Lamb to the Slaughter (8 page)

‘Is that all you’re going to tell me?’ MacNee demanded.

‘Tam, you know perfectly well I can’t let you get involved.’ Then, seeing his crestfallen expression, she relented. ‘Oh well, you’ll hear this in the street anyway. He was lying there overnight, certainly, and most probably before the supermarket meeting last night. But it depends what the pathologist can tell us, obviously.

‘Cheer up! You could be signed off any day now and the minute you are, I’ll welcome you back with a whoop and a holler.’

‘Can’t see it. Bunty’s got to that bloody doctor, somehow.’

‘Then he’s probably right. Don’t hurry it, and you’ll get properly well sooner.’

‘Oh, right! Spend all my time at the darts board, when this is going on! Guaranteed to make me relaxed and happy.’ His tone was mutinous.

Fleming’s voice sharpened. ‘Tam, I can’t bring you in on the official investigation. End of discussion.’

He conceded that, then, brightening, he said, ‘Not
officially
, no. But it could be useful, not having to thumb through the rule book every time I asked a question—’

‘Don’t even think of it!’ She was horrified.

‘No, no. Of course not. Just my wee joke,’ he said soothingly. Then he left, smiling his notoriously alarming gap-tooth grin.

There was no point in arguing, but the thought of a maverick Tam made her blood run cold.

4

‘Pull!’ Fiona Farquharson, in heather-mix tweed trousers and a green quilted jacket over her Aran sweater, swung her shotgun as the clay disc came over, fast and low, and blasted it to pieces.

It was a fine day, with only the lightest breeze and wispy clouds high in a sky of softest blue. The heather was still in bloom and the scent of vegetation, damp after the night’s rain, was strong in the warmth of the sun. The Forbes-Graham estate was a modest one, but the acres of moorland, set aside for the grouse before the bird all but disappeared, made a beautiful upland setting for the clay-pigeon shoot which now produced a very respectable income. In the distance, the drone of motorbike engines indicated another money-making activity.

Flushed with triumph, Fiona took off her ear-muffs and turned round.

‘Shot, Fiona! Good girl!’ Murdoch Forbes-Graham applauded, then turned to the score-keeper. ‘How are we doing? Good, good. Now, Giles, you’ll be on next. Don’t go letting the side down again.’

Giles Farquharson looked at his beaming wife unhappily. Fiona had always been a better shot than he was and today he wasn’t on form anyway. Being invited to a scrappy buffet lunch by Deirdre Forbes-Graham – not renowned for her cuisine – didn’t make it a pleasurable social occasion, when it was perfectly clear you’d been invited only as the hired hand, to make sure that the traps operated smoothly and that the two other invitation teams were suitable impressed. And preferably beaten, too. Murdoch Forbes-Graham liked to win.

Not that spending his free day at home would have been relaxing. Fiona had been on and on at him, and with everything going round and round in his head he’d hardly slept last night. Not that it was easy to get a good night’s kip even at the best of times, the way Fiona snored.

The other teams had taken their turn – one success, one failure – and Giles gloomily loaded his gun and stepped up to the stand. Murdoch, a heavily built man with jowls and a weather-beaten face, raised a silver hip-flask to his employee. ‘Good luck! It’s a Driven Pheasant – should be simple enough. Don’t screw up, now. We only need a few more points, and we’ll have them by the short and curlies.’

Giles pulled the mufflers over his ears, raised the shotgun to his shoulder and shouted, ‘Pull!’ Just as he did so, the mobile phone in his pocket vibrated, he tensed up and the clay sailed by, unscathed, to bury itself in a clump of whins. He broke his gun, pulled off his ear-muffs, and took the phone out of his pocket.

‘Sorry about that,’ he muttered. ‘Had to leave it on in case there was a problem with the traps.’

Murdoch was swearing, his face redder than ever.

‘For goodness’ sake, Giles,’ Fiona snapped, ‘why didn’t you have the sense to switch it off when you went to take your shot?’

He ignored her, walking out of earshot to take the call.

‘Bloody idiot!’ Murdoch snorted. ‘Still – another few rounds to go. We’ll get the bastards yet.’

He turned to Wilfrid Vernor-Miles, roped in from a neighbouring estate as a good gun, who was standing grinning broadly with a Purdey broken over his arm. ‘Wilf, old man, there’s a Bolting Rabbit coming up, OK? Nothing in your trousers beyond the usual equipment, have you? And you’ve got that under control, I trust? On you go, then.’

Wilfrid, sturdy in plus-fours, gave a hearty laugh as he loaded his shotgun. He was just stepping up to the stand to wait his turn when Giles came back, a strange look on his face.

‘Hold it, Wilf!’ Murdoch snapped. ‘Don’t want to lose another point because Giles is wandering round like a sick sheep. What’s the matter, man?’

Fiona looked at him sharply. ‘Giles – something wrong?’

He was finding it difficult to frame the words. ‘It’s my uncle. It’s Andrew. He’s been shot. Dead.’

The report of the shotgun fired by one of the other team made them all jump. Fiona put her hand to her heart dramatically.

‘Uncle Andrew – dead? How – how absolutely awful!’

Giles looked at her bleakly. Behind the surprise, behind the expression of shock, he could see calculation. It was news Fiona had been anticipating for years and perhaps now, at last, she would get what she had been waiting for.

Dr Rutherford, squatting beside Andrew Carmichael’s body in a position which made Marjory Fleming’s hamstrings ache just looking at it, straightened up with the offensive ease of the fit and youthful as she approached. He was wearing jeans and a pale blue polo shirt and he was tall – six foot two or three, Fleming guessed – with light brown hair very neatly cut. It was a solemn occasion, of course, but even so she thought he looked a serious young man, with his narrow, sensitive face.

He was coming down the drive to meet her, holding out his hand and smiling. He had a very pleasant smile.

‘Sorry about the clothes. They asked me to come at once. You must be DI Fleming. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘I’ve heard about you too, mostly from Tam MacNee.’ She shook hands. ‘But I didn’t believe much of it.’

His mouth twitched. ‘I’m grateful!’

‘I can only hope you’ve done the same for me. Anyway, thanks so much for taking this on. It’s not the most congenial of jobs, but it’s very necessary and much appreciated.’

Rutherford shrugged. ‘Compared to hospital work, what I do now is a doddle. And it’s all part of being in a community, isn’t it, which was what made me apply for the job here in the first place.’

Fleming liked that. She’d heard a lot of good things about the new young doctor; her mother was a great fan and this certainly confirmed her belief in Janet’s good judgement. ‘I’m glad that’s the way you see it,’ she said warmly.

They walked on up the drive to the house. Fleming had never been to Fauldburn before and she looked now at the frontage of the pleasant, sprawling family house, built of grey sandstone and softened by a Virginia creeper which was starting to take on its fiery autumn colours.

There was a lot of activity, with uniformed officers now marking off the area with blue and white tape. She nodded to the sergeant in charge, but she was startled to see, lying on the gravel, two bunches of flowers, white chrysanthemums and lilies.

‘A bit premature for that sort of thing,’ she said sharply, then, raising her voice, ‘What’s going on here? Has no one sealed the site?’

A uniformed constable hurried forward, a clipboard in his hand. ‘Just going down to do that, ma’am.’

She took it from him. ‘Who else have you logged?’ The sheet was blank. ‘Not good enough, constable. I can see at least five officers, the doctor and myself. And where did the flowers come from? I take it this wasn’t a little floral tribute you picked up on the way here?’ She handed back the clipboard.

The young man flushed to the tips of his rather prominent ears. ‘Sorry, ma’am. The flowers were there when we arrived.’

‘I see. Well, record those names now, get yourself to the end of the drive and see to it that there are no unauthorised visitors to the site.’ She turned away, and then on an afterthought turned back. ‘And that includes DS MacNee, if he appears. He’s on sick leave at the moment so he has to be treated as a civilian.’

Rutherford had been waiting a short distance away. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said as she rejoined him.

‘Not at all,’ he responded politely, but she thought he was eying her a little warily. It was always hard for civilians to understand that in running an operation, sweetness and light didn’t feature.

‘How much can you tell me?’ she asked, walking over to where Andrew Carmichael’s body lay. It was the first time she had been confronted with a murder victim she had known in life and she hoped she would be able to view it with professional impassivity. She hadn’t known him well, but she’d had the impression of a decent man, very much of his age and class. He’d served as a Justice of the Peace for a time too, with a reputation for being firm and fair, if a little too inclined to believe a sob story.

Carmichael’s blank face, skin waxy in death and eyes fixed in an empty stare, gave no indication of the violence that had torn the gaping hole in the breast pocket of his blazer, displaying torn and bloody flesh. His head was resting on the floor of the vestibule, its blue, yellow and red encaustic tiles and a brilliantly polished brass door-sill seeming incongruously cheerful, like an ill-judged stage-set.

Fleming had often thought that death scenes looked unreal and it was a relief to find that she could feel the same sense of detachment about this one, as she listened to what the doctor was telling her.

It was the first time he had attended at a murder scene; he was tentative and, Fleming thought, a little shaken by the experience. In any case, the police doctor’s examination was a cursory one, though it would be interesting to know what his impressions were.

‘I want to stress that I’m no expert,’ Rutherford said earnestly. ‘Anything I can say would be guesswork more than anything.’

‘Believe me, detectives understand all about guesswork. Carry on.’

‘From the face, I’d say he didn’t know what hit him. No time to register pain, or surprise, even. Opens the door, then bang! A full-on shot, and he dropped where he was standing. From a shotgun, obviously.’ He pointed to the filigree of holes in the blazer and shirt which indicated the scatter of pellets.

‘If you’re ever looking for a job in the CID, I could put in a word for you. So – he came right out on to the doorstep, presumably, then staggered backwards and fell.’ Fleming was thinking aloud. ‘Someone he knew? Someone he wouldn’t be alarmed to see carrying a gun? Or possibly someone he didn’t see immediately, someone who’d perhaps concealed himself behind one of the bushes, then stepped out?’ She looked at the shrubbery which extended on either side of the front door. ‘Certainly plenty to choose from.

‘Any guess about time of death? I know, I know–’ she raised her hand as he opened his mouth to protest ‘– the pathologist will do all the tests, but that takes time and any indication you can give would be helpful.’

Rutherford thought for a moment. ‘For a start, the jacket, where he was sheltered by the porch, is dry but the trousers are damp. I haven’t turned him over – I know you’ll need photos – but if the ground below is dry it will give you some idea. I seem to remember it was raining at one stage yesterday evening.

‘When I took on this job I did a bit of reading to brush up on my pathology. When I checked just now there were still some signs of flexibility in the hands and feet. It takes around twelve hours for rigor mortis to be fully established, as a rule of thumb, and a few more before it starts to wear off again. So twelve hours takes you back to midnight, more or less, then another five or six ... Early evening, maybe, or could be a bit later. Best I can do.’

Fleming was impressed. ‘You obviously studied to some purpose. That’s very helpful as a basic framework, anyway.’

At the sound of footsteps on the gravel, they both turned and Fleming said, ‘Oh, good. That’s the first of my team arriving now.’ She went to meet them.

Andy Macdonald was smart in a Sunday suit, and Tansy Kerr, famous in the CID for her unorthodox approach to plain clothes, was looking surprisingly respectable in a fitted white shirt over jeans which were neither distressed nor so long that the hems were frayed from dragging on the ground. Her hair, usually tinted at least one alarming shade if not more, was a soft ash-blonde: it had produced a bit of leg-pulling from the lads about losing her nerve, but she’d ­developed an enigmatic smile to go with the new hairstyle and was using it a lot recently.

‘Unless there’s anything else, doctor, I don’t think we need to keep you any longer,’ Fleming said. She could see the photographer arriving, and the fewer people there were to clutter the place up, the better.

Rutherford nodded gravely, said goodbye and disappeared down the drive. Tansy Kerr swivelled to watch him go.

‘Wow! He’s all that and a bag of chips, isn’t he?’ she said approvingly. ‘Maybe I might throw a sickie next week and catch a piece of the action.’