The Third Sin (8 page)

‘Didn’t look the sort,’ Campbell said.

‘We can always hope.’

He was probably right about Jen Wilson. At least he’d managed to catch her before she actually fell and had laid her out on the floor while Campbell went to fetch the head teacher back, and when Jen came round she was apologetic rather than hostile and insisted on going on with the interview once she’d had time to recover.

‘It was just the shock,’ she’d explained. ‘First you saying that he wasn’t dead, then that he was now – stupid, I’m sorry.’

‘I should have broken it more gently but I didn’t realise you’d be so upset,’ Macdonald said.

‘No, no. It was probably low blood sugar as well – I was needing my chocolate biscuit at break. There’s no reason at all for me to be overcome – we were never that close.’

‘So can I take it you haven’t seen him since he faked his suicide?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Going back to that time, do you know where he was getting the drugs he supplied – any contact he might have had in the past?’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry. It’s – it’s not a past that I’m proud of. I find it hard now to believe we were as foolish as we were and if I knew anything that would help, I’d tell you.’

‘Which of you might want him dead?’ Campbell said.

The question took her aback. ‘Julia’s mother, I suppose. But she’s an old lady – walked with a stick, I remember. Apart from that, no. But he was into drugs – if he went on supplying, this could be a deal that went wrong, couldn’t it?’

She wasn’t a stupid woman and she seemed truthful. ‘We’re keeping that line of enquiry open,’ Macdonald assured her. ‘Now, we just need to know where you were on Monday April 14th this year.’

Jen frowned. ‘April 14th – the date rings a bell. Oh yes – that was just before the Easter break, wasn’t it? I was in school all day, of course, and then a few of us on the staff went out for an end of term meal.

‘Is there anything else? I’d really better be getting back to my class,’ Jen said, getting up.

‘Just one more thing. We spoke to Skye Falconer’s father this morning and he said she was back in the neighbourhood. Do you know where she’s staying?’

‘Oh. Well, I’m sworn to secrecy but I suppose I have to tell you she’s been staying with me. She doesn’t want people knowing she’s here, not until she makes up her mind what she’s going to do.’

‘So we would find her at your address?’

‘Yes.’ Then she added hastily, ‘though of course she might be out.’

She definitely looked shifty as she said that. He’d said only, ‘Thanks very much, Miss Wilson. I hope you’ll be all right, after this.’ But as they had walked out to the car he’d said to Campbell, ‘What would you bet she’s on the phone to her pal now?’

‘Dead cert. Bet she won’t be there, though.’

And when they reached Jen Wilson’s house and rang the bell, sure enough there was no answer.

‘Told you,’ Campbell said smugly.

‘Maybe she’s just gone out, anyway,’ Macdonald said. ‘Why did you think she would try to avoid us? Do you think there’s something going on there? I thought Wilson was truthful enough.’

‘Probably was. Said she hadn’t seen him. Didn’t say she didn’t know he was alive. Only passed out when you said he was dead now.’

It was a long speech for Campbell, but when Macdonald thought about it, he was perfectly right. Campbell usually was.

‘That didn’t take long,’ MacNee said cheerfully as they drove out of the car park by the restaurant. ‘Next stop Randall Lindsay’s parents. They’ll have his Paris address – have you got theirs in the notes?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

Hepburn sounded reluctant and MacNee shot her an enquiring look. ‘Problem?’

‘Actually, he’s back at home on leave. He phoned me last night to ask me to this stupid Homecoming party his mother’s organising.’

‘Couldn’t have mentioned this before, I suppose?’

‘I was hoping someone else would be detailed to interview him. He’s loathsome, Tam, and I think he sort of fancies me, which is really creepy.’

‘Grilling him’s not exactly encouragement, is it? If you were in uniform, now – that might be a “phwoar!” factor. But hang on – I suppose he might be into this dominatrix stuff—’

‘Tam! You’re not taking this seriously.’

‘No,’ he grinned. ‘Where’s the house?’

‘Oh, all right then,’ she said sulkily. ‘Back into the village, right along the high street, just past the speed limit sign, turn right, first left.’

She had intended to punish him with silence but it didn’t seem to be having any effect and after a minute she gave up.

‘Why do you think Will Stewart did a runner when he heard we were asking questions? Did you know him before?’

‘Didn’t, no. Never came across him until there was all the stuff in the papers about him being involved in that group. The red tops loved it but it didn’t do the Force’s reputation any good.

‘My guess would be he wants to flush us out, find out what this is all about before he talks to us. He’s been a cop – he’ll be pretty savvy. Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s got anything to hide. Maybe he’s got the sort of job in Canada that could be affected by another scandal here – security, or something.’

Hepburn looked disappointed. ‘Still seems pretty suspicious to me – him coming back just at the time when Kane was killed.’

‘We don’t know that,’ MacNee pointed out. ‘That was weeks ago. She said he’d only arrived last week.’

‘Maybe,’ she said darkly.

‘Easy enough to check. Is this it here? Nice, eh?’

It stood on its own beyond the other houses in the lane, backing on to fields, a large, sprawling Victorian house with a conservatory-style kitchen extension at the back. He drove up the short drive and parked on the sweep of gravel at the front.

The garden was extensive but poorly kept, the gravel weedy, the shrubbery beside it overgrown and what had once been a herbaceous border choked with weeds, though a wheelbarrow and a spade suggested that someone was tackling the problem.

‘You could do worse,’ MacNee said naughtily. ‘Play your cards right and you could—’

‘Oh, shut up, Tam!’ Hepburn slammed the car door and went to ring the doorbell.

There was no response. ‘They’re out!’ she said triumphantly, heading back to the car.

MacNee ignored her. ‘Maybe round the back, working in the garden,’ he said.

But there was no one there either. Hepburn, sitting smugly in the car, called, ‘Have to leave it for today. Someone else’s turn tomorrow.’

Lurking in a little alleyway a hundred yards from Jen Wilson’s cottage, Skye Falconer peeped out to watch the police drive away.

They wouldn’t give up; not seeing them today only meant that she’d have to wait for their next visit, dreading the knock on the door. But she couldn’t think straight, not yet, so she’d done what she always did when trouble came – bolted, as instinctively as a frightened animal.

They had gone now. Skye walked slowly back to the cottage and let herself in. She had to sort herself out, calm her nerves. Right now. They could be back at any moment.

It was a lovely morning and the sun was warm in the tiny garden at the back. She made herself a cup of coffee then carried it outside and sat watching the tits squabbling over position as they pecked at a fat ball hanging on one of the shrubs. She forced herself to relax, shutting her eyes and turning her face up to the sun, listening to the chirpings and tweetings.

She couldn’t afford to be paralysed by shock; she’d allowed herself too much of that already. Staying with Jen for the rest of her life wasn’t an option. She had to get herself back into the real world somehow, not wait till she was dragged out of her fugue of denial, kicking and screaming. This was the wake-up call.

Skye sat up straight in the hard little garden chair and took a sip of the coffee she’d made so strong that she gave a little shudder as she tasted it. Strong – she had to learn to be strong too.

Rejoining the world. There was the Homecoming party Jen had talked about: everyone would be there, all together, and the gossips could have their field day all at once. She didn’t trust Philippa Lindsay – you’d be a fool if you did – but whatever her motives might be that could be the answer to Skye’s problem. She couldn’t control the outcome but it would force her out of deadly inaction.

When Jen had phoned, like the loyal friend she was, to tell her that the police were coming to talk to her, she’d obviously been worried that Skye would do exactly what she had done and tried to reassure her. Once Jen got back from school she’d ask her exactly what the police needed to know, prepare just what she was going to say then maybe even take the initiative by phoning them, apologising for being out. Then she’d sign on and start looking for a job. Whatever you had been through, life went on.

And she’d go to the Homecoming party. It wouldn’t be easy; she gave a little shiver at the thought, but she wasn’t going to waver. That was a firm decision.

She finished her coffee and took it back into the house. She’d have to plan what to wear, then. Jen, bless her, would no doubt offer to lend her something but anything that fitted Jen’s much taller, sturdier frame would swamp her; she wanted to look confident, not pathetic.

A scruffy sweater would not really do. There was a smart top somewhere at the bottom of her bag; she tried to block out her memories of wearing it in happier times. It would need laundering.

Skye went upstairs to dig it out. She had never got round to unpacking the rucksack; putting things in drawers had seemed like settling in and she wasn’t doing that. Now she tipped it on to the bed and pulled out a crumpled silky T-shirt in a greeny-blue colour that
matched her eyes. There was a chunky glass necklace that she’d worn with it as well and she laid them out together. Yes, that with jeans would do.

Skye started stuffing things back into the bag, then suddenly stopped, a thrill of fear going through her. She hadn’t seen it – where was it? It should have been there. Perhaps it was in a pocket somewhere – but she knew it wasn’t, really.

Even so, she checked, shook everything out, poked into her make-up bag. Where could it be, where could it possibly be?

Then she realised and she went cold all over.

‘Will Stewart, Randall Lindsay, Skye Falconer – coincidence that none of them were available for questioning?’ DI Fleming said.

Her meeting, for once, had ended early and she had called in her team for a debrief before the end of their shift.

‘Don’t believe in coincidence,’ MacNee said.

Macdonald nodded. ‘Certainly wasn’t any doubt in my mind that Jen Wilson was planning to warn Skye that we were on our way. Wonder why she needed to?’

‘Will Stewart definitely knew we were there and asking questions. Whether he tipped off Randall—’ Hepburn pulled a face. ‘Little though I like to give that creep the benefit of the doubt, it’s possible he’d genuinely stepped out.’

‘It’d be useful to know,’ Fleming said. ‘They were close-knit in the past; they may have kept up the connections – or maybe this has prompted them into contact again. And if so, is that significant?

‘We won’t have the advantage of surprise tomorrow but at least you shouldn’t have anyone passing out on you, Andy. It’ll hit the media tomorrow – DSI Taylor has given a press conference and there
was a lot of interest. He’s desperate for some sort of progress now, but on the face of it we haven’t come up with anything much to offer him, just people who professed to be shocked, whether genuinely or otherwise.

‘I’ve had the drug squads in Glasgow and – yes, Tam – Edinburgh alerted to see if his fingerprints and mugshot make any connection there, and I’ve got DSI Taylor to circulate those to all the stations in the whole Dumfries and Galloway areas to see if there’s any chance he’s known to them under a different name.’

‘Huh! You’d think they’d have done that already,’ Macdonald said and MacNee rolled his eyes.

‘Well – we won’t go into that,’ Fleming said diplomatically. ‘Now, tomorrow we need to get the interviews we didn’t manage today sewn up. I’ll take that on with you, Tam – I want to get a feel for the place. Louise, chase up phone numbers and arrange the appointments first thing. Then you can be on sifting duty – I’m expecting calls tomorrow once this goes out on the media and the switchboard can’t be expected to sort out the nuggets from the dross.’

She smiled at the disgruntled face of her young officer.

‘How many tons of pitchblende was it that Marie Curie had to shovel to get a smidgen of uranium?’ Hepburn said. ‘Bet I’ll manage to beat that.’

‘Just as long as you come up with the goods,’ Fleming said. ‘Andy and Ewan, I want you on background. Check everything you can about the Cyrenaics – jobs, family, record of course, if any. The inquest report will give you a starting point – and check out the address Kane gave when he was charged. I’d like to find out where he stayed when he was down here too—’

‘The Lindsays, sometimes, according to Kendra Stewart,’ MacNee said. ‘So maybe we’re needing a wee word with Randall’s mum as well.’

Fleming nodded. ‘Right. Fix that too, Louise.’

Hepburn nodded glumly and MacNee said, ‘Cheer up, hen. You weren’t wanting to interview him anyway.’

She brightened slightly. ‘If I never see him again it’ll be too soon. At least that means I won’t have to.’

It was only afterwards that she remembered George Eliot’s dictum that among all forms of mistake, prophecy is the most gratuitous.

Fleming had ordered the newspapers to be sent to her desk first thing on Friday morning and she was poring over them now. They made grim reading.

DSI Taylor and Dumfries Division had been savaged, as she had guessed they would be, for sitting on the information about Connell Kane for such a long time. She’d seen him looking frankly terrified on the TV news last night and now phrases like ‘bungled operation’ and ‘rabbit in the headlights’ were being thrown about. They had loved rehashing the original scandal – with pretty girls, sex, drugs and tragedy, and now a brief resurrection before a murder, it was all their Christmases come at once.

She sighed. As she drove in this morning, there had been a couple of the local stringers lurking hopefully at the front entrance but it didn’t look as if the big boys had picked up on Taylor’s mentioning that she was now involved with the operation.

They might well be down at Ballinbreck, though, trampling all over the patch she was planning to investigate herself this morning, and she sighed again. Transparency was one thing; having someone constantly breathing down your neck and making the job they were blaming you for not doing all but impossible, was quite another.

The phone rang. Finding that DSI Taylor wanted to speak to her was hardly a surprise but it certainly wasn’t going to improve her morning.

‘Yes, Tom?’ she said wearily.

‘Have you seen the papers?’

‘Yes, Tom.’

‘It’s simply outrageous, that they can print stuff like this. I should sue …’

Fleming let him bluster on, making soothing noises. At last she said, ‘I’m afraid we simply have to accept that’s what they’re like and until we can show some progress we just have to take it.’

He pounced on that. ‘Have you come up with anything, Marjory? They’ll want at least a statement today and I need to have something to give them.’

‘It’s the preliminary stages here,’ Fleming reminded him. ‘We’re still lining up interviews with Kane’s contacts that we couldn’t see yesterday. We have lines of enquiry, but— No, Tom,’ as he interrupted with an eager question, ‘absolutely nothing I could share with the press.’

Before he could argue, she went on, ‘What about your end? Have the uniforms made any progress with finding where the car went in?’

‘No. Harris said he had people out yesterday but found nothing. He’s still convinced you’re barking up the wrong tree there.’

Yes, he would be. ‘That’s disappointing. How far have they got?’

‘I can’t tell you that. Harris is in charge; I’m sure he’ll see it’s all done properly. He’s very efficient, you know.’

‘Yes, you said. And he hasn’t made any more progress on the lines he’s following either?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m sure he’d have told me if he had. And if there’s anything you come up with, you’ll get in touch at once Marjory, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

Fleming put down the phone and sat back in her chair, frowning. Perhaps she’d been too wedded to the idea that the car could have
entered the river lower down, just the way Harris had been wedded to his theory. She still didn’t believe his worked, but she had to admit that a car might have left the road somewhere, or been pushed in, without leaving significant traces for the searchers to find. And she wasn’t absolutely sure that Harris would tell her if they did.

For once it looked as if DSI Rowley’s fears were justified. She could see this one going very wrong for her. From the sound of it, Harris wasn’t changing his position and when – if – she had information that had to be shared with the media, the attention and the responsibility for the case would switch to her – and he’d do his best to make sure it did.

Unless today’s interviews turned up something more useful than yesterday’s, it was going to be her head on the block.

Kendra Stewart tiptoed into Will’s bedroom, pausing to push the silky floral kimono she was wearing over a low-cut nightie a little wider open to give a better view of her impressive cleavage.

Will was on his back, sprawled almost diagonally across the double bed, his mouth half-open. He was giving small, puffing snores and she giggled as she went across and kissed his stubbly cheek.

He woke and shot bolt upright so suddenly that she had to duck to avoid his head making contact with her nose. He didn’t seem impressed by this romantic way of being returned to consciousness.

‘For God’s sake, Kendra, what do you think you’re doing? Logie—’

‘It’s all right, sweetheart, he’s downstairs.’ She sat down on the bed. ‘Give me a kiss.’

Will pulled the bedclothes up round his bare torso in an almost maidenly gesture of self-defence. ‘He could come up at any time. Anyway, I need a shower.’

He got out on the other side of the bed and pulled on a towelling robe over his pyjama bottoms.

‘Not necessary, darling. It just adds to your animal magnetism. You’ll wash away all those wonderful pheromones.’ Kendra followed him across the room.

God, she really couldn’t take a hint, could she? He’d thought he was safe enough in his own bedroom – at least first thing in the morning when her husband was within earshot.

‘No, Kendra,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m really not in the mood. Was there something you wanted?’

She gave him a suggestive look. ‘Apart from you? Well, actually I came up to tell you that the police phoned to say they want to see you at eleven. And from the sound of it, you’d better be here.’

‘Fine.’ He headed for the bathroom, leaving Kendra sitting on the bed pouting.

It was a good, powerful shower. Will stood under it, letting it beat on his head as if that might wash away the tormented thoughts.

Kendra was going around like a cat on heat; it was getting so obvious that Logie was set to explode any day now and a simple statement of Will’s own indifference to her wasn’t going to fix it – indeed, Logie was quite capable of taking that as an insult. He’d seen marrying Kendra as a triumph over the younger brother who’d always been famous for his ability to pull, without asking himself why she’d agreed.

Thinking back, Will suspected that once she realised that commitment wasn’t in his vocabulary, she’d seen the marriage as a way of stalking him. And from the way she was going on, it looked as if she reckoned she had Will where she’d always wanted him now and he was very much afraid that when the accusation came she would own up to it gladly, say it was true love and expect him to express delight and whisk her back with him to Canada. Her self-confidence, and her insensitivity, were boundless. And she wasn’t his only worry.

But once he’d shaved and dressed he felt better. He could handle Kendra, surely, and he couldn’t see any problem with the police. He’d been smart enough to avoid his former colleagues yesterday and he’d pumped Logie and Kendra so that he knew what they were going to ask and it seemed straightforward enough.

All he had to do was play it cool and in a week’s time he’d be back in Canada. And Kendra, with any luck, would be five thousand miles away.

‘Kirkcudbright we stop – you promised, right?’ DC Jamieson said as she got into the car with DC Weston outside the Dumfries Police HQ. ‘And you owe me for this one – I didn’t shop you when we swore blind to Harris that we hadn’t gone on into Galloway.’

‘OK, promise,’ DC Weston said blithely. ‘It’s a nice day for a run in the country anyway. Would you rather be spending today going round Annan for the fourteenth time trying to find someone who hasn’t already been questioned about seeing men quarrelling in a grey car? The lads are fed up to the back teeth with it. We’ll get bacon butties in Dalbeattie. That’ll cheer you up.’

Philippa Lindsay put down the phone and turned to her son, who was sitting at the kitchen table wearing an out-at-elbow sweater and jeans that were baggy with wear, looking gloomily at a plate of muesli as he contemplated the day ahead.

‘That was the police,’ she said slowly. ‘They want to speak to us both. What’s that about?’

‘The police? How – how would I know?’

But his face registered alarm, dismay, even, and his mother homed in on that immediately, the tension in her face relaxing.

‘What have you done, for God’s sake?’

He pushed back his chair and jumped up. ‘Nothing! Absolutely
nothing!’ He licked his lips that had suddenly gone dry. ‘What have you done, for that matter?’

Philippa ignored that. ‘You always were a rotten liar! You might as well tell me. I’d been wondering why you were planning to spend all this leave that you talked about at home – you never have before.’

Randall’s face flushed with colour. ‘I haven’t done anything, I told you. It was just a bit of a misunderstanding—’

‘Oh yes, and you’ve lost your job? I thought you had. God, that’s all we need! Do you know how strapped for cash we are now in the business? It’s your future too, sunshine, and it’s on the brink of going under. Unless people start spending we’re all finished. I’d been counting on you for another injection of capital.’

‘You wouldn’t have got it,’ her son said unpleasantly. ‘What have you ever done for me?’

Philippa glared. ‘Done for you? Where do I start—’

‘You sent me to the local bog-standard, when you could well have afforded to send me to a decent school. I got where I did through my own sheer hard graft—’

‘And blew it all on your own too, it seems.’ Philippa gave him a nasty smile. ‘So – give me a clue. Just what sort of “misunderstanding” was it that has brought the police down on us?’

‘They said they weren’t going to do anything!’ Randall cried. ‘Like I said, it was a misunderstanding. I filled in a form wrong, that was the thing – just sent some money to the wrong place—’

‘The wrong place? Dare I guess – your bank account? Dear God, Randall! You always were a fool.’ She shrugged. ‘Oh well, have to take your punishment like a man. If we’re going to go bottom-up I don’t suppose having a son with a criminal record will really matter.’ She turned away to pour herself a cup of coffee.

The callousness stung him. ‘Anyway,’ he said savagely, ‘if it’s about
my problems with the bank, I don’t know why they’d be wanting to interview you. Maybe it’s nothing to do with that at all.’

‘Don’t be stupid! What else would it be?’ she said.

Leaning heavily on the banisters, Eleanor Margrave lugged the Hoover up the stairs, paused to get her breath back then went to fetch sheets out of the linen cupboard to make up the bed in the spare room. She was looking forward to the weekend; as she counted out pillowcases and towels she thought happily about Biddy’s arrival this afternoon.

They’d been at school together, their friendship forged in the art room, and one of their particular delights was the sketching holidays they’d shared over the years. They were both reaching the stage of decrepitude where holidays in Greece or Italy caused them more anxiety than pleasure, but as Biddy’s Lake District and Eleanor’s Galloway were both artists’ paradises their weekends continued.