Lying Dead (39 page)

Following the sound, he tracked Euphemia Aitcheson to a downstairs cloakroom, all gold taps and piles of fluffy towels. The bright yellow Dyson was clattering loudly on the tiled floor; it took her a moment to realize that he was there, and when she did she didn’t look overjoyed to see him.

    ‘Hello, Euphemia,’ he said. ‘Long time since I’ve seen you.’

    She looked less than thrilled at the renewing of Auld Acquaintance, turning off the machine with an air of reluctance. ‘What’re you wanting?’ she said bluntly. ‘And Mrs Aitcheson’ll do. I don’t use my first name.’

    He couldn’t blame her. It must have been an additional burden in her life, along with the coarse-grained, waxy skin and flat dark eyes.

    ‘I was having a wee chat with Brian yesterday,’ he said, trying to ease into the conversation. ‘Seems to be getting on all right.’

    ‘He told me.’

    His hopes of a useful, gossipy chat vanished. It was going to be awkward to ask her, flat out, to dish the dirt on her employers; he began on a different tack. ‘Rab McLeish – do you remember if he was the barman at the Yacht Club at the time of the robbery, when you were injured?’

    ‘McLeish? Aye, he was.’

    ‘Right. But he wasn’t there, the night it happened?’ It crossed his mind that she could have been mistaken, in bad light and confusion, perhaps; McLeish, on paper, was a lot more likely to be violent than the solicitor described to MacNee as a kind, gentle man.

    ‘No.’

    ‘No one else was there, just you and Keith Ingles?’

    ‘That’s right.’

    She was watching him, with a sort of silent insolence that told him she was being deliberately obstructive. If that was how she wanted to play it  . . .

    He leaned back against the cloakroom door. ‘Can you just take me through what happened that night, from when you arrived?’

    Mrs Aitcheson glared at him. ‘I told them a dozen times. And in the court.’

    ‘You didn’t tell me.’

    She shook her head, in exaggerated disbelief at his demands. ‘I went in. I heard a noise in the office and I called, “Is someone there?” and he called back, sort of anxious, “Who’s that?” And I said, “Mrs Aitcheson, coming in to clean.” And he said, “It’s all right, Mrs Aitcheson, it’s just me putting something in the safe.” And I went to my cupboard and next thing I know he’s coming at me with this great spike in his hands. And then he hit me. That’s all.’

    ‘And you recognized him?’

    ‘I said. In court.’ She was angry now. ‘Course I recognized him. Had enough to do with him, didn’t I – him and his nastiness and his, “Now, Mrs Aitchethon—” ’ She mimicked a posh, lisping voice savagely, then broke off. ‘Anyway, got what he deserved, didn’t he? Water under the bridge now.’

    ‘OK.’ She was positive, right enough, and that was a lemon which had more or less been squeezed dry. ‘Brian was saying,’ he went on, ‘that Mrs Lafferty and Mr Murdoch were carrying on together. Did you—?’

    ‘Brian should keep his big mouth shut,’ she interrupted. ‘Spreading gossip like that, without a word of truth in it.’

    ‘He’s not the only one saying that.’

    ‘Should know better than to listen to them then, shouldn’t he?’

    ‘So you don’t know anything about an affair?’

    Mrs Aitcheson didn’t even answer him. ‘Have you finished? I’ve work to do.’ She picked up a cloth and began vigorously polishing the gold taps.

    He’d been planning to lead her on, get her talking about other scandal which might, as her job took her into the Drumbreck homes, have come her way. But the horse he was flogging was well and truly pushing up the daisies now and MacNee left with a cheery, ‘Thanks for the wee blether, Euphie,’ and enjoyed the sullen look she gave him.

    MacNee let himself out and glanced back at the house as he left. A movement at an upper window caught his eye: Gina Lafferty had been watching him depart, but now twitched rapidly back behind a curtain.

Chapter 19

‘It’s really pretty here, isn’t it?’ Tansy Kerr said, getting out of the car and looking out over Marjory Fleming’s favourite view. ‘Wouldn’t mind living here myself – look at that blossom, and the hens pecking about!’

    Kingsley, getting out of the driver’s seat, grunted. ‘Shame about the neighbours, as they say.’ He gave a cursory glance, then turned round to survey the clutter of buildings: the old stone farmhouse, the cottage below, beside the orchard, the untidy sprawl of sheds and steadings in every possible material, from stone like the houses to polythene and red corrugated iron.

    Kerr eyed him warily. He’d been in a bad mood on the way up, grumbling about being kept away from the centre of the action. ‘Didn’t tell MacNee to come out here to clean up the mess on her doorstep, did she?’ he had said bitterly.

    ‘What does it matter? It may have escaped your notice, Jon, but we’re all in this together. We’re a team. It’s not a competition.’

    ‘Oh, it may not be for
you
,’ he said, his tone so patronizing that it made Kerr want to slap him. She lapsed instead into silence. She’d noticed that Big Marge always chose her confrontational moments carefully and, though it might not sit plausibly with Tansy’s zany-hair-ripped-jeans style, the boss was her role model. A teeth, nails, kick-where-it-hurts row with Kingsley would have to be a pleasure deferred.

    ‘I think we should start with Bill,’ he said now, taking charge in the way that got right up her nose, considering she had longer service. ‘He may have noticed comings and goings that we could check against what the Stevensons choose to tell us.’

    ‘We’ll have to find him first,’ Kerr pointed out. ‘He could be anywhere on the farm. So could Stevenson.’

    But Bill was clearly expecting them. He emerged from one of the steadings, in heavy boots and blue boiler suit, holding a gushing hosepipe.

    ‘I’ll just turn this off and be with you,’ he called.

    Kerr had met Bill Fleming on a couple of occasions, including a charity ball when she had been his partner in a set of farmers for a Strip the Willow of such sustained ferocity that it made a fight after an Old Firm game look like a Sunday School picnic. She liked him; he was somehow comforting to look at, big and solid and pleasant-faced, with clear blue eyes and a ready smile.

    He wasn’t smiling today. He came over to shake hands with Kingsley, whom he hadn’t met, and shook hands with Kerr too. He had big, hard, workman’s hands, with the cracks and callouses that come from outdoor labouring.

    ‘I suppose you’re looking for Findlay.’

    ‘Is he expecting us?’ Kingsley asked.

    ‘No. They’d heard about the murder – it was on TV last night – and I wasn’t sure that you would want him given warning of your visit. But he’s not far away – doing some work on a standpipe down in one of the lower fields there. I told him to take his mobile in case I needed him.’

    He fished his own out of his pocket and made the call. ‘He’ll be about ten minutes. Do you want to wait in the house or anything?’

    ‘Perhaps we could just check a couple of things with you,’ Kingsley said smoothly. ‘The dog, first. Did you realize it was Murdoch’s dog?’

    Bill looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes – well, yes, I suppose I did. You don’t get a dog behaving like he did, totally in tune with a new master, as quickly as that. And there was that prick ear, too. But I didn’t say anything. I was sorry for Fin, and I was sorry for the dog too. It was under a death sentence, you know.’

    ‘Mmm.’ Kingsley didn’t sound sympathetic, and Kerr said hastily, ‘But you didn’t know at that time about Niall Murdoch’s death?’

    ‘No, not till Marjory came home and told me. I realized, of course, that this put a different complexion on the situation. Not that I believe for a moment that Fin would do anything like that.’

    ‘Despite his having been previously charged with assault on Mr Murdoch?’ Kingsley said coldly, and Kerr gave him an irritated glance. He seemed to be trying to put Bill’s back up, a common enough technique when you were trying to bounce someone into an admission which might otherwise be withheld, but it was surely unnecessary here.

    Bill didn’t rise to the bait, only saying mildly, ‘I suppose I would tend to put throwing a punch into a different category from murder.’

    Kingsley ignored that. ‘Comings and goings,’ he said. ‘The night before last. Did either of the Stevensons leave the farm after seven o’clock?’

    ‘They wouldn’t tell me. They would have no reason to.’

    Kerr, looking at him sharply, suspected that he was, very gently, stalling. He had given an answer, but not to the question he had been asked. So much for Jon’s technique!

    Kingsley hadn’t noticed. ‘But you might have heard a car driving away – seen the car was missing? Did you see Stevenson at any stage in the evening?’

    ‘I saw him around seven when I went out after supper to check on a delivery that had come earlier. I didn’t see him after that.’

    ‘So you couldn’t say whether he was here or not? And what about a car leaving, say around ten, eleven?’

    ‘I go to bed at ten, and after that I’m afraid I don’t hear a thing. Marjory will tell you I’m a very sound sleeper.’

    ‘How convenient for neighbourly relations,’ Kingsley said unpleasantly. But, Kerr realized, he hadn’t noticed that Bill had again avoided giving a straight answer. She sympathized, but he couldn’t be allowed to get away with it. This was a murder inquiry.

    Feeling mean, she put it to him directly. ‘Bill, did you hear the Stevensons’ car going out at any stage on Wednesday evening? Or notice that it had gone?’

    He said heavily, ‘When I went out at around nine, the hatchback wasn’t there.’

    ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Fleming. You’ve been
very
helpful,’ Kingsley said with heavy sarcasm – as if, Kerr thought indignantly, it had been he who had prised out the information.

    ‘That’s Findlay now,’ Bill said with obvious relief as Stevenson appeared up the path with a couple of collies. He stopped when he saw them and his face changed.

    It was Kingsley who went forward, holding out his warrant card. ‘Mr Stevenson, could we have a word?’

    The dog with the prick ear came closer to his master, his eyes on the man’s face, as if he sensed his unease. Stevenson squared his shoulders, as if he were going into battle.

    ‘You’d better come down to the house,’ he said.

‘What’s this?’ Susie Stevenson, bristling, glared as Stevenson led them into the cramped room at the front of the cottage which served as both kitchen and sitting-room. ‘My husband will appear in court on the date he’s been given, but I don’t see why we should be subjected to police harassment in the meantime.’

    ‘May we sit down?’ Kingsley said to Stevenson, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘We’ve quite a bit to talk about, haven’t we? Perhaps your wife could leave us—’

    ‘And have my husband subjected to police brutality, without witnesses?’ she shrilled, but Stevenson, looking unutterably weary, said only, ‘Better do as he says, Susie. Go to Josh – see that he doesn’t come wandering through.’

    She looked mutinous, but when Kingsley went to the interior door and held it open, she flounced through it.

    Findlay sat down on the sofa beside the little fireplace with its beige fifties tiles, and the two officers sat down opposite. The dogs had been left outside; through one of the small, deep-set windows Kerr could see the older dog with the prick ear lying down, his nose on his paws, eyes on the doorway.

    ‘The dog outside there,’ she said. ‘That’s Moss, isn’t it?’

    Findlay met her eyes for a second, then put his head in his hands. ‘How did you find out?’ he said, then, ‘Oh, I suppose—’

    ‘We had a tip-off,’ Kerr said quickly. ‘Someone gave us the information, and DI Fleming asked us to check it out.’

    ‘Well, what would you have done?’ There was hopeless anger in his voice. ‘The man was going to kill him. I offered him money, but it wasn’t enough. I’d tried to raise the full amount, but the bank in Kirkluce wouldn’t lend, and he said it was all over. Wouldn’t even talk to me any more.

    ‘He’s a brilliant dog – the best! I’d betrayed him once already, selling him to that bastard. How could I let him die?’

    ‘Right, Mr Stevenson, suppose you talk us through it while DC Kerr here takes notes.’ The emotional temperature had risen; Kingsley’s cool tones brought it down again, but Kerr looked daggers at him. It wasn’t up to him to order her to take notes.

    ‘Nothing to talk through, really. I drove along to Drumbreck just as it was getting dark. There were people in the Yacht Club but otherwise there was no one around. Susie had told me where Moss was being kept so I just went to the shed and there he was. The only problem,’ a flicker of a smile crossed his face, ‘was the noise he made when he saw me, whining and yipping. But I shut him up, then I loosened his collar and left it attached to the chain so that it would look as if he’d slipped it, then escaped. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think Murdoch would bother to go looking for him.

    ‘Then I brought him back here – spot of black ink on his nose, and—’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s all, really.’