Bad Blood (25 page)

He grabbed the phone but was frustrated by a bland voice telling him she was unable to take his call. He didn’t leave a message; he wanted to catch her before she had time to prepare her self-justification.

The report on the abortive action would have to be written sometime and he was turning reluctantly to his computer when his phone rang.

As Alexander listened to what the woman at the other end was saying his expression changed to one of unholy joy. ‘My God, you’re a star! Did you stay up all weekend working on that?’

She had, it seemed; she’d picked up a thread in the accounts and had been unable to resist following it to its satisfactory conclusion. More than satisfactory; very, very satisfactory.

‘Tell your boss to give you the day off. In fact, tell your boss to give you a week off, staying in a five-star hotel,’ he said extravagantly. ‘Hang the expense.’

He heard her laughing as he rang off, then he picked up the phone. ‘Get in here,’ he said to his senior inspector. ‘Good news, for once.’

It was blessedly smoke-free in DS Macdonald’s car as he drove DC Campbell along to Stranraer. And silent: you always felt obliged to ask about other people’s holidays even if you knew it would provoke a day-by-day recital telling you more about Torremolinos than you wanted to know, so it was refreshing that Campbell’s reply when asked how the holiday went was ‘Fine’.

Macdonald was looking forward to the interview with Grant
Crichton. He had taken against the man – and his wife too, come to that – and there was always satisfaction in breaking a witness you’d known was lying.

He briefed Campbell on the situation. ‘So his wife’s changed her story – the alibi she gave him was false and he was out that night.’

‘Think he killed her?’ Campbell said.

‘I think he knows a lot more about it than he’s admitting. But I don’t think he actually killed her, no.’

‘Why not?’

Macdonald paused. Why not, indeed? The man had got his wife to lie for him, he’d clearly been in an agitated state, showing every sign of guilt at the arrival of a policeman. If, like the other members of the community who had gone to Bridge Street, he believed that Marnie had been sent to mock at the anniversary of his son’s death and that Anita had been party to it, he had the classic combination of motive, means and opportunity.

He said, ‘Well, doesn’t seem the type, really.’ He didn’t need Campbell’s cynical sidelong glance to tell him how lame that sounded.

Changing the subject, he told Campbell about the attempt on Marnie Bruce’s life, the evidence of Anita Loudon’s next-door neighbour and the reluctance of Michael Morrison to have his wife interviewed, but when Macdonald said hopefully, ‘Any thoughts?’ Campbell shook his head and silence fell again.

Somehow it seemed a long way to Cairnryan today. Whatever he might feel about Louise, quarrelling with her did pass the time.

‘Doing all right, then,’ Campbell said as they reached the ‘Crichton Haulage’ sign and turned into the extensive yard.

It was busier than it had been the last time Macdonald came, and when they went into the scruffy site office and asked to speak to Mr Crichton, the receptionist, a tired-looking woman with frizzy hair, seemed harassed.

‘He’s been very busy today. I’ll buzz his secretary and see if he can see you.’

Saying ‘Oh, I think you’ll find he can’, wouldn’t really be constructive. Macdonald only nodded and after a brief phone conversation she said, ‘He’s got someone with him. You’ll have to wait.’

She indicated a narrow vinyl-covered bench that ran along one wall and Macdonald and Campbell, both big men, perched on it.

‘They don’t go in for the comforts here,’ Macdonald murmured. ‘Truckers don’t merit coffee tables and magazines, obviously.’

‘
Reader’s Digest
,’ Campbell said with sudden animation. ‘Should have that.’

‘Read it for the jokes, I suppose. So you can entertain your colleagues,’ Macdonald said, but it was never any use trying to wind Campbell up.

It was ten minutes before the phone on the desk buzzed and the receptionist called over, ‘You’re to go through now. Out of the building, turn right and it’s across the yard.’

The reception area in this building was quite different. A potted palm stood in one corner beside a sofa and chairs with stainless-steel legs, upholstered in beige tweed. There was a low coffee table which did, indeed, display magazines though not the
Reader’s Digest
. Campbell looked faintly disappointed.

The secretary at the smart, dark teak desk was clearly a superior being, with blonde hair swept into a knot at the back, full make-up and perfectly manicured nails.

‘I’ll ask if he can see you now,’ she said, looking as if a bad smell was somehow sullying her pristine space. ‘Do sit down.’

Neither man obeyed. As she went to the door to the inner office they followed on her heels so that they heard Crichton groan, ‘Oh, I suppose you’d better,’ as she asked if she could show them in.

She almost bumped into them as she turned and she gave them a dirty look. ‘Will you be wanting coffee?’ she asked Crichton.

Macdonald said, ‘No,’ before he could reply and went in. Campbell closed the door behind them.

Crichton half-rose but with a bad grace. ‘You’d better sit down, I suppose. I hope this isn’t going to take long – I’ve got a lot on today. I can’t think what you want, anyway – you’ve interviewed me once and I made a formal statement after that.’

This office was furnished in the same expensive style and there were even fresh flowers on the desk, lovingly arranged by Miss Perfect out there, no doubt. As the detectives sat down opposite him, Macdonald said, ‘Yes, the statement was what we wanted to see you about. We wondered if you might like to revise it.’

Crichton’s face had registered only bad temper. Now, he froze.

Scared, Macdonald thought with satisfaction as Crichton stammered, ‘I-I don’t know what you mean! Why should I?’

‘It just seems not to be wholly accurate.’

‘That’s an outrageous suggestion!’ He was blustering now. ‘I told you that I was at home all evening, and my wife bore me out. Oh, if there’s some small, trivial detail of timing or something where I’ve slipped up, then I apologise, but everything else was perfectly straightforward.’

‘The trouble is, sir, that a witness has come forward who can state that you were out that evening.’

Crichton looked about him wildly, as if an answer might be written up somewhere just out of his line of sight. ‘They’re lying!’ he said at last. ‘Who is it – oh, I suppose “you’re not at liberty to say”.’ He mimicked an official voice.

‘That’s right, sir.’ Macdonald said stolidly.

‘So they can say anything they like about me, quite unsubstantiated, but I don’t get a chance to refute it directly. Call that justice? Anyway, where am I supposed to have been?’

‘Anita Loudon’s house,’ Campbell said. He spoke with the authority of a man whose statement is backed by incontrovertible fact and Macdonald looked at him with respect.

Crichton winced visibly. ‘I wasn’t,’ he began, but then his voice faltered. His hands, on top of the desk, were tightly clasped together and he studied them for a long moment before he looked up again.

‘I – I think I’d better explain. All right, I did go round to the house, briefly, around half past eight – nine o’clock, perhaps. I was just going to have a word with Anita about the girl who was spying on my ex-wife – just a word, that’s all. It wasn’t a very nice thing to do and I wanted to know who had put her up to it.

‘I didn’t go in, though. There was someone there already – I could see her in the sitting room, standing talking to someone – I couldn’t see who it was. I didn’t want to talk to her in front of a visitor and I didn’t want to wait. I’d work to do at home so I decided to leave it and go round to see her the next day instead. It wasn’t urgent.

‘Then, of course, I heard what had happened and I’ll be honest with you – I was scared.’ He gave a smile that was no more than a rictus and Macdonald could see that he was sweating. ‘There was nothing helpful I could tell you so, yes, I gave false information. I knew it was wrong but …’ He shrugged. ‘I think it’s understandable.

‘Now I’ve set the record straight – that’s all there is to it.’ He gave another hopeful smile.

‘Don’t believe you,’ Campbell said.

Crichton’s lips were trembling and he took out a handkerchief to wipe his mouth, and then his forehead. ‘What do you mean? Maybe I wasn’t wholly frank with you before, but this is the truth, so help me God.’

Macdonald said conversationally, ‘Do you know, when someone says “This is the truth, so help me God”, in my experience they’re almost always lying?’

The man recoiled as if he’d been slapped in the face. For a moment he struggled to find breath, then he said, ‘I refuse to say anything else until I have a lawyer present.’

‘That’s probably very wise,’ Macdonald was saying, when he
heard the noise of an altercation outside. Miss Perfect was squealing, ‘You can’t go in until I’ve asked Mr Crichton if he can see you. He has people with him—’

The door opened and two uniformed officers appeared. Macdonald recognised one of them, a lad who worked in the station at the Cairnryan port.

They didn’t even glance at the detectives. As they came in they split so that they arrived at the desk one on each side beside Crichton.

‘I am arresting you on suspicion of fraud,’ the sergeant said. ‘You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say will be noted down and may be used in evidence. Do you understand the caution?’

‘Yes,’ said Crichton. He was shaking. ‘Oh yes.’

There were only two cars in the Glenluce Abbey car park when Marnie arrived. She could see an elderly couple walking arm in arm, staring upwards as he pointed to the glories of the ruined nave, and the other would be the attendant’s. With another glance over her shoulder at the little road, empty of traffic, she went in.

The attendant was pleased to see her. ‘You must have enjoyed your visit. There’s a wee book about it, here—’

‘No thanks.’ Marnie took her entrance ticket and walked away, leaving him pulling a face at her back.

She started feeling calmer even as she walked into the chapter house: perhaps the silent sanctity of the place where the monks had read and prayed protected her from the demons howling in her mind. She sat down on the stone bench and allowed her eyes to follow the arches and curves in an almost hypnotic movement and the wheels that seemed to turn endlessly in her head slowed down, slowed down.

For the first time she felt able to consider her new situation clearly. Anita’s will, the house – that meant quite a lot of money, didn’t it? It still scared her. She believed Louise knew she hadn’t killed Anita but she was less sure about the inspector. Being innocent didn’t necessarily
protect you; she’d seen too many kids she’d known in care be stitched up to believe that.

The lawyer wanted to see her this afternoon but she didn’t want to go. Drax might easily work out she’d go there just like he’d worked out she was at the police station. Marnie wasn’t going to go back there either, even if she did feel bad about what had happened to Louise’s mum.

Whatever she might have said last night, she was too scared to vanish again. If she defied the police, she’d have them looking for her as well as Drax. Where was she going to stay? She wasn’t going to try dossing down in the car again, that was for sure. Where could she turn?

In this place of prayer, she somehow found herself praying too, a cry from the depth of her despair. Then she opened her eyes and sat on, gazing at the vaulting arches, and gradually the sense of calm stole over her again.

The ringing of her mobile in this hushed room was so shocking that she jumped in alarm, confused for a moment about where the sound was coming from. Then she scrabbled in her bag, looked at the caller number, hesitated, then answered it.

She listened, said, ‘Well … I don’t know,’ then listened again. At last she sighed. ‘If you really mean it, then I will. It’s kind – I don’t know what else I can do. Can we meet just in a café somewhere first – Stranraer, maybe?’ She gave a little, awkward laugh. ‘I’m a bit paranoid, you see. I just want to make sure I’m not being followed.’

She switched off her phone. It wasn’t an answer to anything except where she was going to sleep for a night or two, but it was better than nothing.

‘She’s as spiky as one of her own nasty plants,’ DS MacNee warned DC Hepburn as he rang Shelley Crichton’s doorbell just after midday.

‘Good afternoon, madam. I wonder if we could have a word?’ He took a step forward, ready to walk in.

Shelley didn’t move. ‘Why?’

They showed their warrant cards. ‘I’m DS MacNee, you may remember …’

‘Oh yes.’

‘We are continuing our enquires into the death of Anita Loudon—’

‘You haven’t had much success so far, have you?’ She had folded her arms forbiddingly across her body.

‘That’s why we need to talk to you,’ chipped in Hepburn, earning herself a glacial stare.

‘I don’t see that I can help you there.’

‘Look, do you mind if we come in?’ It was cold there on the doorstep with the wind whipping in from the sea and MacNee was getting impatient.

Shelley still didn’t move. ‘I told you what I was doing that evening the last time. There will be nothing else to add so it doesn’t seem worthwhile.’

‘We are not satisfied with the statement you made and I’m afraid we will need to go over it again in much more detail, madam. Let’s go right back to the morning there was the problem at the play park. What time did you get up?’

‘Eight o’clock. I always do.’ She was starting to look cold too, MacNee was pleased to note, and she was only wearing a skirt and a woollen sweater.

‘What did you have for breakfast?’ Hepburn asked, entering into the spirit of the thing.

‘This is just too ridiculous!’ Shelley snapped. ‘You—’

Behind her in the hall the phone rang. With a triumphant glance she said, ‘Excuse me,’ and went back inside.

‘Chancing your arm with that last one,’ MacNee cautioned. Then they both heard Shelley’s voice, high and shrill. ‘What? No! Don’t be silly – he can’t have—’

‘Seems to be in distress,’ MacNee said. ‘Might need help.’

‘Better go and see she’s all right,’ Hepburn agreed and they both walked through the open door.

Shelley, still exclaiming, certainly did seem to be both shocked and upset. ‘It’ll just be a mistake,’ she said at last. ‘You’re always reading about blunders the police make.’ She had turned and was looking directly at them as she said that. ‘Call me back if you hear anything more.’

‘Bad news?’ MacNee said sympathetically.

She didn’t seem appreciative. ‘I wasn’t aware I had invited you into my home. There seems to be no end to police impertinence. I have just been informed that your colleagues have arrested my former husband, presumably because you have made the ludicrous assumption that he would place a dead body on the very spot where our child died, a
sacred place – obscene! Whatever I may feel about him, he loved his son. And no doubt once you discover that he didn’t, I’ll be next!’ Her voice had risen to a hysterical pitch.

MacNee and Hepburn were staring at each other blankly. Then MacNee said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Crichton, that will be all for the moment.’

He was on his mobile, scowling, before they reached the end of the path. ‘Macdonald? What the hell’s going on? If you’ve arrested Grant Crichton I should have heard about it from you, not from the local grapevine.’

He listened for a moment, then said in a milder tone, ‘Oh, I see. So you’ve no details? Right, right. I’ll be back in half an hour.’

‘Arrested for financial fraud,’ he explained to Hepburn. ‘The Cairnryan lads, according to Andy. Something to do with his business, I suppose.’

MacNee was abstracted on the way back. Grant was still very much a suspect in the murder case but if he’d been arrested on another charge there would be the sort of complications he didn’t feel equipped to deal with. If he couldn’t get hold of Marjory he’d have to call Hyacinth back from London and he didn’t think she, or Marjory either, would be very happy about that.

Whatever Cat Fleming said, he was going to insist he spoke to Marjory once he’d got back and was able to report on the situation.

Daniel Lee switched the phone off and set it down on his desk very, very gently. He could feel pure rage starting to build inside him and if it erupted he would most likely break whatever was in his hands.

That fool! That fool! He’d known all long he was dangerous. He and Morrison had both known, but he was the useful idiot they had to tolerate. If he could get his hands on him he’d—

But he couldn’t. Grant would be locked up where no one could reach him and they would squeeze him and squeeze him. The chances
were they didn’t have evidence of more than irregularities and given a couple of hours they could probably have created a false trail that would tie the whole thing up for months, if not years. Their lawyer had said just now that he’d ordered him to say nothing.

But Grant would panic. He’d think he would see the chance of getting a short sentence at an open prison by telling them everything they wanted to know and a bit more besides. He wouldn’t, given what he was involved in – and he’d be dumped right in it, Drax would make sure of that – but he’d be naive enough to think he would.

Cold fear replaced anger. He’d no idea where Marnie had gone, either; that could be a costly mistake. He didn’t like mistakes.

He had a firewall surrounding everything that even Morrison didn’t know about. If it was a case of saving your own skin, he was in a good position, he told himself. He could get out of this. He just needed to be ruthless, and he’d never had a problem with that.

MacNee hardly spoke on the way back to headquarters. Hepburn glanced at him a couple of times but seeing the heavy frown between his brows didn’t interrupt. There was a lot resting on his shoulders; he’d never been someone who’d wanted more than the day-to-day job, down and dirty, and all this was getting to him. She wasn’t nearly as experienced as he was but she didn’t think she’d have a problem with taking that sort of responsibility when the time came.

If
the time came. She remembered her own situation with a nasty little jolt and took out her mobile to call home. Fleur, it seemed, had just got up and was making lunch and the helper seemed to be looking forward to it. Perhaps that would persuade her to carry on for a bit till Louise found a more permanent solution – whatever that might be …

When they reached the station MacNee got out with a heavy sigh. ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘
Hope not sunshine every hour, Fear not clouds will always lour.
’

‘True,’ Hepburn said very solemnly. ‘This too will pass.’

‘Right enough.’ MacNee gave another sigh as they went in.

The FCA at the reception desk looked up. ‘Oh, that’s good. DI Fleming wanted you to report to her as soon as you got in.’

MacNee’s face lit up as if the sun had, indeed, come out. ‘She’s back!’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes. Her husband’s all right, apparently.’

‘That’s good. We’re on our way.’

Hepburn hung back as they reached the foot of the stairs. ‘Do you think she wants me too? She maybe just wants a catch-up with you.’

‘You’d better come anyway. She can always send you away if necessary.’ MacNee was taking the stairs two at a time, as if he couldn’t wait to lay down the cares of office.

Hepburn followed more slowly. Sooner or later the question of Marnie was going to come up and she had a sinking feeling that despite MacNee’s sympathetic attitude, covering up what she’d done would be impossible. Maybe she’d have plenty of time to look after her mother anyway.

Big Marge was in a buoyant mood. ‘It’s been grim,’ she said, ‘but they operated first thing yesterday and it was very successful. I saw him afterwards and he was fine. We checked with the hospital this morning and they’re keeping him under observation but all being well he can come home later on. Cammie’s all set to go to Edinburgh when he gets the summons.

‘So – fill me in.’

‘Hardly know where to start,’ MacNee said.

Fleming listened without interrupting as he went through the details of Marnie’s narrow escape and Anita Loudon’s letter. Then she said awkwardly, ‘I’m sorry this was all dumped on you, Tam. With the family issues it really wasn’t possible for me to deal with anything else.’

MacNee made supportive noises and she went on, ‘I thought the super would have taken over if there was a problem?’

‘Yes, well – meeting in London, seemingly. Very important.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Fleming said. ‘The letter – was Marnie distressed?’

MacNee went quiet. Hepburn said, ‘I think she’s past caring about her mother. Her big fear was that we’d decide she’d killed Anita for the money.’

‘I think I may have scared her by pointing out she might have been the last person to see Anita alive and she took that as an accusation. Where is she now?’

Hepburn gave a sidelong glance at MacNee who was sitting like a statue. He wasn’t going to tell on her; she could just say that Marnie had refused police protection and then walked out.

No, she couldn’t. It might strictly be true but a lie by implication was still a lie. And if morality wasn’t persuasive enough, common sense told her that it was usually the cover-up not the misdeed itself that finished you.

‘I did something very stupid,’ she said and felt MacNee relax beside her.

It wasn’t comfortable, making her confession with Fleming’s penetrating hazel eyes fixed on her face, but she got through it.

It seemed a long time to her before Fleming spoke. ‘Well, Louise, you don’t need me to tell you the problems with that. I expect Tam ran through them with you at the time.’

Hepburn nodded.

‘I understand that you did this out of sympathy for someone in trouble but what worries me is your tendency to adopt a personal attitude towards suspects, whether for or against. I understand, too, that you have a passion for truth and justice, which I admire and even share, but it’s nothing to do with our job.

‘I heard someone say once that books are about truth, courts are about justice and cases are about proof. I’ve often been grateful that it’s not my job to decide someone’s guilty. If it was I’d have to live with the consequences of getting it wrong.

‘This is a disciplinary matter, of course. But I have broad discretion, and unless a defence lawyer raises a question about bias in the investigation, I’m prepared to overlook it. And it would certainly be a good mark if you could persuade Marnie to come in and talk to us – use emotional blackmail, if she’ll listen. She ought to feel some sense of obligation and for her own sake I want to arrange proper protection before she gets herself killed.’

‘I can try,’ Hepburn said. ‘I just wonder if she’s a target because of her memory – something the killer thinks she knows that she hasn’t told us yet.’

‘Yes,’ Fleming said. ‘It had occurred to me. One of the reasons I’m so anxious to speak to her is that I have some ideas for questions I think she might be able to answer.

‘All right, Louise. I think we can leave it there for now. Tam, don’t go.’

Hepburn scuttled out. At least it was over and the wounds probably weren’t fatal. She knew, and Fleming knew that she knew, that it was very unlikely a defence lawyer would even find out what she had done let alone claim there had been bias, so it probably wasn’t the end of her career.

What had cut her to the quick was Fleming’s analysis of her own shortcomings as an investigator. The criticisms that go deep are always the ones you recognise as being fair.

Michael Morrison was in an irritable mood as he picked his wife up from the train. Apart from anything else, he had wanted her to stay away a bit longer. The police hadn’t come back over the weekend and he was hoping that given time the interview might just somehow never happen. He didn’t want to have to coach Vivienne in what she had to say; she was such an innocent that if he did she’d look so guilty they’d probably arrest her.

She greeted him with her usual sunny warmth. ‘Oh darling, it’s
lovely to be home! Diana was sweet, of course, but she has such a busy life I felt I was in the way. And if I stayed any longer, you’d go bankrupt!’

He could never stay irritated with her for long. ‘I think I can take the hit. That’s what I’m here for – paying for my wife to look beautiful.’

Vivienne laughed. ‘You’re so good. And how’s Mikey?’

‘Oh, shaping up for delinquency very promisingly. He’s been missing you.’

‘I’ve missed him too. But I got him this gorgeous baby penguin in Harrods …’

She chattered on, with him half-listening as they drove back down the A77. They were just south of Ayr when his mobile, lying in the tray between the seats, rang. He glanced at the caller ID, then, despite his wife’s disapproving look, answered it.

He didn’t react to what he heard, he just gripped the steering wheel tighter until the whites of his knuckles showed. ‘I’ll call you later,’ he said, putting his foot down on the accelerator.

‘Michael!’ Vivienne protested. ‘You shouldn’t use the mobile when you’re driving and you’re going to get flashed if you drive like that. You’ve got six points on the licence already—’

‘Do you think you could just shut up?’ he said, through clenched teeth.

Vivienne gasped. He never spoke to her like that and tears came to her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘No,’ he said, but he didn’t apologise and he didn’t slow down.

Vivienne sat in miserable silence all the way home. He didn’t even come in with her; he dumped her and her cases on the doorstep and drove off – back to the office, he said. He never snapped at her, even though she knew she sometimes fussed. When she’d been fretting away that day after Anita had opened her heart to her, he’d been so
patient and reassuring, seeing she took her sleeping pills and making her hot milk so she got proper rest. For him to speak to her like that must mean there was something wrong – very, very wrong.

‘What I’ve been asking myself,’ Fleming said to MacNee, ‘is how come this consortium got together in the first place. Construction, haulage, a nightclub – what’s the missing link?’

‘Maybe it’s just the area,’ MacNee suggested. ‘Crichton and Morrison had businesses here, Lee had a business here according to Anita—’

‘So what was it? It suddenly went pear-shaped, and Lee and Kirstie disappeared, leaving Marnie behind. There must be something in her records to say where Kirstie Burnside was working – it was some office in Newton Street, but I can’t remember the name. I want that checked out. Your job, I guess, Tam. You’ll have access to the restricted files.’