Lying Dead (18 page)

    ‘Not any more,’ Cath said bleakly.

‘Right, Jon. Tell us about it.’ Fleming had a pad in front of her on the desk and a pen in her hand.

    Kingsley was looking faintly bemused, which, to be fair, was hardly surprising. He hadn’t been in on any of the discussions earlier, hadn’t even heard the theory that there had to be some connection with the area for the body to be dumped here, so suddenly seeing a photo of a bonny girl you’d once known and having it sprung on you that she was the corpse would give anyone a bit of a shock.

    MacNee and Allan had taken the two chairs in front of the desk and Tansy Kerr was perching on the table behind. Kingsley himself was standing like a teacher in front of a class, with them all gazing at him expectantly.

    ‘I – I don’t really know where to begin.’ He spoke with uncharacteristic diffidence.

    ‘How did you come to know her?’ Fleming prompted.

    ‘It was years ago, while I was still a student at Edinburgh. I got keen on sailing through some mates of mine who came from down this way. One of them was a member of the Yacht Club at Drumbreck when it was just a wooden shack and had some great weekend raves.

    ‘But the Glasgow mob muscled in and decided it wasn’t posh enough for them and they’d raise money to demolish it and rebuild, and after that we took to going to Portpatrick instead. There was some big fuss though – can’t remember the details because I wasn’t around but there was a scandal about the Hon. Treasurer embezzling or something. He was Davina’s boss. Imrie – no, Ingles. That was it – Ingles.’

    That rang a bell. MacNee said, ‘Hang about – Keith Ingles! He was jailed for robbery with violence.’

    ‘That’s right,’ Allan chimed in. ‘Took money from the Yacht Club, bashed the cleaner over the head when she caught him at it. Got three years, as I remember it.’

    ‘I vaguely remember hearing about it at the time,’ Fleming said, ‘but no more than that. Tansy, can you nip down to Records and see if you can get the file? Thanks. Go on, Jon. Davina Watt.’

    ‘Ah, Davina!’ He gave a half-smile, then sighed. ‘Davina was – something else. She was a considerable cut above the usual local totty. When she came into the bar every man in the place would suddenly start trying to look cool.’

    ‘Fancy her, did you?’ Allan gave a suggestive leer.

    ‘Too right. Who didn’t?’ Kingsley had no hesitation. ‘But it was one of those “in your dreams” things. She wasn’t about to waste her talents on a student whose idea of showing a girl a good time was buying her a pint of lager.

    ‘Drumbreck was, and still is, full of people with so much money that they think – how shall I put it? – that the usual constraints don’t apply.’

    ‘Do you mean there’s a lot of screwing around?’ MacNee said with deliberate coarseness. Kingsley’s talent for putting plain facts in frilly drawers fairly got up his nose.

    ‘If you want to put it crudely, yes.’ Kingsley, leaning back against the radiator now with his ankles crossed, looked down at MacNee. ‘Davina was reckoned to put it about a bit – got herself quite a reputation for choosing targets with an eye to the main chance.’

    ‘A wee hoor, was she?’ MacNee seemed to have a mission to lower the tone.

    ‘More on a ruthless hunt for a meal ticket. Problem was everyone knew that; you’d hardly break up your marriage for her when she’d be off like a greyhound after an electric bunny if a better prospect turned up.

    ‘The last time we were down here there was a lot of talk about her and her boss – she’d moved in with him. Boring old git, he was – ticked us off once for having a pie fight in the bar – and he probably couldn’t believe his luck. But she wasn’t going to get the lifestyle she wanted to become accustomed to on a solicitor’s salary. Could be why he took the cash.’

    Fleming had been scribbling notes as she listened. ‘He must have done his jail term, given remission. Anyone know where he is now?’

    Kingsley looked blank; the other two men looked at each other then shrugged.

    ‘We can find out. When did Davina leave Wigtown?’

    Again, Kingsley couldn’t help.

    The door opened and Tansy came in. ‘Here you are, boss.’ She put a bulky file down on the desk.

    Fleming looked surprised. ‘That was quick!’

    Kerr simpered modestly. ‘There’s a new guy in Records. He was boasting in the pub the other night about this brilliant system he’s introduced so I told him to put his money where his mouth is.’ She paused. ‘I might also have suggested that a seriously brilliant response might just make you more sympathetic when it came to budget allocation. Not that I suppose it will.’

    ‘Bad things happen to people who tell wicked lies,’ Fleming warned her. ‘So you can go now and find out where Keith Ingles went on release. Shouldn’t be difficult – he’ll be under restraint until October so they’ll know where he is.’

    Muttering that there was no gratitude, Kerr pulled a face and left.

    Fleming riffled through the pages, then stopped to pull one out. ‘This is Davina Watt’s police statement. Pretty damning. Wouldn’t back up his alibi.’

    ‘Can’t have made him happy,’ MacNee said. ‘He’d be thinking that when she was his bidie-in she wouldn’t go into the box against him. What happened to the money?’

    Fleming flicked through to the end of the file. ‘No recovery. You might wonder  . . .’

    ‘Aye, you might,’ said MacNee.

    ‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ Kingsley admitted.

    Allan had been frowning, deep in thought. ‘Here!’ he said suddenly. ‘You don’t think it could be her took the money, after all that? She’d maybe have got him to do it for her, then let him take the rap and went off with the money!’ He looked round with a smirk of satisfaction at being one step ahead.

    ‘Mmm,’ Fleming said, just as the phone rang.

    MacNee couldn’t quite make out the words at the other end, but he could certainly hear the volume at which they were being spoken. Fleming was doing a lot of ‘Yes sir-ing’, and when she put the phone down she got to her feet.

    ‘That was the Super. Some bastard who was in the briefing-room has tipped off the Press and he’s just had a request for a statement about the revised identification of the body. I’m just off to the lion’s den.’

    ‘She’s for it now,’ Allan said with undisguised satisfaction as the door shut.

    Kingsley grinned. ‘Maybe he’ll ask us to give her a few tips on effectiveness, Greg.’

    ‘Very funny,’ MacNee said. ‘As far as I can remember, your name was on the fingertip search detail. If there’s nothing else you can share with us about your acquaintance with Davina Watt, you’d better get out there now.’

    He had the satisfaction of watching Kingsley leave with a very bad grace.

Donald Bailey did not move when Fleming came into the room. He had old-fashioned manners and his remaining seated was a bad sign. If she had needed any more pointers, he was scowling too, and tapping his fingers on the desk.

    ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, before he could say anything.

    ‘So well you might be! What is it coming to, when I learn about major, indeed crucial, developments in a murder case from a secretary on the telephone, courtesy of the
Scottish Sun
?’

    ‘I was just gathering the information to bring to you, Donald—’ She tried to explain, but there was no stopping him.

    She let it all flow over her. Was it the great J. P. R. Williams who had said that finding himself at the bottom of a rugby scrum, he just lay there and thought of happier times? Cammie would know . . . She barely heard what he said, though she was aware that the words ‘protocol – breakdown in communication – unsatisfactory – discourtesy’ featured. Still, better out than in.

    Eventually he ran out of accusations and subsided, glaring at her. ‘So what have you got to say for yourself?’

    She explained, and saw the glare fade. At the end, he said, a little uncomfortably, ‘Oh, I suppose, in the circumstances . . . perhaps I overreacted, Marjory, but you can understand why.’

    ‘Of course, Donald. I’d have been livid myself.’

    ‘So what are you going to do to find the officer concerned?’ Bailey seized on the chance to redirect his indignation. ‘It’s quite intolerable! Disgraceful behaviour. Put him on a charge!’

    ‘First catch your hare,’ Fleming said ruefully. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better, but unless you can get authorization for me to apply red-hot needles under their fingernails, the paper isn’t going to tell me and whoever’s doing it isn’t going to confess. It’s a problem we’ve had before – a nice little earner for someone.’

    ‘Harrumph!’ Bailey said.

    He was the only man she had ever heard utter that word, usually to signal his reluctant acceptance of defeat. Fleming moved on.

    ‘At least we now seem to have a clear line of inquiry. We’ll need people, probably from the office where she worked, to confirm that Kingsley’s right and do an official ID, of course, but it would hardly be surprising if Ingles bore her a grudge, particularly if she did in fact go off with the cash.

    ‘We’ll have records of what happened after his release, with luck might even pick him up for questioning today. I sent Kerr down to check it out. In fact, she may even have some info by now, if I can use your phone?’

    They found Kerr for her. ‘Tansy? Did you get anything on Ingles?’

    Fleming listened with growing satisfaction. ‘I see. Very, very interesting. Thanks.’ She put down the receiver and Bailey looked at her expectantly.

    ‘Well, you never know. This just might be one of the quickest wrap-ups on record. He’s working for the Forestry Commission, renting a house in the forest up above the Queen’s Way, less than a mile from where the body was found.’

    ‘Excellent, excellent!’ Bailey rubbed his hands together. ‘Press conference later this afternoon, once we’ve made the arrest?’

    ‘Hey, whoa!’ Fleming protested. ‘We may not be able to pick him up just like that. But if we get to him before any of this appears in the media, he’ll still think we’re assuming it’s someone from Manchester and the safest thing to do is to carry on as normal and not arouse suspicion.’

    ‘I certainly hope so. This is very good news, Marjory, very good indeed. I won’t keep you, then. Well done.’ He got up to escort her to the door. ‘And it was young Kingsley who made the connection, was it? Smart lad – and working for his stripe, he tells me. Very promising young officer.’

    She longed to point out that happening to have recognized the victim wasn’t exactly a mark of professional expertise, but managed to smile and say, ‘Absolutely,’ then with her brain buzzing went back to her office.

    They’d have to get in touch with the Forestry people, find out where Ingles would be working and send a team up there to bring him in. And Davina’s family – they’d have to trace parents, siblings to let them know before they saw it on the news. That was the other priority, obviously. Then a warrant would need to be sworn out so they could go through Ingles’s house  . . .

    But she mustn’t forget to have her little talk with Greg Allan. If this was somehow going to be put down as another triumph for Kingsley – and she had a nasty feeling it was – she’d have to make sure that Allan remembered where his duty lay.

Susie Stevenson picked Josh up from his friend’s house and hurried away, refusing the invitation to stay for coffee and admire Peter’s mother’s wonderful new kitchen, all gleaming Corian and exotic dark wood, which had undoubtedly cost more than she and Findlay together had earned over the past year.

    The injustice of it all made her so angry she could feel the pressure building inside her head. And Findlay was all set to make things even worse! Raging at his stubborn stupidity, she’d come up with a plan – a long shot, certainly, but Susie always had great confidence in her power to get her own way when she put her mind to it.

    She looked at Josh as he climbed into the Fiat hatchback. ‘What on earth have you done to your hair? It’s standing on end.’

    ‘Don’t know,’ the child muttered.

    ‘Here’s a comb. Tidy it up. We’ve got to go and see somebody.’

    Josh looked sulky. ‘Aren’t we going home?’

    ‘After we’ve done this.’

    ‘But I wanted to watch Tracy Beaker while I had my tea,’ he protested, but it was no use.

    ‘Well, you can’t, that’s all.’ She started the engine.

    ‘Where are we going, anyway?’ he demanded as they set off in the opposite direction to the farm.

    ‘We’re going to see a man who’s been really mean to Dad. You know Dad’s dog, Moss, that he was so fond of? This man says he’s going to have Moss put down. Isn’t that terrible?’

    Josh agreed politely, and his mother’s voice sharpened. ‘You know how fond you were of Moss?’ she prompted.

    ‘I wasn’t, actually,’ Josh said, with a child’s brutal honesty. ‘He didn’t pay any attention to anyone except Dad.’

    ‘Oh, nonsense, darling!’ Susie laughed. ‘You adored him! Don’t you remember the fun you used to have, throwing the ball for him?’