Lamb to the Slaughter (33 page)

Feeling unhappy, Langlands said, ‘Don’t think he thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Oh. Hit me with it, anyway.’

‘You know there’s an APB out for Pete Spencer, in connection with the murders? Well, I know Dan Simpson who’s a pal of his – used to live here, then went to London for a while and came back not long ago.

‘I was walking home last night and Dan came along with Spencer. He introduced me and we were standing talking when two motorbikes went past, so fast we turned to look at them, and Dan made a joke about me running after them to book them. I’ve checked the times, and that was when Barney Kyle and his mate were on their way up to the farm, and it was only twenty minutes later they found his body.

‘Pete Spencer couldn’t have killed Kyle, at least. Dan ­Simpson could corroborate that.’

Dismayed, he saw that Fleming was looking as if he’d punched her in the face. But she only said, ‘Thanks, Sandy. Will’s right – it’s not what I was hoping to hear, but it’s good sound evidence.

‘Get a statement from Simpson tomorrow, and have ­someone take yours, and we’ll feed that in and see where we are.’

The door shut behind Langlands. Fleming put her head down on the desk and groaned, feeling sick. That was the obvious, logical suspect eliminated. She’d been proved right in the doubts she’d had, but this time she’d have settled for being wrong.

It was only four days, of course, since the Colonel’s death, twenty-four hours since Barney Kyle’s, so not having it all wrapped up was hardly surprising. What had she expected? A revelation direct from on high? Police work was reading, and sifting, and collating, and she had plenty of ideas for follow-up investigations. Christina and Spencer were both eliminated, so that had to narrow the field.

Yes, but ... She knew the feeling she got when things were starting to fall into place, and she didn’t have it. Suppose they were, as had been suggested several times already, in the realms of unreason. Where did you start? And when might the next victim appear?

16

The headline in the
Scottish Sun
, ‘Sniper Strikes Galloway Town?’, had provoked a media frenzy, just as if the ­question mark in the title hadn’t been there. To DI Fleming, at her desk with a constantly ringing phone, it felt almost difficult to breathe, as if the air had been sucked out by the firestorm it had created. She was trying not to look again at the double-page spread, open in front of her, which featured snipers who had conducted reigns of terror in other, mainly American, towns.

She was waiting for a summons from Superintendent Bailey, who had been thrown by the Chief Constable to the lions of the press, armed only with a statement which condemned irresponsible speculation, pointed out that the investigations were still in their very early stages, with fresh evidence coming in all the time, and rounded off with the usual appeal to the public for information, in particular any activity near Wester Seton farm.

It was intended to assure the population that there was no need for alarm and to dampen down the wildest of the rumours, but Fleming suspected that even Bailey – a man not given to underestimating his capabilities – had few illusions about the outcome.

He sounded fraught on the phone when he returned and she set off for his office with the sinking feeling she remembered from schoolgirl encounters with higher authority. She had to keep telling herself she hadn’t done anything wrong. It just felt that way.

Bailey was slumped back in his chair, mopping at perspiration on his bald head with a red spotted handkerchief. His complaints began as she opened the door.

‘It was a bear garden out there, Marjory – a bear garden! Jostling, shoving, shouting – I could hardly make myself heard. All they were interested in was yelling questions without listening to the answers.’

Fleming sat down. ‘Did you manage to give your statement?’

‘Oh, eventually. But they weren’t interested. I wasn’t telling them what they wanted to hear. They’ve all made up their minds that we’re going to be gunned down in the streets. Asked if we were bringing in troops to protect the public, for God’s sake!

‘That was the point at which I said I had made my statement and had no further comment to make. Then I left in a dignified manner, which I hope will go down well on TV – if they even show it.’

‘TV as well?’ Fleming asked hollowly.

‘Four camera crews.’

They sat silent for a moment, contemplating the scale of the problem, then Bailey asked savagely, ‘Who leaked it, anyway? It obviously came from here, from the details given. I want them on a charge.’

Fleming looked weary. ‘We’ve been here before, Donald. Tell me who it is, and I’ll nail them to the wall by their ears. But it could be anyone – more than one, even. The tabloids pay good money for tip-offs like that.

‘I’ve tried to find out who knew about Langlands’s alibi for Spencer last night, but the answer is basically everyone in the station. You know what it’s like with gossip, and you can imagine how quickly that particular story got legs.’

‘Marjory, this is intolerable! Can
nothing
be done?’

She sighed. ‘I’ll start a witch hunt, warn that careless talk costs careers – that’s about all we can do.’

‘Hmmph!’ Bailey made his usual sound of frustrated ­disapproval. ‘I suppose so. Monitor the situation anyway.

‘But more importantly, is the
Sun
right? Do we have a sniper?’

‘That’s the doomsday scenario. Once you start doubting that there’s any reason behind it, you’ve nowhere to go. If they’re acting on a whim, you can’t deduce from their actions why they did it, or where they may strike next time. Anyone and everyone is at risk.’

Trying to sound more upbeat than she felt, she went on, ‘But we’re not there yet, Donald. We’ve a list of suspects with straightforward reasons for wanting Carmichael dead, and it’s perfectly possible that Barney Kyle somehow got in the way – may even have tried to make capital out of what he knew.

‘For obvious reasons we haven’t yet questioned anyone on that list about Kyle’s murder. I’ve called everyone in today to get started. With a precise time of death, we may be able to do quite a bit on alibi, as happened with Spencer, and that could whittle down our suspects.’

‘Then get on with it, Marjory.’ His tetchy response was an indicator of his anxiety. ‘No point in sitting here wringing our hands.’ As she got up, he said, ‘No word of Tam MacNee being passed fit, I suppose?’

‘Not as yet. I think you can take it that the ink won’t be dry on the doctor’s signature before he’s round here.’

Bailey nodded glumly. ‘The way our luck’s running, he won’t be back for a month, and he’s a useful man, very useful.

‘Anyway, what am I going to tell the media tonight?’

‘The same as you told them this morning, but in different words, I suppose.’ Fleming was unhelpful.

He gave her a frosty look. ‘I would really have thought it was much more appropriate for the press officer to do it – or you, Marjory, for that matter – but the CC insists that I have to be out there to show how seriously we are taking this.’

‘I’m absolutely sure he’s right,’ she said heartily, only adding, ‘It’s your job and you wanted it,’ under her breath once she was safely out of the room.

‘Are the police coming back again?’ Maureen Gloag, a ­cigarette in the corner of her mouth, stood in the doorway of her husband’s study.

Gloag looked up, waving ostentatiously to waft away the smoke. ‘Oh, I thought you weren’t speaking to me?’

‘Jeez, you’re so childish! I want to know where I am. If you’re going to be arrested, I’m taking the kids to my mother’s.’

‘For God’s sake, woman, do you think I’m a murderer?’ His roar of rage shook the glasses in the wall unit drinks cabinet.

Maureen’s mouth tightened. ‘Gordon told me how you wanted him to lie to the police. I’m not wanting them to see you taken away in handcuffs.’

Her cold hostility shook him. ‘Maureen, you’ve seen the news. It’s a sniper, someone who’s off his head, with a grudge against society.’

‘Load of rubbish,’ she said flatly. ‘You don’t believe it any more than I do. The Colonel’s death was pretty damn convenient, right? And I’ll bet you’ve been chatting up the grandson too, now you know Farquharson’s no use to you.’

Gloag’s fleshy face turned purple. ‘And – and what if I have? He doesn’t know the neighbourhood, I can be useful to him. And what about Barney? Bumped him off in the interests of business too, did I?’

‘You were raging about your car,’ she pointed out. ‘And always yammering on about him being a bad influence on Gordon.’

His eyes were bulging now. ‘You’re being even more of a fool than usual, woman,’ he yelled. ‘And if you repeat any of this to the police—’

‘Threatening me now? That does it.’ She was perfectly calm. ‘I’m away to phone my mother and start packing.’

‘And don’t come back!’ As she shut the door, he took up a heavy glass paperweight from his desk and hurled it after her, in a fury. Hitting the door, it broke into four pieces.

Moments later, Maureen reappeared. She was carrying a digital camera.

‘What was that you threw at me? Oh, I see. You could have done me a real mischief with that.’ She focused on the shards and before he could stop her had clicked the shutter several times. ‘Thanks. That’ll look good in court,’ she said as she went out.

The streets of Kirkluce, when Tam MacNee drove along to the doctor’s surgery, were almost deserted. He was puzzled: it was never this quiet in the middle of a weekday morning.

There were fewer cars on the road than usual too, and though the shops were open there was none of the normal pedestrian traffic, no hurrying shoppers or chatting pensioners. It was eerie, alarming, like finding yourself in some sci-fi film where something terrible has happened and you’re the only one who doesn’t know.

He was tempted to stop and find out, but a look at the dashboard clock showed that he’d be late for his appointment if he did, and he wasn’t going to risk being told he had to come back another day. He tuned into the local radio station, but there was only the sort of music that sounded like fifty cats with their tails in a mangle. He snapped it off again and parked by the surgery.

It was quiet too. ‘We’ve had a lot of cancellations of routine appointments,’ the receptionist said. ‘Well, it’s natural, isn’t it? They’re not wanting to come out if they don’t have to.’

‘Natural?’ MacNee stared at her. ‘Sandra, what the hell’s going on?’

She stared back. ‘You mean you don’t know? It’s been on the telly and everything.’

‘Never watch it in the morning. That early, my stomach’s not strong enough to take those grinning numpties on a sofa.’

‘There’s a sniper in Kirkluce, just picking people off like flies! No one’s safe.’ She shuddered in pleasurable horror.

MacNee was shaken. ‘Are you sure? How do you know?’

‘It’s all in the papers. They said you lot are baffled, because it’s just random.’

‘The papers!’ He spat his disgust. ‘They make these things up, just so daft folk like you will buy them.’

Over months of appointments, she had got used to Tam and they were old sparring partners by now. ‘Not as daft as your pals in the polis, running round not knowing what to do.

‘Anyway, you can go straight in to see Dr Rutherford. He’s twiddling his thumbs this morning.’

‘Just as long as he doesn’t decide to have me coming back, just to keep him busy,’ MacNee said gloomily, and headed for the surgery, hoping that anxiety wasn’t going to raise his blood pressure. Surely this time...

Stoop-shouldered and heavy-eyed, Ossian Forbes-Graham, with his mother fluttering anxiously at his side, walked towards Dr Rutherford’s consulting room, not noticing the short, hard-faced man in a black leather jacket who was coming back along the corridor, turning his head to look after them as he passed. Deirdre glared her irritation at such intrusive behaviour, then opened the door to usher her son in ahead of her.

Rutherford rose to greet them. ‘Ossian, do come and sit here.’ He indicated the vacant chair beside his desk.

Indifferently, the young man slumped down. Deirdre looked around; the only other seating in the room was the examination couch. ‘We need another chair. Would you like me to fetch one?’

‘No, Mrs Forbes-Graham.’ Rutherford’s voice was kind but firm. ‘I’ll need to talk to Ossian alone.’

‘But you don’t understand! He won’t tell you properly – he needs me to explain! I can give you all the background, and then we can discuss what it would be most appropriate to do.’

‘That would mean you were my patient, not him, wouldn’t it? I’m sure that’s not what you want.’ He went to the door and held it open, smiling reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Forbes-Graham. I’ve blocked out time in my appointment book so Ossian and I can have a proper chat, to see where we are. That’s all – nothing threatening.’

Deirdre glanced towards her son but he didn’t seem to have heard what was said. ‘Well, I suppose ... I’ll be in the waiting-room.’ With a last, reluctant glance over her shoulder, she went.

Rutherford returned to his seat. Ossian didn’t look up. He waited for a moment, then said gently, ‘I gather you’ve been having one or two problems, Ossian.’