Lamb to the Slaughter (7 page)

When she reached the Fauldburn drive, she was out of breath, with the beginnings of a stitch in her side, and she slowed to a walk. The drive seemed longer than usual this morning, stretching ahead of her to the central circle with the mulberry tree which concealed the front of the house.

As Annie rounded it, she saw him immediately, half-in, half-out of the front door, a crumpled figure, lying on his back. She stopped in dismay, the tears springing to her eyes. How long had he lain there? He’d been fine last night, when she took in his tea.

He’d changed out of the old gardening clothes he’d been wearing then, and from his blazer and tie it looked as if he’d maybe been on his way to the meeting and had a heart attack. And no wonder, with all the strain they’d put him under, one way and another! Hot anger dried the tears as she trotted across the gravel.

It was only as Annie got closer that she saw the dark, bloody hole torn in his blazer pocket. She gave a cry of disbelief, of horror, and for a moment her head swam. She dropped the flowers she was holding and took a few, faltering steps closer and knelt down beside him, not noticing the puddle which soaked through her Sunday skirt. His eyes were wide open. It was horrible, that blank, glassy gaze.

Annie took a sobbing breath. Fetch help. It was the only coherent thought in her head, though it was plain enough that the Colonel was far beyond the reach of human aid. She staggered to her feet and began to run unsteadily back down the drive.

There was a sudden stream of traffic as Romy Kyle waited crossly to turn into the Craft Centre. She was in a filthy mood, largely thanks to drowning her sorrows in a bottle of cheap plonk, after Pete had gone out to escape her ranting on about Andrew Carmichael, Norman Gloag and the entire global management of ALCO, with particular reference to the slime bucket they had sent to the meeting.

She was still muttering as she drove in. The Craft Centre, sympathetically converted from the old stable buildings of Fauldburn House, was entered through a pretty grey stone arch, and when it was warm enough and the small coffee shop had its tables outside in the cobbled centre courtyard, it had an almost continental air.

Romy parked in front of the double doors of one of the old storage sheds. There had been plans that this would be converted into another unit to add to Ossian Forbes-Graham’s studio, Ellie’s shop, Alanna Paterson’s pottery and the coffee shop, but that wasn’t going to happen now, was it?

She unlocked the door into her workshop and as the alarm system buzzed, keyed in the code, then pulled back the steel shutters covering doors and windows. With the value of the stuff she had to keep here, her insurance policy demanded the highest level of security.

It was painted white throughout with a black tiled floor, and in the shop area to the front the soft gleam of silver was the only touch of colour. There was a cabinet which held a display of silver jewellery bought in from other silversmiths, and she fetched a few samples of her own work from the built-in safe – a couple of bowls, an austerely elegant candlestick, a few irregularly shaped coffers – and set them in the individual boxed shelves attached to one wall.

She wasn’t really interested in the shop. While it did provide a showcase to exhibit her skill, it was mainly a token gesture. Her real income came from the commission pieces – extremely expensive and sought-after – and what the shop brought in from passing trade was negligible. Her only reason for opening at all today was that she might as well, since she badly needed time in her workshop. She’d been recklessly agreeing to every commission offered, over these last uncertain weeks, to try to build up a financial cushion before the axe fell. Anyway, she loved her work – the silky feel of the silver under her hands, the joy of working with all her heart and soul to produce something perfect. And she loved her workshop.

As she hung up her jacket, Romy looked unhappily round at the curved work bench with the leather skin below for collecting any shavings of silver that fell as she worked, at the rolling mill, at the cabinet with the compressor and the blowtorch, black-enamelled inside so that you could see the colour of the flame as you worked, at the extraction fan, at the tool racks and the guillotine and the presses, at the elegant lighting for the showroom...

How much was all this stuff worth? Twenty thousand? The security, she knew, had cost at least three, and Andrew certainly hadn’t got that back in rent. The Craft Centre had been his baby, his contribution to the amenities of the town, and if it was a sort of charity, so what? Artists had always had wealthy patrons, and the man was loaded. He’d be even more loaded if he’d agreed to this deal.

Guilt, she suspected, would mean that she’d be offered the equipment at a bargain basement price or even free, given luck and his guilty conscience, but still there would be setting-up costs which would need a bank loan. Unless, of course, Pete’s latest get-rich-quick scheme actually worked, unlike all the others. She wouldn’t be holding her breath. There was certain to be a spell when she couldn’t work, and what were they to live on meantime?

Bugger Andrew! He didn’t need ALCO’s money. There would have been unpleasantness, OK, but all he had to do was stand firm and it would blow over. She’d had half a mind to go in and slag him off for cowardice, but it would be crazy to offend him as long as there was a chance of him refusing to sell. Not that she’d much hope of that now.

Romy took a thin round of Britannia silver from the safe in the workshop at the back. From a file, she fetched a drawing, just to remind herself of the design – a simple, exquisite silver bowl with an elliptical rim – then pinned it to a stand in front of her and started work.

She had just paused for a breather when Ossian Forbes-Graham came running into the cobbled yard. It was unusual to see him hurrying: he affected a languid, Byronic style, and Romy’s attitude to his highly acclaimed oils was that they were emperor’s-new-clothes paintings, involving minimal time, minimal skill and a helluva lot of bullshit.

He was heading for Ellie’s shop – where else? – but Romy was curious enough to walk to her shop window to watch. From its position in the left-hand corner of the square facing the entrance, she could look across to Ellie’s shop, first on the right as you came in.

She couldn’t see Ellie herself. She’d be working in the cosy corner at the back, no doubt, on some woolly creation of the sort that gave kitsch a bad name, or one of her twee paintings of dear little daisies and buttercups. Confident of her own artistic brilliance, Romy was merciless in her judgement of others.

Ossian hadn’t even shut the door. He was imparting ­information of some kind, something which brought Ellie from the back of the shop towards him. Even at this distance, Romy could see that she was staring at him, her body rigid.

Something was going on. Romy flung open the door and marched across the cobblestones. As she reached the other side, she heard Ossian saying earnestly, ‘But don’t worry, Ellie. Whatever happens now, you’ll be all right. I’ll look after you. There’s a stable yard on our estate – my parents could do a brilliant conversion—’

Ellie’s face was an expressionless mask. ‘Just get out and leave me alone, would you?’

With uncharacteristic forcefulness, she pushed the young man, still protesting, out of the shop, followed him out, locked the door behind her and headed for her upstairs flat.

Unashamedly, Romy stared after her as the door was slammed shut, almost in his face. ‘What was all
that
about?’ she demanded.

‘Andrew Carmichael’s dead. He’s been shot.’ Ossian was very flushed, his bright blue eyes glittering.

‘
Shot!
But why on earth—’ Romy broke off. ‘Oh yes,’ she said grimly, ‘to stop him turning down ALCO’s offer.’

‘Or to stop him agreeing to it. Depends what he was going to do.’ But Ossian seemed almost indifferent to the point he had made. ‘The thing is, Ellie’s upset – really upset! You saw her. But she won’t let me comfort her,’ he said wildly. ‘She needs me to look after her, only she won’t accept it.’

‘You heard what she said – leave her alone,’ Romy advised brutally. ‘She’s made it pretty plain. You won’t get anywhere trying to force yourself on her now – or, if you want my frank opinion, any other time.’

He turned, his eyes narrowed. ‘She was having a thing with him, wasn’t she? It wasn’t her fault – I suppose she needed the money.’

Romy was startled. ‘I never heard that!’

‘You haven’t watched her like I have. But it’ll all be different now. She needs help, and I can help her. Once she’s got over the shock, you’ll see.’

He walked away, leaving Romy feeling shocked herself. What the hell would happen now?

The news went round the Cutty Sark like wildfire. Tam MacNee, given leave for once to come to the pub on a Sunday since it was, as he pointed out, an important part of his ­rehabilitation, was one of the first to hear.

There was no doubt about it, his aim at the darts board was improving. He’d taken a quid off one of the locals who’d heard about his loss of form and was keen to take advantage, and Tam’s victory cheered him out of all proportion to the scale of his winnings. He was trying to entice his opponent into another game when the ripple of rumour began spreading.

Tam wasn’t sure who started it, but whenever it reached him he switched into operational mode, watching faces. He noticed the young man with the strange eyes, whom he’d seen last night pestering pretty Ellie Burnett, making a sharp exit. Apart from that, responses seemed to be entirely as you would expect: shock, expressions of dismay, extravagant ­theories and sensationalist pleasure disguised by head-shaking. Standard reactions.

He considered phoning Bunty, then decided against it. What was a marital disagreement and a dried-out roast against the chance of getting himself back into the game? He finished his pint and headed out towards the Galloway Constabulary Headquarters.

‘I – see. Right. Right.’ DI Marjory Fleming set the receiver on its stand and put her hands to her head, trying to take it all in.

A murder. The shooting, here in Kirkluce, just along the road there, of someone she knew, a prominent local figure, on a quiet Sunday. Well, probably from the sound of it, a quiet Saturday.

She grabbed a pad and started scribbling. She’d have to summon her front-line team, but Tam, she reflected with a sinking heart, wouldn’t be one of them. She was all too aware of how much she had relied on him in the past. He was still paying for his perceptiveness on their last case.

She’d call in Tansy Kerr, Andy – now Detective Sergeant – Macdonald, and Will Wilson. Andy, the oldest of them, was only thirty-four.

So? They were able and enthusiastic. It was just that it made Fleming herself feel old, very old, and hideously responsible. What she said went, nowadays, and sometimes she longed for a voice that would greet one of her pronouncements with, ‘You’re kidding!’ then add, ‘ma’am,’ in Tam’s old piss-taking way. If she was absolutely sure she was right, she’d never had any problem slapping him down; if she wasn’t sure, it would make her think again.

She’d better get on with it, anyway. The new police surgeon had arrived at the scene, and she’d better go and butter him up. They weren’t easy to come by these days. She gave her instructions, then was just picking up her big leather shoulder bag when the knock came at the door.

‘Come!’ she said impatiently, then, when the door opened, ‘Tam! Goodness – this is a surprise visit. I was – I was hoping to get back home for my mother’s Sunday lunch.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie.

Tam wasn’t on the strength just now, and it would be quite wrong to fill him in on a case which even her Superintendent, Donald Bailey – out on the golf course at present – hadn’t heard about yet. She put down her bag again and said, ‘Sit down! What can I do for you?’ as if she had all the time in the world for stray callers.

‘Oh, I’m not wanting to hold you back.’

There was a look in his eye that made her uneasy. ‘No, no,’ she protested.

‘Just for a wee minute, then. I wouldn’t want you to keep the corpse waiting.’

‘How the hell did you know that?’

Satisfied at her blank astonishment, MacNee grinned as he tapped his nose. ‘That’s for me to know and you to guess. What’s happened?’

‘You probably know more than I do,’ Fleming said tartly. ‘I suppose the local grapevine was on to it at the same time as the call came in to us – if not before. What have you heard?’

‘Colonel Carmichael, him that could put the kibosh on the new superstore if it took his fancy, has been gunned down on his doorstep in broad daylight, most likely by the boss of ALCO, who is in the Mafia. Or possibly in a Russian syndicate that’s hired a hit man. Then there’s them that’s saying someone local took a pop at him because he’d changed his mind about not selling. Though it might have been someone who wanted him to change his mind, and he hadn’t. So what’s the real story?’

‘He’s been shot,’ Fleming said simply. ‘That’s all I know. And Jamie Rutherford, the new police doctor, is there already, so I’d better be on my way.’

‘Rutherford? He’ll probably say nothing’s allowed to happen till the body’s had a few weeks’ sick leave. That’s what he said to me, with about as much justification.’

‘I can understand you’re fed up, but he’s only doing what’s best for you,’ she pointed out. ‘Now, I’d better go—’