Scotch Mist (16 page)

‘Those guys and their bloody IEDs!'

‘Mm, but even an alarm clock and dynamite in a suitcase is more sinister than aerosols put in for a laugh. We
have
to discover who was behind that.' His telephone rang, and he raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Do I say you're not available at present?'

‘Yes.' He got swiftly from his chair. ‘I'm off to Max-ee-million, but don't tell him that.'

Having deflected the bleat with the truth that Tom was not available, Max pondered what action he should take about Jenny Greene. He had told Brenda he would speak to the Medical Officer about the child's habit of falling asleep at any time of day, but he was curiously unwilling to drive to the Medical Centre. When he left home this morning MacPherson's vehicle had still been on the forecourt. Blocked in by his own, of course, but the Scot could have asked Clare to move hers, then back out through the gap.
If
he had wanted to leave. But he had clearly been in no hurry to do that.

Max decided he would instead talk to Jean Greene himself; suggest she take Jenny to Captain Goodey for advice. He took a chance on finding her at home. If she was not, he could always telephone later. He could telephone now, come to that, but he felt the need for action.

The spur had been removed from both investigations, which left him feeling restless. An alarm clock and a stick of dynamite. How often had that ploy been used in the black and white war films he had collected over the years? The description
improvised explosive device
had been used so often in connection with the war in Afghanistan one's mind immediately read terrorist activity into the letters IED. Particularly in a military setting.

What he had now to ensure was that whoever inserted one into the bonfire with the intention of making a point, drawing attention to his anger over some personal sense of injustice, was given appropriate punishment. As for Eva McTavish, the team would surely come up with evidence to show she had been pill-popping at the Sports Ground, or knocking back the vodka. A suicide note would clinch the matter, but Hector had almost certainly destroyed it. If challenged, his mother would doubtless have no hesitation in backing up his claim of a newscutting having been sent to her. It was a lie Hector knew they would recognize, but be unable to prove. Frustration in every direction, and a boring dinner tonight to make much of the new Scottish members of the Mess. Small wonder he felt distinctly unsettled.

Arriving at the familiar house, it looked as if Max had caught Jean Greene on the point of going out. Jenny was being lifted into her car seat, and several stout carrier bags stood on the pavement by the open boot. Max drew up and got out. Jenny spotted him and yelled his name while resisting her mother's attempt to put her legs through the restraining straps. Laughing, Max joined Jean who had realized she was facing the impossible and was lifting the wriggling child out of the car again.

‘I'm not used to such flattering female attention,' he said, still laughing as he took Jenny from her. ‘Hallo. Not watching Paddington buy a new tablecloth today?'

Jenny shook her head. ‘Mummy has to get rid of the bloody bottles.'

Trying hard to wipe the smile from his face, Max looked at Jean and was surprised to see a tide of red flooding her face.

‘She repeats everything I say,' she offered lamely. ‘I didn't know she'd overheard my phone conversation just now.'

Max nodded but he had seen the furtive glance she gave at the bags on the pavement, and guessed there was more behind her unease than her garrulous child's embarrassing repetition of an oath.

‘Maybe she was asleep again, and woke while you were still speaking to your caller,' he suggested. ‘That's what I've come to talk to you about.'

‘I have an appointment, Max,' she said hurriedly. ‘Make it this afternoon, then you can have tea with us. Jenny'd love that.'

‘I won't keep you,' he assured her. ‘I happened to tell a friend yesterday about how Jenny falls asleep so easily at any time of the day, and she said you should talk to a doctor about it. She's a nursing sister, so she knows what she's talking about. I told her I'd pass her advice to you.'

‘Oh, yes. Thank you. I'll do that.' She took the small girl back from him. ‘Jenny, we have to go to see Stephanie. She's waiting to show you her new kitten.'

The kitten proved to be a greater attraction than Max, so Jenny was soon strapped into the seat and urging her mother to hurry.

‘Thanks, Max. I'll do that,' Jean repeated, and when he made no move to go, added, ‘It's good of you to take so much trouble. I appreciate it.' Then, when he held his ground, smiled a goodbye. ‘I really should be on my way.'

‘Of course. I'll help you to put the bloody bottles in the boot,' he murmured, returning her smile. ‘Taking them for recycling?'

‘Yes. I can manage them, thanks.'

Ignoring that, he walked to where the bags stood and lifted the first. When Jean tried to take it from him, insisting that she was quite able to deal with them, Max's guess became a certainty. Setting the bag inside the boot he pulled a vodka bottle from it – then several more – strangers in a collection bearing wine or lemonade labels. Jean was now looking as guilty as he expected.

‘I'll take these to check for finger prints,' he informed her crisply. ‘Eva McTavish's prints, which I've no doubt will be on each one of these vodka bottles.'

EIGHT

T
he flush slowly faded as Jean Greene offered an agitated explanation for the fact that she had been intending to rid herself of the bottles now in the boot of her car.

‘I discovered them under the bed right up against the wall when I cleared her room first thing this morning.'

‘So why didn't you call me? You knew I was interested in knowing if Eva was sober when she left your house.
Didn't you
?'

Jean licked her lips nervously. ‘She'd been with me for a whole week. She probably liked a tipple in private now and again.'

‘And maybe she drank a lot on Tuesday afternoon as the overture to her plan to end her life,' he said coldly. ‘Destroying evidence of a suicide is a crime, Mrs Greene. I must ask you to come with me to Headquarters to make an official statement.'

She looked aghast. ‘That's ridiculous! The medical report is indisputable proof that she meant to kill herself. Where she actually drank the vodka is surely immaterial.'

‘The medical report is indisputable proof of what caused her death. It's not proof of suicide.'

She stared at him wide-eyed. ‘But of course it is! You're surely not suggesting . . .' Cries of urgency from Jenny took her attention for a moment or two, then she resumed her protest. ‘She's to be buried tomorrow. For the good Lord's sake let her rest in peace.'

Max returned her look unwaveringly. ‘I suggest we drive to your friend's house and leave Jenny there while you come with me to Headquarters,' he said in a tone that left no room for argument.

‘You're not serious?' she asked in disbelief.

‘Very,' he assured her. ‘And I'll take those bottles.'

He waited in his car while Jean took the little girl in to the friend whose daughter had a new kitten. He had no idea what excuse was offered for leaving her there, but she came through the front gate looking stormy and refused to travel with Max.

‘Have nae fears I'll no come,' she told him bitingly, lapsing into her native brogue. ‘I've a wee girl who needs me, remember, so don't continue with this nonsense aye longer than needs be.'

Max drove to Headquarters at a sedate pace, Jean following, which allowed him time to ponder this development. Could her behaviour be regarded as suspicious rather than unthinking? Admittedly, the medical report gave no mention of violence being used on Eva to make her swallow the mixture that robbed her of her life, but he knew there were ways of making victims swallow noxious substances without laying a hand on them.

Vocal threats could be powerful weapons, particularly if the threats were against loved ones. The McTavishes had no children, but what of Eva's parents or siblings? Had she been blackmailed into killing herself? Max realized he must discover a lot more about the Pipe Major's kith and kin, and also about the depth of the relationship between Jean and Hector. Eva had married the boy next door who could blaspheme for Scotland from an early age, she had said. Jean had grown up in the same village, so she must know him well. Just how well, he now wondered.

Using the hands-free facility he called up Connie to report in asap to assist with the interview, then drove on to the forecourt. Jean pulled in to park beside him, and climbed from her car still looking stormy. She marched past without a word as he opened the main door for her, then refused his offer of tea or coffee with an icy ‘No'.

Staff Melly glanced up curiously from his work on the Gibbons case but said nothing, so silence reigned until Connie arrived. Max spent those minutes checking out Hector McTavish's details. Both parents still living; father the local sexton, mother a cook. Brother, Fusilier Callan Richard (deceased). The date of his demise tallied with the period Hector had spoken of.

Max then entered Callan's name and was referred to Redundant Personnel. That produced a thought-provoking fact. Callan Richard McTavish had died from wounds received in action in Afghanistan on January twenty-ninth that year. Max now better understood Drumdorran rage over Eva's death believed to have resulted from the exploding bonfire. Two grievous losses for their much loved and respected Pipe Major within six months. Also, one for the regiment itself, as the death of any member would be, albeit in a different battalion. A regiment was like a very large family. Members frequently quarrelled, but they would let no outsider harm their fellows. One soldier might fight tooth and nail with another, yet stand beside him in defence against any threat to who they were and what they stood for.

When Connie arrived, Max was considering the truth that Jean would also have known Callan McTavish equally well. He should have questioned her more closely on the subject of that family, instead of allowing the woman's easy warmth and the charm of a vivacious child to lull him into wistful thoughts of what might have been. He had accepted Jean's caustic assessment of Hector without question. He now sensed there were depths to be plumbed; depths that should explain why Eva took that fatal step and maybe clarify whether she took it willingly or was driven to do so.

Once Jean was sitting in an interview room facing Max and Connie across a table on which Max had deposited the bag containing the vodka bottles, he made it clear to Jean that she was not under arrest then began the questioning.

‘You told me that you found these bottles under the bed in the room occupied by Eva McTavish for seven days, until she left your house to go and watch the fireworks at the Sports Ground on Tuesday evening. Is that correct?'

‘Yes. It was the first I knew of their presence. I'm not in the habit of searching my guests' rooms.' It was clipped and angry.

‘When I came to your house yesterday morning you told me that you and Eva had quarrelled and avoided each other for most of Tuesday, the day her husband arrived here with his regiment. You gave that as the reason why you couldn't offer an opinion on her sobriety when she left your house.'

‘Yes.'

‘So it must have been obvious to you that I felt it was important to know the answer to that.'

‘But I couldn't give it, could I?' she returned swiftly, watching Connie recording everything in her notebook.

‘When you found these bottles this morning, what did you think?'

She was ready for that. ‘I supposed she'd taken a dram or two each night to help her sleep.'

Max changed direction. ‘Outside your house about half an hour ago you said that the medical report on Eva's death is indisputable proof of her suicide. You could only know that because someone who had read it told you so. Was that person Hector McTavish?'

Her dark eyes challenged him. ‘Is that surprising? His wife had been staying with me for a week, until she walked away that evening and never came back. I still had all her things. Who else would he talk to about his loss?'

‘The Padre, Major Carnegie, Duncan MacPherson, the Bandmaster, Drum Major Lennox, a particular friend. For the members of a regiment there's always someone to talk to when in trouble. That he chose you suggests that you have a closer relationship than you've revealed so far.'

Her eyes blazed with anger. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

Max ignored that and indicated the bag containing the bottles. ‘When you found these this morning why did you feel you must immediately “get rid of the bloody bottles”, your words repeated by your daughter in my hearing? Why did you try to prevent me from seeing them?' When she remained silent, Max aired his suspicion. ‘That telephone call during which Jenny overheard you say that, was it to Hector McTavish?'

For around half a minute she struggled with the decision on how to answer that, studying her hands that lay on her grey wool trousers that had probably been made by the cottage industry she promoted in her shop, like her red roll-neck jumper. Then she looked at him defiantly.

‘You do nae see it, do you? The deed is done. It's over. Eva is to be laid to rest tomorrow. Let her receive God's mercy in peace.'

Whenever witnesses began to bring God into their evidence, Max grew very suspicious. He decided it was time for shock tactics. ‘If Eva's prints are on those bottles I could charge you with attempting to destroy vital evidence. That's a serious offence.'

She was visibly rattled. ‘Are you totally inhuman?'