Lamb to the Slaughter (44 page)

‘You mean – you are going to use us to try to trap him? How – how despicable!’

‘Not trap him, madam,’ Macdonald put in earnestly. ‘We only want the simple truth – that’s easy enough, surely?’

There were, Fleming reckoned, at least three people in the room who felt that simple truth was a difficult if not impossible demand, and that was to give Macdonald’s sincerity the benefit of the doubt.

Murdoch said frigidly, ‘Of course it is our duty to answer your questions. But there is no way I would permit my wife to be taken away and interrogated on her own. She is extremely sensitive, and she is quite distressed enough already.’

Deirdre’s eyes obligingly filled with tears. ‘My husband is right. I shall certainly refuse to say anything, unless he is present.’

‘Very well,’ Fleming said, in some irritation. Her patience was in short supply today, and this pair would have made Job curse God and die. ‘Mr Forbes-Graham, your son was found today in possession of a shotgun which he tells us he took from the lockers at your clay-pigeon range. Did he have it with your permission?’

Deirdre gasped. ‘Oh, Murdoch, you told me he had no access to a gun—’

‘Be quiet, Deirdre!’ he snapped. She gaped at him in hurt astonishment as he said in measured tones, ‘Naturally, my son has my permission to use anything that is my property. Including these guns.’

He’d cottoned on to the implications quickly, she’d give him that. Fleming tried again. ‘Is that altogether wise? If he is having treatment for medical problems—’

Deirdre sat bolt upright in her chair. ‘Who told you that? Did Ossian say he was?’

‘No,’ Fleming admitted. She couldn’t actually recall how they knew; MacNee had mentioned it and Ossian certainly hadn’t denied it.

‘Then you shouldn’t know anything about it!’ his mother said fiercely. ‘Medical confidentiality – I shall have to consider making a complaint.’

Oh, awa’ and bile yer heid!
She had to bite back the coarse phrase, only saying flatly, ‘That’s a matter for you. Mr Forbes-Graham, had Ossian access to ammunition?’

‘God, I hope not!’ the man burst out. The strain was beginning to show. ‘Certainly not at home. I’ve taken particular care to keep it under lock and key in the estate office, and secure the premises whenever I leave.’

‘Because—?’ Fleming prompted.

‘Because I was afraid he would harm himself. I still am.’

Deirdre gave a cry of fright. ‘Oh no, no, Murdoch!’

‘I can understand your concern.’ Fleming came in quickly. ‘But surely he could get it on the internet – buy it in a shop—’

Murdoch was shaking his head. ‘The only computer is in the office. Technology has never interested Ossian. And he doesn’t drive – walks the five miles to the studio and back. Says he likes the exercise. If – if he got hold of ammunition, it must have been at the time he took the gun. Simpson’s been negligent, quite clearly. He’ll be looking for a job tomorrow.’

Deirdre’s tears were real enough now. ‘You said he couldn’t have got ammunition, you told me—’

He turned on her. ‘I said I was sure that my son hadn’t killed anyone, whatever anyone else might think. And I believe that.’

‘You’ve never spoken to me like that before – never!’

‘I’m sorry.’ It was a perfunctory apology. Murdoch turned to Fleming. ‘I think we’ve both had as much as we can take. Was there anything else?’

Unsettled was just how she liked her victims. Hastily she said, ‘Just one thing more. Where were you on Monday night – both of you?’

They looked at each other. ‘Monday,’ Murdoch said, frowning.

‘What did Ossian say?’ Deirdre asked innocently, but got no reply. She bit her lip, then suddenly her face brightened. ‘Oh, I remember! There was that documentary about Rothko on BBC
2
that Ossian wanted to see. He and I watched it together, and you were in and out, Murdoch.’

‘That’s right!’ he exclaimed. ‘I had a phone call – there was a problem with cattle on the road and I had to dig out Farquharson to get them rounded up. We’d all had supper together before that, a nice family evening. Then there was the programme – two hours, wasn’t it? – and after that we all went to bed.

‘Is that what you wanted, inspector?’

‘Yes,’ said Fleming, but she lied. She hadn’t wanted that at all. Another line of enquiry had just petered out.

She escorted them out of the room, leaving them in the reception area with the promise that Ossian would be with them shortly. She and Macdonald went back through the glass door.

‘So where do we go from here, then?’ She felt bone-weary, barely able to put one foot in front of the other.

‘If you’ll forgive me for being blunt, boss, I reckon the short answer for you is, home.’ He hesitated, then said diffidently, ‘Sorry about your father.’

‘Thanks, Andy. I am too. Rather more than I expected to be, to tell you the truth, given his condition this last bit.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, I’ve been meaning to pull in the Farquharsons – discrepancies in their statements...’

‘Look, it’s your call, obviously. But if he did it, or if she did it, they’re not going to knock someone else off between now and tomorrow morning. And if it wasn’t one of them – well...’

He didn’t need to finish the sentence, and she didn’t want to finish it herself. And he was right; she’d found it hard to behave professionally during that last interview and it was after seven o’clock now. She was hungry and she was very, very tired. She wanted home, and Bill, and comfort.

‘OK, sarge, you win!’ she said, and saw that Macdonald’s smile held something of relief that, having stuck his neck out, she hadn’t torn his head off. What a monster she must be!

Norman Gloag woke in his chair with a start, confused for a moment. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, he felt queasy and his head was thumping; he had gone into work, but left early and started hitting the whisky on an empty stomach – a recipe for disaster. Blinking at his watch, he saw it was half-past seven. Somehow, the whole afternoon had vanished. He staggered to his feet, moaning, and headed for the kitchen.

The house was uncharacteristically silent. It made him feel disorientated, as if all that was familiar to him had vanished during a Rip van Winkle slumber. He filled a jug with water from the tap, fetched a tumbler and sat down at the table. He looked around him as he drank thirstily.

It was Maureen’s domain, the kitchen. It had been expensive enough, heaven knew, but it was untidy, with dirty dishes dumped on the surface waiting to go into the dishwasher. He looked round him with distaste. There was a greasy pan steeping in the sink and the laminate floor needed washing.

His world was falling apart around him. He’d had a vision of success which would take him to a different level, open up whole new avenues for him – a new life, indeed – and the cup had been dashed from his eager lips. And in addition to that, he was facing serious trouble.

He’d been arrogant. Bullying and bluster had always worked before as intimidation, but he had seriously underestimated the police. He’d got himself into a hole and hadn’t been smart enough to know when to stop digging.

Gloag rubbed his brow, as if he could wipe away the fog within. There must be something he could do, on that front at least. A long evening stretched ahead with nothing but miserable thoughts to occupy his mind, an evening when, if he wanted a clear head, he couldn’t even have recourse to the whisky bottle. A long, long evening, with the prospect of a troubled night ahead.

Surely there was something he could do? He looked at his watch again, then got up and went to the phone.

‘Good evening. This is Councillor Gloag. Is DI Fleming available? Oh, I see. Then could I make an appointment with her for first thing tomorrow morning?’

The kitchen, when Marjory Fleming reached it, was empty. Even Meg, the collie, wasn’t curled up by the stove, so Bill must be out doing his rounds, or perhaps there had been one of the regular farm emergencies. She opened the door to the hall, but she couldn’t hear any sound of life. Ever since the kids got iPods they had listened to their music through headphones; she’d never thought she’d miss the infuriating sound of a thumping bass percolating downstairs, but now the silence made her feel very alone. She could hardly go up to her children’s rooms and beg for company.

Marjory went back into the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialled Janet’s number, anxious to hear how she was, but the phone rang until the answering service cut in. She must have been scooped up by friends to have supper. Marjory left a loving message, then went to fetch supper for herself.

She was looking bleakly into the freezer – why did she go on buying macaroni cheese when no one really liked it? – when there was a tap on the door and Karolina came in. She was carrying a tray with a dish on it from which came a delicious, savoury smell. Marjory’s mouth was watering before she even said, ‘Oh, Karolina! How lovely!’

‘I watch for your car. You have hard job and you are very sad – you need good food.’

Marjory was very touched. ‘And kindness. And a glass of wine – but I don’t want to drink alone. Can I get one for you?’

Karolina smiled. ‘Why not? Rafael is there. I look after Janek all day – he has a cold, and tonight he is – bloody awful. Is that right?’

Marjory laughed. ‘Spot on, I should say.’ She found glasses and a wine box while Karolina dished up the stew. ‘That looks wonderful. What is it?’ She sat down and began to eat.

‘
Bigos
. I can tell you how to make—’

‘It’s delicious, but don’t bother. I could make caviar taste like fish paste, just spooning it out of the jar. Cheers! I really am grateful – it all just felt a bit bleak when I came home and there was no one around. Do you know where Bill is?’

‘He is going out as Rafael is coming home from feeding stirks. He says there is “cowpit yowe” but I don’t what this is.’

‘A sheep on its back somewhere. He shouldn’t be long, unless it’s managed to harm itself in the process, which is the average sheep’s main aim in life.

‘Have you seen my mother today?’

‘No. Bill, he goes in to do the things you must, you know?’

Marjory nodded. ‘Yes, register the death, speak to the undertaker, probably.’ Bill, as usual, had taken on the family duties that would have fallen on her shoulders: did she really appreciate him enough?

‘She is with her friends, he says. Is best, I think.’

‘Yes, is best.’ Basic English was catching. ‘I suppose. But really I should be with her, making all the arrangements, shouldn’t I?’

Karolina gave her a surprisingly straight look. ‘Why? You have important job, like a man. Bill likes this – he is happy to do these things. He is good – good for Rafael, too, to see this in him.’

This was almost the longest conversation she’d ever had with Karolina, and Marjory was interested. ‘You feel it won’t do Rafael any harm to have to cope with your son this evening, without you hurrying back?’

She’d never really thought she’d actually see someone doing this, but Karolina definitely dimpled. ‘Is good start,’ she said demurely.

Marjory burst out laughing, just as the kitchen door opened and Bill came in with Meg, who pranced over to greet her mistress. He had been looking anxious; now his face cleared.

‘That’s a good sound to come home to! How are you, love?’ He came over to kiss her and smiled at Karolina. Then he looked at Marjory’s almost empty plate. ‘Hey! What’s that you’ve got? It looks a lot better than what we had – pizza and oven chips.’

‘If it weren’t for Karolina, I’d have been stuck with macaroni cheese again. No, don’t go—’ Marjory exclaimed, as Karolina got up, her wine unfinished.

‘I think is long enough, at first. I don’t want to—’ She ­hesitated, groping for the words.

‘Push your luck?’ Marjory suggested, and then they both laughed.

‘What was that about?’ Bill demanded as Karolina left.

‘Oh, just girl-talk,’ Marjory said. ‘I don’t get enough of it.’

Unlike Karolina, she had drunk her wine; she finished off what was on her plate and got up. ‘Come on, Meg. It’s my bet Karolina’s laid the fire in the sitting-room. I’ll put a match to it while you bring the Bladnoch, Bill.’

There was a disappointed silence in the car as DC Kerr drove MacNee back to Kirkluce after an abortive visit to the gun shop. They had both been hoping to return with confirmation from the owner that Ossian Forbes-Graham had gone there to buy buckshot. He hadn’t, and nor had anyone else recently. The man was quite definite. He knew the Forbes-Grahams, sold very little buckshot, and none of it to Ossian.

It wasn’t conclusive, of course, but the disappointing outcome of their enquiry meant everything would be much more difficult, checking out mail order and the internet. They drove away in gloomy silence.

‘So where does that leave us?’ Kerr said at last.

‘Unless the boss has taken Ossian round the back and got him to confess, we need to keep the other options open.’

‘What other options? As far as I can see, we’re running out of them.’

‘I was just thinking we should do a bit more on Barney Kyle – or Dylan Burnett, even, if you go along with Ewan’s idea about mistaken identity.