The Third Sin (22 page)

MacNee nodded. ‘I think the boss is playing with that idea. But I’m not just sure you’d say using a stone was the same as using a cosh – you couldn’t carry a bloody great boulder in your hip pocket ready for use.’

‘You might be more inclined to think that way if you’d done it before, though,’ Hepburn argued. ‘We know Skye didn’t kill Will Stewart and if we find who has a solid alibi for yesterday afternoon, we could at least establish they weren’t Killer A and concentrate on finding Killer B.’

‘It’d be fine and handy, right enough. But you’ve been in the job long enough to know by now that unless someone’s locked up or standing in full view of an audience of independent witnesses, preferably including a couple of justices and a minister from the Free Kirk, there’s no such thing as a solid alibi.’

Deflated, Hepburn sank down in her seat and looked at her watch impatiently. ‘You know something – you can get really sick of driving down this road. Are we nearly there yet?’

Kendra Stewart came into the bar where DS Macdonald and DC Campbell were waiting, wearing a pair of dark glasses. Her face was pale, though that could just be because she’d left off her make-up, Macdonald thought cynically.

She sat down on the banquette at one of the tables and waved them to the seats opposite. Her voice, when she spoke after receiving their formal condolences, was soft and shaky.

‘It’s hard for me to even think about this, let alone talk about it, but to bring Will’s – killer,’ she faltered on the word, ‘to justice, I’ll do anything – anything!’

Repressing the urge to say, ‘Just tell the truth and ditch the histrionics,’ Macdonald said gravely, ‘I appreciate that. It must be very hard for you.’

‘It is, it is!’ She took out a tissue and dabbed at the corner of her eyes under the glasses. ‘He was – well, he was my brother, quite simply.’

Which raised all sorts of interesting questions about incest and if she went on like this sooner or later Campbell was going to pose them. Macdonald hurried on, ‘I don’t want to make this any more difficult than it is already, so if I can just ask you a few routine questions first. Where were you yesterday afternoon?’

Kendra bridled. ‘I don’t believe this!’ she said, her voice suddenly much stronger. ‘You can’t possibly think that I –
I
would have— Oh, it’s too ridiculous.’

‘No, no,’ Macdonald said soothingly. ‘This is purely a matter of routine. You and your husband were probably the last people to see your brother-in-law alive so we have to ask these questions.’

‘Where were you?’ Campbell said.

Kendra shifted in her seat. ‘When do you mean? It’s difficult to tell you just like that – I don’t wear a watch. Though I probably would have if I’d known there was going to be this sort of fuss.’

‘So you weren’t here, then?’ Macdonald asked.

‘I’m not tied to the place, you know – my husband does let me out sometimes.’ Kendra was visibly recovering her energy, with bitterness replacing the hushed tones of grief. ‘Occasionally I’m even allowed to spend money, you know.’

‘Shopping spree, was it?’ Campbell said.

She took exception to that. ‘If you call buying one dress that I need for professional reasons a shopping spree, you and my husband would get on just fine.’

‘Mrs Stewart, it would be helpful if could just tell us straightforwardly where you were and what you did yesterday afternoon.’ Macdonald decided there was no further need for tact.

‘I was trying to. I left here just after lunch and drove to Kirkcudbright. There is a little boutique there run by a friend who knows my taste and I found a dress—’

‘Time?’ Macdonald said.

‘
I
don’t know. I told you I don’t wear a watch. If you know how long it takes to drive from here to Kirkcudbright and then back, after about half an hour in the shop, that’s how long it took.’

Campbell, who had been taking notes, scribbled something while Macdonald went on, ‘And when did you last see your brother-in-law?’

It had been just before lunch, she said, ‘And I never said goodbye!’ That produced another bout of eye-dabbing.

‘And did he tell you that he was going to be formally questioned in Kirkluce yesterday afternoon?’

Kendra hesitated. It wasn’t a difficult question; was she, Macdonald wondered, weighing up whether she could lie about it?

‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘He told us both that there was some sort of witch-hunt going on. Since you’ve arrested Skye Falconer, I shouldn’t have thought there was any need to persecute the rest of us.’

Campbell looked up from his scribbling. ‘Didn’t kill Stewart, did she? And that’s an hour and ten.’

‘What is?’ Kendra said blankly.

Macdonald interpreted. ‘The time it would take to get to and from Kirkcudbright, with half an hour in the shop. So when did you get back here?’

‘I don’t know!’ she said wildly. ‘And I probably spent a bit of time shopping – food and stuff, you know? Oh, and I had a cup of tea somewhere, probably.’

‘Probably?’ Macdonald raised his eyebrows. ‘This was only yesterday, Mrs Stewart.’

‘I came home to hear my brother-in-law had been killed. I’m still confused. Yes, yes I did. And,’ she said triumphantly, ‘and I waved to a friend of mine who was passing. I can give you her name—’

‘We’ll send someone to take a formal statement,’ Macdonald said. ‘Perhaps before that you could jot down a timetable of your movements, along with any confirmation you can think of, while it’s still fresh in your memory.’

He was braced for an outburst, but it didn’t come. For the first time, she seemed to be taking this seriously.

‘What was your relationship with Julia Margrave?’ he asked.

‘
Julia
?’ She looked shocked. ‘Why are you asking about her? It was two years ago – it was an accident.’

‘Just tying up loose ends. Did you get on with her?’

‘Absolutely. She was a close friend.’

‘Did she have a relationship with Will?’

Colour flooded Kendra’s pale cheeks. ‘I don’t know. It was none of my business.’

‘You weren’t jealous of her?’

‘Jealous? Me?’ She gave a high-pitched laugh. ‘Why should I be?’

‘But you were jealous of Skye, I understand.’

‘Oh, I suppose your snooper told you that. She doesn’t seem to have been much of a detective – Will said she’d trotted back to you with all sorts of poisonous suggestions that weren’t even remotely true. That was certainly one of them.’

‘You see, Mrs Stewart, in an interview yesterday morning Mr Stewart admitted that you were jealous. And we have to ask ourselves whether the jealousy you showed at the party might have spilt over into the anger of a woman who has been dumped?’

‘That’s – that’s preposterous!’ she spluttered. ‘I would never have hurt Will! You can see how I’ve been ripped apart by his death!’ She began to cry.

Because you have taken great care to demonstrate it, Macdonald thought. ‘And you see, when you told me that you couldn’t absolutely swear to it that he was here all the afternoon when Mrs Margrave was killed, you destroyed your own alibi as well.’

Kendra recoiled as if he had slapped her. Then she got up. ‘When you said you wanted my help, I hadn’t realised that you were intending to accuse me of murder.’

‘We haven’t,’ Campbell said, but Kendra paid no attention.

‘I’m not going to say another word without a lawyer to protect me. And I shall advise my husband to do the same.’

She went out through the door to the back of the pub, slamming it behind her. Macdonald looked at Campbell.

‘Interesting! Has that worried her, or is she just the huffy type?’

‘Could be both,’ Campbell said, as the door opened again and Logie Stewart appeared. If he didn’t look completely broken by grief, he did look grey and weary and, at the moment, anxious.

He was wringing his hands as he said, ‘I’m sorry about my wife. She doesn’t mean anything, you know – just tends to fire up, and she’s very upset about Will. I told her she’s being stupid but that didn’t go down well either.’

He slumped down on the bench. ‘What is it you wanted to ask me?’

‘Where were you yesterday afternoon, Mr Stewart?’

‘Where I always am.’ He sounded very weary. ‘Preparing for the evening’s service, with Maggie. She’ll confirm that.’

‘Thank you, Mr Stewart. And are you able to give us any idea of your wife’s movements – what time she left here, when she came back?’

‘Oh – left after lunch, came back before tea. That’s all I can tell you, really. But there’s no way Kendra would have hurt Will. If I’m to be honest, it worried me that she was a little too fond of him. Nothing serious, of course,’ he gave a nervous laugh, ‘but just – you know, he’s younger, smarter, slimmer – but it would never have come to anything. Will would have discouraged her.’

‘Wouldn’t like that, would she?’ Campbell said.

Logie went quiet. ‘Maybe not. But I can tell you it’s preposterous to suppose she would have killed him. You don’t seriously think that, do you?’

‘We’re following several active lines of enquiry,’ Macdonald said. ‘Thank you for your cooperation, sir.’

As they went back to the car he said to Campbell, ‘Should I have left them guessing? I can’t quite see her wielding a boulder, can you?’

Campbell, in his usual provoking way, shrugged and said nothing.

When the phone rang in DI Fleming’s office and she was told that Damien Thomson, Skye Falconer’s solicitor, was at the other end of the line, her heart plummeted, even though she had been expecting it. Time had almost run out; he had every right to demand they charge her or release her and it was a hard call.

‘Mr Thomson,’ she said stiffly.

He sounded irritated. ‘I want to make it clear to you from the start that I have most strongly advised my client against the course of action she is proposing to take.’

Fleming’s heart lifted just a fraction. ‘Yes?’

‘She says that she wants to talk to you. As far as I can make out, what she is going to say amounts to a defence of incrimination, though she has been less than specific to me. I shall, of course, attend the interview so I need to know when this will be.’

‘I’ll arrange for it immediately,’ she said, then paused. ‘Can I just ask, has she been told that Will Stewart is dead?’

‘Yes,’ he said stiffly. ‘But I wouldn’t wish you to draw any adverse inference from this.’

‘Of course not,’ Fleming said.

As she rang off, a little bubble of excitement was building inside her. Was she, at last, going to get the information she needed?

‘We’d better have a word with the heidie at the school first,’ DS MacNee said to DC Hepburn. ‘Supposing Miss’s alibi doesn’t look as watertight as we’d thought, we could use that to twist her arm.’

Their reception, when they were shown into the head teacher’s office, was less than cordial. The secretary looked alarmed as they identified themselves and when they were shown in, Mrs Pearson’s manner was distinctly frosty.

She looked quite a cuddly figure, wearing the kind of clothes MacNee’s own Bunty might put on if she were having coffee out with her pals, but the eyes had a gimlet glare that reminded him of Miss McGregor, one of his own primary school teachers – and he could almost feel now the sting of the leather tawse, wielded with enthusiasm across the palm of his hand.

‘Is this something further to do with Miss Wilson?’ she demanded. ‘You know that she is not teaching here at the moment?’

‘Yes, we know that,’ MacNee said. ‘We were just wanting to check with you – does your staff have free periods in the course of the teaching day?’

She looked affronted at the term. ‘Non-pupil-contact modules, yes. Not everyone realises that modern educational standards demand a great deal more planning and preparation than was once necessary, so of course time has to be allocated to that.’

MacNee felt a temptation to ask how come half of them couldn’t read and write properly, then, but remembering Miss McGregor he didn’t yield to it. Instead, he said, ‘There’s a particular day we’re interested in – last Friday. Would Miss Wilson have had a – thingamabob that afternoon?’

‘I would have to check. Friday, – oh, that wasn’t the day that poor woman was killed, was it?’ She looked shocked. ‘Oh, please don’t tell me that Miss Wilson is a suspect! Of course, I wasn’t happy about keeping her on after that sordid business two years ago – we did worry about her influence on the children, but employment law makes everything very difficult these days. I never imagined this, though—’

‘No, no,’ MacNee said hastily. ‘There’s no implication that she was involved. It is purely routine to check on alibis. We just need to know that she would have been in school that afternoon.’

A little mollified, Mrs Pearson said, ‘Of course she would, on any weekday.’ She got up and went to consult a noticeboard on one wall. ‘Here we are,’ she said. ‘Friday … oh – Miss Wilson’s class has PE, last lesson.’ There was a little silence.

‘Right,’ MacNee said, and Hepburn asked, ‘What time does the PE class start?’

‘Two-thirty, finishing at three-twenty. Of course staff are not permitted to leave the premises until the end of the school day,’ she said, but without much conviction.

They repeated their assurances that it was purely routine, but they left her looking shaken.

‘Oh yeah, like no member of staff who had a free last thing on
Friday would dream of skipping out and starting the weekend early,’ Hepburn said acidly.

‘Or bunking off to rub out an inconvenient old body. Time we went and turned the heat up.’

But they were just getting into the car when MacNee’s mobile rang and Fleming’s voice said, ‘Tam? Get back here right now. Skye wants to talk.’

‘Let’s go in to Ballinbreck House and see whether anyone’s heard from Randall,’ Macdonald said. ‘Wouldn’t trust our Philippa to bother to lift the phone if he turned up.’

Campbell nodded though without much enthusiasm, remembering presumably the defects of the hospitality on the last occasion.

The village as they passed through it was busy, with a little knot of people standing outside the general store, and several squad cars whose lucky occupants would be off knocking on doors. Seeing a sergeant he recognised, Macdonald pulled over and opened his window.

‘Any luck, Donnie?’

The sergeant pulled a face. ‘A couple of people claim to have seen Randall Lindsay on Sunday afternoon but nothing since. No joy on tracing Will Stewart’s movements – the car hasn’t turned up yet and no sightings yesterday.’

‘Thanks. We’ll be here for another half hour or so – keep in touch.’

There were no cars parked outside Ballinbreck House when they reached it and there was no answer when they rang the doorbell.

‘At the business, maybe,’ Macdonald said. ‘Unless they’ve all done a runner. Directions?’

As they drove along the main street a standing board, grey with fancy white lettering, was standing on the pavement with an arrow directing them down the side street.

‘Looks like it’s open, anyway,’ Macdonald said, and when he turned in there were five cars in the car park at the front already, including two 4x4s and a BMW. The outer door to the warehouse was fixed back; they opened the inner door and went into the shop. It was windowless but brilliantly lit, with spotlights and lamps everywhere.

‘Posh,’ Campbell said, and indeed the clientele, as well as the woman who was showing a fabric book to one particularly yummy mummy, suggested that his diagnosis was spot on. There was no sign of Philippa Lindsay.

Conversation died as they appeared and after an uncertain glance at her client the assistant came over. Macdonald could feel the eyes of the other customers suddenly bore in on them.

‘Can I help you?’ the assistant said.

‘Wanting a word with Mrs Lindsay,’ Macdonald said. ‘Is she here?’

‘Er … yes, well, she’s upstairs in her office. She did say she wasn’t to be disturbed, but I suppose …’

‘Yes.’

The firm response sent her scurrying to an intercom, and they heard Philippa’s sigh before she said, ‘Send them up, then.’

It was, Macdonald thought, a remarkably stylish outfit. There were even mock rooms laid out, sitting rooms and bedrooms to show off different colour schemes. He hadn’t much of an eye himself but even he could see that having a room that looked like one of these would be more restful than the shabby shambles that passed for decor in his own flat.

As they reached the top of the stairs to a sort of mezzanine that ran along one side of the building, Philippa opened the door of a small office ‘Thanks, Suzanne,’ she said to their escort. ‘And if you could possibly damp down the gossip when you go back? I’m not about to be arrested yet – at least, as far as I know.’

As Suzanne nodded and hurried back to her customer, she added
wryly, ‘Unless, of course, you know different? You’d better come in, I suppose, and shut the door. I should think there will be someone wanting to “browse” up here any moment now.’

‘Just a few questions,’ Macdonald said stolidly.

The office was very small but immaculately tidy. Apart from the contents of two trays, one on either side of the desk, there was no paper visible; she had been working on a laptop which she closed down as she took her seat.

When they had interviewed her previously, Macdonald had been struck by her confident, almost aggressive attitude. She had been, he had thought unkindly, reasonably well preserved. Today she looked years older and quite vulnerable, with dark shadows under heavy eyes.

‘We just wondered if you had any news of your son,’ Macdonald said, and saw a spark of her former aggression appear.

‘I told your inspector that if I heard from him I would let you know immediately. Do you think I’m concealing him somewhere?’

‘Has been known,’ Campbell said.

‘It would show a level of stupidity I don’t possess. What good would it do? I suppose he could hide but he’d have to come out eventually. You seem to have made sure that he can’t go anywhere without being spotted. Are you planning to arrest him?’

‘We’re anxious for his help with our enquiries.’

‘If that’s all, you could have done it without making a circus out of it. I’ve had to switch off my phone and poor Suzanne’s even had to rebuff some oik from one of the newspapers who turned up here. If it gets any worse I’ll have to close for the day and drive yet another nail into the coffin.’

‘Business difficult?’ Macdonald asked.

She gave a snort of bitter laughter. ‘Do you lavish money on decor when there’s a downturn? But presumably you didn’t come here to talk about my turnover. What do you want?’

‘You know that Will Stewart was killed yesterday?’

Philippa compressed her lips and Macdonald saw a look of pain on her face. She didn’t look at him as she said, ‘Yes.’

The time to put the boot in was when someone was down. ‘Your husband said you had an affair with him.’

She gave a gasp of outrage. ‘How dare he!’ she said, then, defiantly, ‘And if I did? So?’

‘And at the party you were trying to arrange a meeting with him because you fancied him.’

‘I suppose this was from your undercover chum. Or “spy”, as normal people would call it. Slimy little bitch! Don’t you ever feel dirty, just being part of the job you do?’ The aggression was back, all right; she was coldly furious.

‘No,’ Campbell said flatly, while Macdonald ignored it.

‘But Will himself told my inspector that he was trying to brush you off without being rude, which backs up our officer’s report.’

He saw that one go home. Philippa curled forward, her arms across her chest, and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.

Oh yes, she did. ‘When was the last time you saw him, Mrs Stewart?’

Her head bowed, she didn’t speak for a moment. When she looked up her eyes were hard again.

‘At the party. I never saw him again. We were hoping to meet but—’ she bit her lip, ‘for one reason and another it didn’t work out.’

Macdonald nodded. ‘You told my colleague yesterday that you’d been in Kirkcudbright?’

‘Yes, Sergeant, I was. And I gather, from the phone calls I had this morning from a couple of friends that your efficient colleagues have checked it out already. Look, I’ve been generous with my time. Is there anything else, or can I get back to my work?’

‘Just one more thing. What was your son’s relationship with Julia Margrave?’

Philippa hadn’t expected that and it threw her. ‘J-Julia?’ she said, then stopped, as if she were considering it. ‘I don’t know – he doesn’t confide in me. He certainly owed her a lot, getting him the job in the bank and so on, but …’ She paused again, then gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘But, as I know all too well, he isn’t the grateful type. Why do you want to know?’

‘Routine,’ Macdonald said. ‘But if you do hear from Randall it would be very much in his interests to persuade him to contact us immediately.’

She wasn’t a stupid woman and he could see that she was making connections but she said nothing more than, ‘I see,’ and then, ‘Goodbye,’ as they left.

There was, Macdonald thought, real anger there, but by the end of the interview she had looked very weary, defeated almost. Given her problems – her business, her lover, her son – it wasn’t surprising.

Skye Falconer looked as if the puff of air from the door closing as Fleming and MacNee entered the interview room might blow her off her seat. She was thinner than ever; her eyes were swollen and her cheeks hollow and raw from the salt of tears.

As Fleming sat down and MacNee performed the formalities for the tape, including repeating that the interview was taking place under caution, her brief jutted his chin aggressively.

‘As I told you on the phone, my client is ignoring my advice in deciding to talk to you. In her best interests, I will be repeating that recommendation. I beg you to listen to me, Skye!’

Damien Thomson turned to try to catch her eye, but Skye gave no sign of having heard him. He sat back, throwing his hands up in a gesture of despair.

Fleming could understand his protective instincts. In the face of this small, broken creature, who could help it? From the look on
MacNee’s face, she could tell that the words, ‘Poor wee soul!’ were forming in his mind.

She had to harden her heart, though, and remember that this was a suspect who had at the very least been present at one of the murders and had a strong connection with a second. She could go easy to start with, anyway. But just as she opened her mouth to ask the first question, Skye began.

‘I want to tell you it all. I don’t care what happens to me. Will’s dead – nothing matters any more.’ Tears started as she said the words but, uncannily, she didn’t sob; she didn’t seem to notice she was crying though the tears must have stung her sore cheeks as they spilt over.

‘We kept in touch with Connell, a bit, after he did his disappearing act and I persuaded Will to take me with him to Canada. Will had helped him to do it, you see – there was – it would have been …’

She hesitated. Fleming said gently, ‘He couldn’t afford an investigation that would have implicated him too?’

‘Yes, well, I suppose so. But Will didn’t deal in drugs, really – he just, well, had them, sometimes. Not much.’

‘Where was Connell, during the time he was away?’ Fleming asked.

‘Living in a flat in Birmingham. We never emailed or phoned, just in case it got tracked, but we had his address if we needed to get in touch. Actually, we never used it. We weren’t really friends. I was always kind of scared of him, to be honest. Don’t know what he was doing – he didn’t tell us.’

No prizes for guessing, Fleming thought, with a significant glance at MacNee.

‘Then we got this letter,’ Skye went on. ‘It was back in March. Just – out of the blue. A letter … and it said—’

Without warning, she broke down, uttering great wrenching cries, hunching over as if in terrible pain.

‘That’s enough.’ Thomson stood up. ‘I insist that we terminate the interview here. My client isn’t fit—’

‘I have to! You can’t stop me.’ Shuddering, Skye sat up, struggling for control. ‘I need to get it over with, to explain.

‘Oh God, the letter! If it hadn’t been for that, and carelessness – it was my fault, my fault, of course it was, but it didn’t deserve punishment like this for me or for—’ She choked.

Thomson, who had sat down again, was starting to look almost as distressed as his client. ‘This is intolerable—’

‘Do you wish to terminate the interview, Skye?’ Fleming said.

Skye shook her head vehemently. ‘No, no! It’ll be worse if I put it off.’

MacNee poured her a glass of water from a carafe on a side table, and drinking it seemed to calm her.