Lamb to the Slaughter (5 page)

Conversation gradually started up once more, though at a lower level so that she could still be heard; there was a smattering of applause when Ellie finished. After a sip of water from the glass on the table at her side she went on into ‘O whistle and I’ll come to ye, my lad’, another of Tam’s favourites. Anything at all written by his idol, Rabbie Burns, was a favourite with Tam.

Watching idly, he became aware of a young man sitting opposite, beside the table nearest to the singer. He had pulled his chair towards her and away from it, turning his back on its other occupants who were chatting and laughing, though quietly enough. It was the extraordinary intensity of his unwavering gaze that attracted Tam’s attention.

He was a striking-looking lad, pale-skinned with a mop of light brown hair flopping forward over his brow. His eyes were a vivid light blue, and the way they were locked on Ellie’s face must, Tam thought with slight professional unease, be making the woman uncomfortable, however used she might be to punters who thought stripping her with their eyes wasn’t assault. Bastards!

Tam had a well-hidden romantic streak, and she had an air of vulnerability that made you want to protect her, to go out and duff up a dragon or two if necessary, or maybe just tell that wee nyaff to move along now and not embarrass the lady.

She finished that song, and another, then set down the guitar to catch her breath. Immediately the lad was on his feet, going over to her.

‘You snare my soul with your songs,’ Tam heard him say. ‘You set me ablaze.’

Ellie smiled faintly; she knew him, obviously, and seemed to be treating his extravagance with a kind of weary indulgence. But he reached out to take her hand, then, when she moved it away, grabbed her wrist in a sudden movement. Ellie said nothing, seeming reluctant to make any sort of fuss, but she was twisting her wrist to try to break his hold. He didn’t let her go.

Just as Tam was getting up to see to it that he did, another man brushed past him: a man in his late thirties, perhaps, wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt which exposed well-muscled arms. The pub was crowded but a passage opened in front of him as he reached Ellie’s side, attracting a few curious glances.

‘Evening, Ossian,’ he said. ‘I don’t think Ellie likes you holding her arm.’

The younger man flushed scarlet, then dropped his grip with a look of hatred at the speaker. From where he was sitting, Tam could see a red pressure ring on Ellie’s pale skin where his hand had been, but her face was expressionless and she didn’t rub it, as if she was afraid that might provoke a scene.

‘That’s better,’ her protector said. ‘But you’ve hurt her, Ossian. Don’t do it again.’ He reached out and took Ellie’s arm himself, rubbing it gently. He had big, powerful hands, but his touch was delicate.

Ossian looked at the mark on her wrist. His eyes filled. ‘I wouldn’t hurt you, Ellie, you know that,’ he cried. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just wanted you to listen to me, that was all. Oh God, you’re bruised! I want to die!’

The little drama was beginning to attract attention. Ellie said hastily, ‘It’s all right, Ossian. Don’t worry, Johnny, I’m not hurt.’

She looked, Tam thought, as if she would have liked to pull her arm away from him too, but she waited until he let it go with a final pat, then picked up her guitar.

‘I’m going to do my next song now. People are waiting, and I’m being paid for this.’

Ossian, his face still crimson, shouldered his way to the door. As he passed Tam, he was on the point of bursting into tears. Tam grinned, unfeelingly. Humiliation was good for the gallus young, who thought that if you’d enough cheek you could have whatever you wanted. It was a small revenge for the roaring boys whose gallus days were, sadly, over.

Johnny had stood his ground. ‘Just been chatting to Dylan,’ he said, and Tam saw Ellie’s face change.

‘What was he doing?’ Her anxiety was obvious.

‘Oh, not a lot. He and Barney and some of the other guys were just hanging out in the Square.’

Ellie’s eyes were on his face. ‘They weren’t planning to do anything stupid, were they? There’s been complaints—’

‘No, no,’ he said soothingly. ‘They’re good lads. They’re young – it was just a bit of fun anyway – hysterical old bat—’

‘She’s not—’ Ellie began, then, seeing the landlord looking pointedly at her, said, ‘I’ve got to do my next song.’

‘Fine.’ He turned to move away. ‘We can chat later. See you after.’

He took up his position by the bar, a little distance away, and she launched into ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’, a little hesitantly.

Tam had a clear view of him now; short, curly dark hair, dark eyes, designer stubble and a face that gave no clue as to what he was thinking. And he’d seen him before – not in a professional context, just seen him before. But where was it? There was nothing wrong with Tam’s powers of observation, but his retrieval system wasn’t as good as it used to be.

He was worrying away at it when a hand grasped his shoulder.

‘Come on, Tam, stop brooding, man! If you think you can put the blame on being injured because you can’t hit the side of a bus, think again. You’re out of practice, that’s all, you idle bugger. And if you’re sitting there indulging an old man’s fantasies about Ellie, I’ll clype on you to Bunty, and she’ll show you what a sore head’s really like. Rejoin the human race, and I’ll even buy you a drink.’

‘I know you, you crafty sod,’ Tam said as he got up. ‘We’ll reach the bar, and then it’ll be “You pay and I’ll fumble.
”
’

As he followed his friend to the bar, the memory came back: that was Johnny Black, who’d come to Kirkluce fairly recently to work in a motorbike business. Tam had even gone in himself once, to lust after a Harley Davidson that was on display. Only the ‘mid-life crisis’ mockery that he’d get from colleagues, and the thought of Bunty’s anxiety which would be bravely but inadequately concealed, had stopped him falling for the illusion that youth was something you could buy with money.

Greatly cheered, he accepted a dram. Maybe his hand–eye coordination really would improve with practice, and it gave him a good excuse for a few more evenings at the Cutty Sark.

It was the dog that heard them first. It was an elegant creature, a honey-coloured greyhound with a coat soft as cashmere and eyes outlined in black like Cleopatra’s. It stiffened and sat up from the rug where it had been lying at Christina Munro’s feet, a low growl rumbling in its throat.

The old woman’s stomach lurched. She had been listening to the radio; she turned down the volume, and now she could hear it too – the distant whine of motorbike engines. The black and white cat which had been purring in her lap jumped down, affronted by her sudden movement, and glared round, tail twitching. A tortoiseshell in a basket beside the kitchen stove raised its head lazily, while another cat, asleep on a cushioned chair, opened one eye.

Christina’s eyes went nervously to the door, though she knew she had locked and bolted it when she came in. She had secured the shutters then too, blotting out what was left of the daylight, so for some while the kitchen, where she spent most of her time now, had been in darkness, apart from the lamp by her chair. She had to fight the temptation to switch it off and pretend there was no one in; it might feel safer, but who knew what they might do if they felt there was no one to witness their actions?

Anyway, she told herself, it was only noise and a bit of minor damage. They’d broken some old flower-pots and churned up her vegetable patch, but she didn’t think they’d actually harm her. At least, she had to hope they wouldn’t. The police seemed to know who they were, and they’d had a word, they told her, with the parents and with the boys themselves, so that should put a stop to it. Christina knew it wasn’t polite when she laughed in their faces.

The bikes were roaring up the farm track now. The noise was deafening, and led by the tortoiseshell, the cats, one after another, shot under the dresser. The greyhound, shivering, came to press itself against her side and she stroked its velvety ears soothingly, though she suspected that all she was doing was communicating her own fear. Her heart was banging in her narrow chest.

Now they were in the yard. Through the chinks in the shutters she could see their headlights flickering as they began their usual roaring circuits of the farmhouse and the yard. Even above the engine noise Christina could hear their whoops and hollering.

Wearily, she reached for the phone and dialled
999
. She gave her message, admitted that no one was hurt and that as far as she knew no particular harm was being done, and received the bland assurance that someone would attend as soon as available.

She heard a crash, somewhere at the back of the farmhouse. What had they found to damage now? Or had someone come to grief? She was always afraid that one of the speeding bikes would lose its grip on the rounded cobbles of the backyard, and she feared their fury if one of them got hurt.

Apparently not. They were coming towards the front again, stopping just outside her door, talking and laughing.

Bang! Bang! Bang! She leaped to her feet in fright and the dog, startled, began to bark – high, terrified yaps. They were bashing at all three windows round the kitchen. They’d never done that before, and though with the sturdy shutters bolted in place she didn’t think they could break in even if they broke the glass, it told her that their attacks were getting bolder. They were shouting now too, taunts, threats, obscenities, challenging her to ‘come out and give us a laugh’.

Opening the door, confronting them, getting it over with was a real temptation. The police knew about them so they wouldn’t actually harm her, would they, and maybe once they’d got what they wanted, abused her to her face, seen her alarm, they’d lose interest and leave it at that.

But bullies didn’t. Bullies who got their way went on and on, getting worse and worse, high on the excitement of their cruelty. And if ever she came out, it would be more dangerous not to, the next time.

There was no point in telling them she’d called the police. She wasn’t sure she could shout loudly enough to make herself heard, and anyway these thugs knew as well as she did that the polis wouldn’t appear till long after they’d made their escape. She’d only make a fool of herself if she tried.

Her legs were giving way. She collapsed back into her chair and the dog came to lay its head on her knee, the pleading eyes begging for protection.

And at last, the banging stopped. The bikes drove off and the engine noise dwindled away into the distance. The room was suddenly very, very quiet, the only sound the muted voices from the radio. Shakily Christina got up, and with the dog closer than a shadow at her side she went to draw back the bolts and open the door.

Outside it was quite dark now. Over the low, rolling hills which rose beyond her land the moon had come up, a waning half-moon, and in the starry sky darker clouds were drifting across. There had been a heavy shower earlier and she could still smell rain on the rising wind, though for the moment at least it had gone off. In the old barn she could hear the three donkeys moving restlessly but the steel bar with its sturdy padlock was still in place across the double doors. The grass in front of the house was badly churned up, but she could live with that. It had never been what you could call a lawn anyway.

When she went round to the back, the yard was awash where they had overturned the rain-butt, which explained the crash. With some difficulty she got it set up and back in its place, then continued her round of inspection. No broken windows, no other damage that she could see.

She’d got off lightly – this time, at least.

The rain started again, whispering through the leaves of the old mulberry tree in the middle of the gravel turning-circle in front of Fauldburn House. The black front door was standing open and Andrew Carmichael lay on the doorstep, his eyes wide open and sightless, with a gaping hole blown in his chest.

3

Norman Gloag sliced a careful triangle off his fried potato scone, speared it along with a piece of bacon, dipped the forkful into the yolk of his fried egg and conveyed it to his mouth.

Sunday breakfast was his favourite meal. On Sundays he always insisted they ate in the dining-room of their modern villa – ‘the ultimate in distinctive living’ – instead of the family room off the luxury kitchen, ‘boasting integrated appliances’. As pater familias he enjoyed presiding over the only meals the family ate together, when he could instil what he called ‘proper values’ over the inadequate meals his wife unenthusiastically provided.

A fry-up was the high point of her culinary activities, but in the frigid atmosphere this morning he found himself ­chewing and swallowing without pleasure.

His wife Maureen, at the other end of the black glass and chrome table, was still in her dressing-gown, a slovenly habit, as he had told her often enough, and it wasn’t as if the dressing-­gown was even particularly clean, marked as it was with old coffee stains that hadn’t quite washed out. She was engrossed in the medical page of the
Sunday Post
.

His daughters, eleven-year-old Cara and Denise, sixteen going on thirty, were respectively eating Chocolate Krispies and drinking a virulently pink slimming milk shake. Where his son Gordon should have been, a cream upholstered dining-chair stood empty. Its emptiness seemed mocking, and Gloag could feel himself starting to lose his temper.