Lamb to the Slaughter (14 page)

‘I’ll need to be going,’ he said.

‘Oh – you won’t say what I told you, now, will you?’

He grinned. ‘If you won’t tell them –’ he jerked his head – ‘I was here.’

‘That’s a promise.’

He slipped quietly out of the shop and, walking close to the wall, left the courtyard, congratulating himself that he hadn’t been spotted.

‘What’s MacNee up to?’ Will Wilson said to Tansy Kerr as he opened the door of Ossian Forbes-Graham’s studio.

‘Don’t ask,’ Kerr said darkly. ‘There are some things it’s better not to know.’

7

Annie Brown sat in what she had always thought of as ‘her’ kitchen in Fauldburn House. It looked a bit old-fashioned to her way of thinking, with a china sink and a dresser and chests of drawers and tables instead of the proper fitments, like she had in her own semi. Where the old range would have been there was a great big dark blue Aga; the tiles round about it were bonny enough, with wee blue ships and windmills on them, but it was a shame they were a bit old-looking. From Holland, Mrs Carmichael said they were, but she’d have been better with new ones that were easy to keep clean. Still, it was comfortable to work in and a nice sunny room too, with big windows looking out to the garden.

But it didn’t feel like Annie’s kitchen now. The police were wandering in and out, opening drawers as if they owned the place. She hadn’t been happy, the way they were going through the Colonel’s stuff, not just his papers but personal things too, and his clothes, even his underwear. Not that there was anything to be ashamed of; the Colonel was most particular and Annie looked after his laundry herself. They’d find no greying whites here!

It didn’t seem right, though. They’d fetched her to let them into the house, then suggested she went home again, but she wasn’t having that. Leave them with the run of the place, not knowing what sort of mess they’d make – or what might mysteriously disappear? You couldn’t trust anyone these days.

She’d suggested contacting Mr Giles for permission – she knew her place, and knew too what Mrs Giles would say if she overstepped the mark. But they’d waved a piece of paper at her and said it was the law, and she couldn’t argue with that.

Anyway, she’d no time for the Farquharsons. Once this was over she’d put in her notice. She’d have no problem getting another job; there were plenty folk had tried to get her away from Fauldburn before now, but she’d never have left the Colonel. After Mrs Carmichael became really disabled, they’d got very close.

He’d never said a word out of turn about his wife, and neither had she, but Mrs Carmichael hadn’t been what you could call easy-going – and right enough the poor soul had a lot of pain. But there were two kinds of invalid, the kind that wanted to make the best of it and be as little trouble as possible, and the other kind. Mrs Carmichael was the other kind. No one but Annie knew what the Colonel had had to put up with, or how he’d always managed somehow to be kind and cheerful. There didn’t seem to be gentlemen like that around nowadays.

Tears welled up and Annie left the kitchen, heading for the garden door. If she was going to cry, she didn’t want to do it in front of the fat policeman who was rummaging in one of her kitchen drawers and looking at her with open curiosity.

It was peaceful out here at least. The Colonel had loved his garden and there was always something in bloom. She walked slowly up the steps to the rose garden, dabbing at her eyes with a hankie, and sat down on the low wall surrounding it. She’d often seen him there of late, taking a breather from gardening in his old tweeds, enjoying the perfume of his late roses.

There was a real hint of autumn in the air today. Some yellow leaves had drifted down into the flower beds and there were a good few swallows gathering on the telephone wire. They’d be going soon.

Annie let herself have a little cry. There had been a lot of little cries since yesterday, partly for the Colonel and partly for the passing of the years which, she realised looking back, had been happy ones. How did you never notice you were happy until afterwards, when it was too late? And this wasn’t only going to mean change for her. Now the Colonel was dead, Mr Giles would be all ready to sign on the dotted line with ALCO and that would be the end of it.

Absorbed in her unhappy thoughts, she didn’t hear the young man approaching, and it was only when he cleared his throat that she looked round. He wasn’t in uniform but he was obviously a policeman.

Her eyes were blurred and she scrubbed at them with her hankie. ‘Sorry.’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘This must be very hard for you.’ He held out a card in a plastic wallet. ‘DS Macdonald.’

That must mean he was a detective. He was quite tall, solidly built, with dark hair cut so close to his head that it looked like fuzzy felt. Annie liked the look of him; he’d nice brown eyes and quite a thoughtful expression.

She blew her nose hard and put her hankie away. ‘What are you wanting? If you’re needing tea, there’s plenty stuff in the kitchen. I could make some for you—’ She stood up.

He smiled. ‘That’s a good offer – I’ll maybe take you up on it later. But that wasn’t what I wanted to ask you.’ She saw now that he had a couple of photographs, which he held out to her. ‘Do you recognise these? We found them in a drawer beside Colonel Carmichael’s bed.’

Annie took them. They were of different sizes: one was in a large folder with the name of a photographer in London on the outside, but the other was a black-and-white snapshot, yellowed with age and slightly curled at the edges.

She looked at that one first, holding it flat between her thumbs. It had been taken in foreign parts, clearly, since there was what looked like a big rubber plant growing in the background and a shrub with foreign-looking flowers behind where the woman was standing.

The woman was foreign too. Coloured, Annie thought carefully. That was what you were meant to say instead of black – or was it the other way round? It was hard to keep track, if you wanted to do the right thing. Anyway, the woman wasn’t black. This one was more light brown. It wasn’t a good photo but she was young and small and sweet-faced, as far as Annie could tell, and she was wearing a long straight skirt with a sort of draped blouse on top – silk, Annie thought, peering closer.

DS Macdonald was waiting patiently. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know who that would be. I never saw it before.’

‘Not even in the drawer?’

‘I only looked after the Colonel’s washing. I’d never go looking among his personal things.’

There was a reproach in her voice and Macdonald said hastily, ‘No, no, of course not. What about the other one?’

She opened the folder. This one was quite different. It was a studio portrait and the man had been professionally posed, smiling confidently at the camera. He was wearing what she could see was an expensive suit, with a tie in discreet colours. He had smooth, coffee-coloured skin and deep brown eyes with just a slight tilt to them and thick, glossy dark hair, well shaped. Annie reckoned he was in his early twenties. She reckoned, too, from the set of his jaw, that this could be a very determined young man, despite the smile.

‘Any idea?’ Macdonald asked hopefully.

She shook her head. ‘Well, I know the Colonel was out abroad when he was in the army. Maybe they’re friends of his. But that’s all I can think of. I’m sorry.’ She was sorry, too. He seemed a nice laddie and she hated to disappoint him.

He took the pictures back. ‘Never mind, it’s probably not important. Now, if you really meant it about the tea...’

‘I have the CC with me, Marjory. He wants you to brief him directly on Colonel Carmichael’s murder. Perhaps you can join us now?’

Recognising an order, DI Fleming said, ‘I’ll be right up, Donald.’

Setting down the phone, she opened the drawer where she kept a mirror, a comb and lipstick. Being summoned to the Chief Constable’s presence was never a comfortable experience. Not that Menzies was a difficult boss – in fact, swapping notes with officers in other forces often made her realise she had reason to be thankful.

He had an office here in the Kirkluce HQ but he was away so much on administrative and even political business that his visits to it were irregular and usually fleeting. Superintendent Donald Bailey reported to him; Menzies had always seemed content to leave the job on the ground to the people doing it, and so far at least the Galloway force had been spared the micromanagement from on high which so often meant trying to reconcile two entirely opposite courses of action.

It made Fleming uneasy that Menzies seemed to be interesting himself so directly in the present case, but of course Carmichael was a figure in the community and Menzies had probably known him socially. It would add to the ­pressure on her, ­especially when she had as yet so little to go on. Normally your starting-point would be the deceased’s personal circle, then the professional one. But Carmichael’s power to determine the future for Kirkluce, and the fortune of a vast number of interested parties, changed the dynamic – though, of course, you couldn’t ignore the personal dimension either.

Superintendent Bailey, always punctiliously polite, got to his feet as she came into the room, and after a momentary hesitation, the Chief Constable did the same. Fleming had to suppress a smile: well trained in gender politics, she could read his mind. Political correctness decreed that treating a female officer in any way differently from a male one was an Issue. Since neither Menzies nor Bailey would have stood up for a man...

She smiled, said thank you and sat down. The two men did likewise, Menzies with a definite air of relief.

Bailey had ceded his desk to his superior and moved a chair to sit at his side. ‘Colonel Carmichael’s death – the CC is anxious to know the details, Marjory.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Menzies was a tall, distinguished-looking man with iron-grey hair; he was, she happened to know, forty-eight. Bailey always looked smart and professional, but beside his immaculate chief wearing a uniform that was clearly tailor-made, he looked almost scruffy.

‘The Colonel is a great loss to the community,’ Menzies was saying. ‘He gave sterling service as a Justice, and – in confidence, of course – he was being considered for the next Lord Lieutenant. And always a great supporter of the police force.

‘I have to confess to a personal interest too. His wife was my wife’s cousin and she has been much distressed by this, as indeed have I.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps it would be best if I simply outlined the situation as we know it at present? And of course I can arrange to copy reports to you.’

‘Good.’ He sat back in his chair, his grey eyes fixed on her face. ‘Carry on, then.’

Fleming ran through the sequence of events, and went on to outline the plan of action: questioning interested parties, reviewing CCTV footage, fingertip search on site, and the usual legwork. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she mentioned the dead sheep.

The two men had listened in silence. Now they both spoke at once.

‘Is this relevant, Marjory?’ Bailey asked sternly.

‘Same kind of gun used?’ That was Menzies.

Fleming would have preferred to be answering the superintendent’s question, but she knew which took precedence. ‘It seems possible, from the sound of it, though we can’t ­definitely state that it was shot, unfortunately. We’d had no report of a missing animal, it had no identifying brand, there was nothing from witnesses—’

‘Yes, yes, inspector,’ Menzies said irritably, ‘but surely we found out what caused the injury?’

Fleming swallowed. ‘It wasn’t thought to be worth initiating further action at the time. With the budget constraints, ordering ballistic tests seemed excessive, for a sheep no one had claimed.’

That was inspired, if untrue. It hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind that anything was called for, beyond disposing of the carcass and calming the natives, but it was the sort of language her bosses understood.

‘I can see that,’ Menzies conceded. ‘And no evidence as to the nature of the wound?’

‘It was very messy, according to the constable who saw it, but I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.’

‘Pity. Could have been useful.’

But it was Bailey who seemed more alive to the implications. ‘Surely we can just take this as yet another example of the sort of mindless brutality which is so sadly prevalent nowadays? Otherwise, what we’re suggesting is someone taking shots at random – a sniper, in fact, with escalating ambitions.’

Menzies recoiled. ‘Oh, surely not! If there is a connection, perhaps a practice shot to ...’ He didn’t finish his sentence.

Fleming’s face had shown no emotion, but her stomach lurched at the very thought. She said hastily, ‘I think we should remember that there were perfectly logical reasons for killing Colonel Carmichael. And after all, there’s a sporadic problem with that type of vandalism.’

She got heartfelt support for that and she went on, ‘I haven’t as yet had the ballistics report, of course, but I’m not sure how much help it will be. It’s not as if it was a rifle making distinctive grooves on a bullet, so it’s likely the best they can do is identify the gauge and so on. But for a start, I’ve ordered checks on all the firearms registered in the area. There haven’t been any reports of stolen guns, but it would be as well to check that none of them are missing.’