Lying Dead (26 page)

    Ingles looked from one to the other, chewing his lip. ‘I – I can see that. But what guarantee have I that you won’t simply distort everything I say?’

    Kerr gestured to the video camera. ‘That. And I promise I’ll listen. We won’t put words into your mouth.’

    There was a long, long silence. Kerr could feel the man agonizing over the decision. Then Ingles began to talk.

The Cosmo Bar, all glass, stainless steel and subtle lighting, had a young, slick, city clientele with which Tam MacNee and Tommy Tucker didn’t exactly blend. Tam’s outfit of black leather jacket, white T-shirt and jeans might just have passed for minimalism despite the jacket being well worn, the T-shirt being from Asda and the jeans being unfashionable, but Tommy’s ensemble – zip-up top, checked shirt and chinos – blew any chance of that. Sitting at one end of the bar, they couldn’t have indicated ‘police’ more clearly if they’d topped off their outfits with a London bobby’s helmet.

    A sort of cordon sanitaire had formed, but even beyond the empty bar stools there was an uncomfortable atmosphere. The barman, a snake-hipped youth in a black shirt and tight black trousers, kept giving them dirty looks as customers finished their drinks hastily and left.

    It had proved impossible to follow Fleming’s suggestion that they avoid Mandy Preston. The woman worked here, after all, and they could hardly tell her to go home. She was determined to help things along by pouncing relentlessly as regulars appeared with a cheery cry of, ‘Now
here’s
someone you’ll want to talk to!’ Then, to her victim, ‘It’s the p’lice. About Natasha’s murder.’

    Even after Tucker had some fairly blunt words with her, she resorted to sign language which was almost more alarming to the hapless customers. It was a far cry from the quiet chats over a drink that MacNee and Tucker had planned.

    The men selected had been variously angry – ‘Sure I knew her. That’s suddenly a crime?’ – nervous – ‘I used to chat to her sometimes – that’s all right, isn’t it?’ – or flatly evasive – ‘Natasha? Oh, was that the dark girl? Never spoke to her except to order a drink.’ They gave their names with a bad grace.

    In a desperate attempt to have a conversation to which the hovering Mandy was not a party, MacNee and Tucker experimented with taking them over to a table to talk to them instead, but that only seemed to make things worse. After three hours, the most unguarded remark they had on record was, ‘She was very attractive.’

    No one, it seemed, had ever seen her outside the bar and no one admitted that she was anything other than the most casual of acquaintances, despite helpful promptings from Mandy like, ‘You remember that Thursday – you and Natasha were all chummy in the corner of the bar and I’d to tell her to come and help serve – d’you not remember?’

    No one had shown the faintest sign of recognition when shown Keith Ingles’s photograph either, and at last MacNee and Tucker were prepared to admit defeat.

    ‘If you’d told me that I’d prefer to be at the station being hounded by JCB for a report I hadn’t written than sitting in a pub for three hours, I wouldn’t have believed you,’ Tucker said morosely.

    ‘If you’d told me I could nurse one pint of shandy for three hours—’

    ‘Two pints, but who’s counting?’

    ‘Well, two then, and I don’t even like the bloody stuff. And what have we got to show for it? We know she was a wee hoor from the way she was going on before she ever left Galloway and it’s not our business if she’d decided to forfeit her amateur status and turn pro.’

    ‘We weren’t going to have got them to open up however we came on to them, Tam. They’ve all heard she was murdered. They’re not exactly going to say, “Oh, that’s right, she was my bit on the side,” are they?’ Tucker was resigned.

    ‘Waste of time, all this, when we’ve got our man anyway. And God knows what that pair of jokers back home are doing with the questioning. More likely to take him round the back and fill him in to make him confess.’

    ‘Maybe your Big Marge has turned up something.’

    Tam pulled a face. ‘“Maybe aye, and maybe hooch aye.” That’s Scots for “Oh sure, that’ll be right.”’

    ‘“That’ll be right” isn’t English either. But me having a talent for languages, I know what you mean.’

    ‘Right, Tommy, since you’re so smart, you can probably tell me where we go from here?’

    Tucker groaned. ‘Not as smart as that.’

    It was half-past five and Mandy had gone off for a break (‘Toodle-loo, boys, won’t be long!’). There was a lull in custom and the barman who, when questioned earlier, had said that he knew Natasha only as someone whose bar shifts had sometimes coincided with his, came over to them, looking surly.

    ‘What will it take to get you two out of here? Haven’t had a tip all afternoon and at this rate the bar’ll be empty all evening.’

    Tucker was quick off the mark. ‘Information.’

    ‘Haven’t got any. But—’ He paused. ‘If you want a hunch  . . .’

    ‘We’ll settle for something your granny saw in the tea leaves, if it’s useful,’ said MacNee.

    ‘She was a right little tart, we all knew that. But just lately, I wondered if she’d a new idea. Saw her having a couple of conversations that looked more like she was putting on the pressure than chatting them up – know what I mean? They weren’t looking very pleased by the end of them. Not sure she was getting far, mind you. One guy burst out laughing and she flounced away in a huff. And I noticed after that a lot of the punters were backing off.’

    ‘Names?’

    He shrugged. ‘Don’t know their names. Don’t want to. Wouldn’t demean myself with that kind of thing – I’ve got standards, haven’t I? Not like some.

    ‘That’s it. That’s all. Now, will you effing get out of here? You’ve done enough damage for one day.’

    ‘That’s your guv now,’ Tucker said suddenly as the door opened and Marjory Fleming appeared. ‘Any chance she’ll let us knock off and find a decent pub somewhere?’

When Kerr came back to the CID room, Kingsley was staring at a computer while Allan, his arms folded, was perched on a desk talking gloomily to one of the other detectives. They both looked round.

    ‘Well?’ Allan snapped.

    ‘He gave us his version, anyway – found the body lying on the grass outside his house, was scared he’d be blamed, wrapped it in a tarpaulin and took it off into the forest to get rid of it.’

    Allan guffawed. ‘Oh, I like a villain with a talent for fiction! Nice one. We can have a lot of fun with that.’

    ‘Obviously we have to check it out,’ Kerr said and Allan stared at her.

    ‘You’re kidding! You’re saying you fell for that? “I just found this body, officer – don’t know where it came from but thought I’d get rid of it without telling anyone.” Like you do.’

    ‘No.’ Kerr was annoyed. ‘I’m not saying that. I mean what I said – we have to check it out.’

    Hot colour came to Allan’s face. ‘And what am I supposed to do meantime? Release him on police bail without charge? And the next thing we know is a postcard from South America?

    ‘No, I’m going along there right now to charge him. And I think you’ll find the Super will back me on this. Right, Jon?’

    Kingsley had got up and come over to join them. He was looking edgy and irritable. ‘Let’s get it over with, then. I’ve been dealing with the bastard all day and I’ve had enough of this. Charge him, and then I’m going on my break.’ He turned to Kerr. ‘There’s no alternative, Tansy. You couldn’t call it a convincing story, and he tried to do a runner before. With the evidence we’ve got – he’s even admitted to you that it was her blood on the tarpaulin  . . .’

    Kerr could see that, of course. But the boss wasn’t going to be happy. If Ingles had been released, she could have pulled him in later for further questioning. Once he was charged, the questioning had to stop.

    Well, it wasn’t her job to break the news to Big Marge and she’d take a small bet that Allan wouldn’t either. It would be a nasty surprise for her when she got back.

MacNee and Tucker had given Fleming their report over beers which went down rather quicker than the shandies, then left. Fleming, finishing a glass of wine, sat on at the table by the window where they had retreated to be out of earshot of the rested and effusive Mandy.

    This was a good time to catch Bill and she fished in her handbag for her mobile. But it was Cat who answered: Dad had had to go out and she wasn’t sure how long he’d be. Yes, they were coping. Yes, they’d had supper. Yes, Cammie was remembering he had work to do on his project. Probably. No, he wasn’t watching TV. Yes, she’d remember to shut in the hens.

    ‘Tell Dad I’ll phone him later.’ Smiling, Marjory switched off the phone, seeing them in her mind’s eye: Cammie, in his room, most likely reading a rugby magazine or else lifting weights, which was his latest obsession; Cat, getting down to work after checking that her make-up was suitable to the occasion; Bill, sorting out some problem with the sheep, which as every sheep-farmer knew had only one ambition – to die in some peculiarly inconvenient way.

    For a moment she felt almost homesick, then she thought of the evening ahead. A long bath, with no one to rattle the handle of the door. Room service.
Room service
. She lingered over the delicious words. Later, bed and the telly. She loved her family, of course she did, but there were times when you needed a little break in order to appreciate them even more. She’d phone Bill for a chat at ten, before he went to bed.

    And she felt she had at least something to show for the day’s work. According to Tam and Tommy, Davina seemed to have been developing a little side-line in blackmail. And the newspaper cutting told her that someone in Galloway knew where she was, or at the very least, had known. Of course, if Ingles confessed, or if it really did turn out they had hard evidence, it would be of no more than academic interest, but when the defence started trying to break your case, you were as well to be in possession of the fullest possible explanation. God, she hoped he’d confessed! She didn’t trust Allan if it came to anything more subtle.

    Absorbed in her thoughts, Marjory hadn’t noticed the tall figure of DCI Carter pass the window and glance in. She jumped as he spoke at her elbow.

    ‘On your own? I thought you’d have Tweedledum and Tweedledee still with you. Another of these?’

    He headed for the bar without waiting for her refusal. ‘What was it?’ he called over his shoulder.

    How could she shout, ‘I don’t want anything’? ‘Rioja. If you insist.’

    He brought it back to the table, with a glass for himself.

    ‘Thank you,’ she said with heavy irony. ‘Very masterful.’

    Carter looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you a one-glass woman or something?’

    ‘No, of course not.’ Marjory was annoyed to hear herself sounding defensive.

    ‘Glad to hear it. Unhealthy, that. My old ma’s ninety and she could see me off.

    ‘Now, how did you get on?’

    ‘I think we can safely say she’s off your patch.’ Fleming finished the first glass and picked up the second; the sooner it was empty, the sooner she could get back to the hotel. ‘She packed before she went. I’d like confirmation of a car hire somewhere – your Tommy Tucker said he’d check that out – but everything points to Galloway.

    ‘Mind you, she seems to have had quite a nice lifestyle on what one of the other barmaids described as “presents” from admirers.’

    Carter raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Presents?’

    ‘Presents,’ she said firmly. ‘What else do you call it when you do a gentleman the favour of stepping out with him and he gives you something to show his appreciation?’

    He was amused. ‘Tricky call, that.’

    ‘The only little kicker is that the boy behind the bar there says that latterly she may have been trying a spot of blackmail.’

    Carter twisted round to look at him. ‘The gay?’

    ‘Is he?’ Fleming was startled. ‘How do you know?’

    ‘Trust me. Was she having any success? Mmm – looks as if we’ll have to send someone in to check on what goes on in this establishment, whether or not it’s linked to the murder.’

    ‘Don’t send Tucker. He and MacNee didn’t exactly fit in unobtrusively. Apparently they were the kiss of death to trade. The barman was all but offering them money to clear out.’

    Carter leaned back in his chair, his eyes on her face. He had, Fleming noticed, very dark blue eyes. Police officers were trained to notice these details.

    She went on, ‘If that’s her mindset, it makes me wonder if the sudden departure to Scotland was prompted by the notion there was money to be made there. For instance, what more does she know about the boyfriend who got sent down, that she might think was worth money? Was he on the fiddle or something – solicitors have a lot of temptations  . . .’

    Carter was genuinely interested, and then, somehow, the talk drifted to his recent case, and suddenly the glasses were empty. She stood her round; by then, they were discussing the particular difficulties of their level in the Force.

    It was eight o’clock when he looked at his watch. ‘Where are you going to eat? I know a good place, just round the corner—’