘Tell your mother that if she didn’t encourage Gordon to behave badly—’

With a sudden movement Denise pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘You two are pathetic. Tragic, really. Stop trying to use me in your stupid games. I’m going to my room, so you’ll have to shut it, won’t you? Or behave like adults – as if!’

As her daughter stormed off, Maureen too stood up, stubbed out the cigarette and walked out. Gloag heard her go to the kitchen and shut the door; then there was the sound of Cara hurrying down the stairs.

‘He called me a fat pig!’ she said as she opened the door. ‘And he used the f-word.’ She gave a few token sobs, but as she went on, ‘And he won’t get up. He just turned over and went back to sleep. I told him he’s in B-I-G trouble,’ satisfaction banished any tears.

Gloag felt suddenly very tired. It had been, as Maureen had not hesitated to point out, a bad decision, one that was going to cost him. ‘That’s all right, Cara,’ he said heavily. ‘Now, why don’t you clear the rest of the table and take it through to the kitchen, like a good girl.’

Cara pouted. ‘I haven’t finished my breakfast.’ She sat down again, helped herself to a piece of toast and spread it lavishly with Nutella.

Her father looked down at his own congealing plateful without appetite. It was all Maureen’s fault, of course. Women nowadays believed that because they went out to work it gave them the right to spend their earnings in any way they chose, even when it should involve a family decision. And he’d made it quite plain what this decision was: no motorbike. The two youths in Kirkluce who had them already weren’t the types that Norman Gloag’s son should be associating with, and Maureen’s deciding to buy one for Gordon, in full knowledge of her husband’s opposition, had been an act of pure spite.

Even by their standards the row which had followed a humiliating visit from the police had been on an epic scale. They hadn’t spoken since, and Gloag’s attempt to assert his paternal authority by confiscating the bike had failed. His son had the nerve to tell him that since his mother had paid for it, it was up to her.

Last night, Gordon had ignored the rule that he was to be back by midnight, and this morning, in the grip of temper, his father had put himself in a position where his bluff could be called. Where was he to go from here? He could hardly go upstairs and eject him physically from his bed. Gordon was bigger than he was now.

Cara had at last finished and under protest (‘Why shouldn’t Denise do it?’) began to clear the table. Gloomily, Gloag collected up his own plate, cup and saucer and handed them to her.

But, he told himself, he wouldn’t have to put up with it for ever. He had had enough of Maureen’s sluttish habits and her constant undermining of his authority with his ­children. He’d even caught her laughing with them behind his back the other day – that came close to being the last straw. He’d have gone for a divorce years ago, but he’d no doubt she’d fight like a cat to get every penny off him that she could, and he’d no fancy for living in penury.

But all being well – and all did seem to be going well, after all – he reckoned he’d done enough to ensure that the superstore deal would go ahead. Then there would be money, a lot of money, coming his way, money which meant he could readily afford to buy his freedom. The words ‘irretrievable breakdown of marriage’ had begun to sound very appealing.

As she came into the Kirkluce headquarters of the Galloway Constabulary at half-past nine on Sunday morning, Marjory Fleming was pleased to see that the officer on duty at the desk was Sergeant Jock Naismith. A bulky, good-natured man, he’d been her sarge when she joined the force as a probationer, more years ago than she cared to remember, and no one knew more about what went on in this patch than he did.

There was no one in the waiting area. ‘Quiet night, sarge?’ Fleming asked hopefully.

Naismith, glad of some distraction, leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Not bad. Road accident, couple of people hurt, but nothing that won’t mend, from the sound of it. The usual drunk and disorderlies but we’ve no one for free bed and breakfast.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’ She hesitated. ‘Jock – a strictly personal enquiry. Do you know anything about two boys called Barney Kyle and Dylan Burnett? The only background I have is that they’ve got motorbikes and they’re at Kirkluce Academy.’

‘Ah! Funny you should ask that.’

Fleming’s heart sank. ‘Got form, have they?’

‘Not exactly. There’s a wifie with that farm just out of the town on the Newton Stewart road that’s been having problems with them. She phoned in last night again, seemingly –
999
call – but when we could send a car they’d scarpered, of course, and all she’d to show for it was a water-butt they’d turned over. They seem just to have been buzzing round the house, winding her up. Young limbs of Satan, I’ve no doubt, but we’ve only her word without much in the way of corroboration, so there’s not a lot we can do. A couple of the lads went round last time to speak to the parents, but it obviously didn’t do much good.’

Norman Gloag’s son, it appeared, was involved as well. Fleming knew Councillor Gloag – who didn’t, when he made it his business to feature in every edition of the
Galloway Globe
? – but she didn’t know the two women from the Craft Centre.

‘Fathers?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know about Burnett. Kyle’s mother has a toy boy with a record for fraud.’

Fleming groaned. ‘They don’t sound exactly the chums you’d choose for your fourteen-year-old daughter, do they?’

‘Fourteen – Cat?’ Naismith was startled. ‘Dearie me – I mind when you were on maternity leave and came in to show her off. Bawled the place down, and you were that embarrassed!’

‘Let’s just hope she’s not planning to embarrass me all over again,’ her mother said darkly. ‘Thanks anyway, Jock.

‘So – looks like a quiet enough day, then, does it? I’ve a bit of paper to shift, but I’m hoping to get away home for my Sunday lunch.’

Naismith shook his head. ‘Lassie, have you learned nothing at all, all these years? You’re tempting fate with a remark like yon.’

Laughing, she left him and headed for the stairs.

It was almost midday when Dylan Burnett, bleary-eyed and still wearing his night attire of grey T-shirt and boxers, came into the kitchen/living-room of the flat above Ellie’s shop. His long hair, fair anyway and bleached blonder still, was tousled from sleep.

His mother, getting ready to go down and open the shop, turned and smiled. ‘You know, with your hair all mussed up like that, you look almost the way you did as a toddler,’ she said, with fond inaccuracy. ‘Want some breakfast?’

Dylan yawned, scratching his armpit. ‘Just coffee. We’d a bit of a night of it, last night. Ended up at Johnny’s. He’s seriously cool.’

Ellie turned away. ‘You’d better have something to eat,’ she urged, switching on the kettle. ‘There’s bacon – do you want me to make you a butty?’

He indicated revulsion. ‘Look, I said just coffee. You going to open up the shop?’ Hopefully, that would get her out of his hair so he could come to in peace.

‘In a minute. There’s tourists still around and even if there’s only a few come to the Craft Centre there’s the chance of sales.’

The kettle was boiling and she spooned Nescafé into a mug inscribed ‘Fauldburn Craft Centre’. There were another fifty in boxes downstairs: they hadn’t been a big seller.

Dylan took the coffee from her and slumped at the table, adding four heaped sugars from a rather ugly pottery bowl. He stirred, sipped and shuddered.

‘God, I’m feeling rough today!’ he said, then regretted it when he saw his mother’s anxious expression. She bugged him about everything – the things he did, the people he hung out with, the amount he drank, the dangers of drugs – as if he didn’t know, having lived through a time when she’d been permanently out of it. He scowled as she said, ‘What all did you do last night?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘You’ve not been bothering Miss Munro again, have you?’

Dylan gave her a sidelong look but didn’t answer. Ellie waited a moment, then gave up. She put the crochet she’d been working on into her bag to take down to the shop and went to the drawer where she kept the float. He stiffened, watching her under his thick blond eyelashes, but though she froze for a second when she saw what was left, she said ­nothing. She usually said nothing, which made him feel a bit guilty sometimes, but Barney would sneer if he hadn’t enough for a few beers.

‘Saw you with Johnny last night,’ he said, changing the subject.

Ellie didn’t turn round. ‘Did you? We just had a chat after I was singing in the pub, that’s all.’

‘You two should get it together. That’d be ace.’ It was weird that Johnny fancied an old bag like his mother, but Dylan had said last night he’d put in a good word. Anyway, if Johnny was around it might get her off Dylan’s back. And he’d make sure, too, that she stayed – well, OK.

His mother still didn’t turn round, staring out of one of the small windows into the courtyard below. ‘Aren’t you happy the way we are, with just the two of us? It’s good, isn’t it?’

Dylan said uncomfortably, ‘Oh, sure. But get real – a year, couple of years, and I’ll be off. You’ve got your old age to think of and you’d be all right with Johnny. He’s a man of his word.’

It wasn’t his own phrase, of course, and when his mother turned there was an odd expression on her face. ‘Did he tell you to say that?’

‘Well, kind of. It’s true anyway. And it’d be better for me having a man around.’

‘I – see.’

He wasn’t in the habit of noticing his mother much, but there was something in her voice which made him glance at her sharply. She’d been all stressed out about this superstore stuff and she was looking awful, scrawny and pale, with black circles round her eyes like she hadn’t slept. Now her eyes were swimming too.

Time she got real, he thought with irritation. He didn’t want to have to spend his life hanging round in this dump of a town where there wasn’t even any decent clubbing, just to keep an eye on his mum. He didn’t answer when she picked up her bag and said, ‘I’m just going. You know where to find me if you want anything.’

Dylan watched her going out, then shrugged. He got up and went over to the fridge. A bacon butty might hit the spot after all.

The morning service at St Cerf’s had just finished and the congregation was slowly dispersing, pausing in little gossipy groups before they went home to the Sunday roast.

Annie Brown was the last to leave, collecting the church flowers to be distributed to sick and suffering members. As she emerged, the minister – a nice enough laddie, in her view, but just a wee thing inclined to those awful silly new hymns – who had been dutifully shaking hands with his flock as they left, was waiting for her.

‘Is Colonel Carmichael away, Annie, do you know?’ he asked. ‘He was down to read the lessons this morning, and it’s not like him not to tell me if he can’t make it.’

‘He maybe forgot,’ Annie suggested, but her concern showed in her face. ‘Mind, he wasn’t at the meeting last night either. He’s not getting any younger. I’ll away round and see if he’s all right.’

‘Would you like me to come?’ he offered. ‘The beadle will lock up. If you wait a minute while I take off my robes—’

‘Och no,’ Annie said. ‘He’d not want a fuss made, if he’s just got himself in a bit of a mixter-maxter over the dates.’

‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

Annie nodded, then, still clutching her flowers, she hurried off down the High Street with her heart racing uncomfortably. She knew the Colonel wasn’t away. He’d said he’d be at the meeting but hadn’t appeared, and now he hadn’t come to do his reading. She’d never known him let someone down without warning.

Kirkluce was very quiet. The Spar shop was open, with a few cars parked in front and one or two people coming out with their Sunday newspapers, but all the other shops lining the wide High Street with its spreading plane trees were closed. Some of the gift shops would maybe open this afternoon, but once the last of the summer visitors had gone, the Sabbath calm would descend. Anxious as she was, the thought occurred to Annie as she jog-trotted past the Craft Centre next to Fauldburn House that if the superstore came, other shops would need to open in self-defence and this precious, peaceful day would become just the same as all the others.