Dead in the Water (10 page)

‘Hey, what happened?’

Kasper was a serious hunk, with those dark, smouldering looks. Occasionally he smiled at her in a way that made her feel quite kittenish, but today he only directed a look towards Stefan, who said, ‘He had an accident with a tool, Mrs Hodge.’

She wagged a playful finger at Kasper. ‘Need to be a lot more careful in future, won’t you? But anyway, you’re all doing a terrific job – keep up the good work!’

Kasper went back to his plastering and the others hadn’t looked up.

Defeated, Diane turned away. She crossed the extensive garden, landscaped into total submission, and entered the house through the large conservatory, where her husband, in one of the rattan peacock chairs, was leafing through a yachting magazine.

Gavin Hodge did not look up. Relations had been strained since their row in the car coming back from Tulach.

Diane gave him a wary glance. She was by nature unreflective, but the atmosphere was beginning to get her down. Trying to ignore it, she said, ‘I try really hard to be friendly to these men, just to show I don’t mind them being immigrants, but Stefan just won’t lighten up. And how the others manage here I don’t know – they don’t understand a word I say.’

‘Don’t bet on it – I reckon it suits them to play dumb. They’ve work to do, so leave them alone. And Stefan probably thinks you’re coming on to him and he’s terrified.’

Diane gave Gavin a look of dislike. ‘You really do have a nasty tongue. For God’s sake, just because last night I mentioned something that happened years ago, you don’t have to act like this.’

‘You deliberately humiliated me. And you exaggerated and made out that little prick Lazansky was some sort of hero.’

Diane sighed. ‘I didn’t humiliate you deliberately, and I didn’t exaggerate. If anything, I underplayed it. It was funny, that’s all, and after all these years you might have a sense of humour about it.

‘And if we’re talking about how people behave, slavering over a girl in her twenties is pretty disgusting. She thought you were a dirty old man, quite obviously.’

Gavin Hodge’s face turned an alarming shade of puce. He dropped the magazine and stood up.

‘Women have been hit for less than that. I’m leaving before you’re one of them. And I’m going out. Don’t wait lunch.’

Diane looked after him as he stormed out. She bit her lip, then, with a shrug and a small, angry laugh, went off to have a shower.

In the car, Fleming briefed MacNee, with professional succinctness, on the facts of the case. Wanting to see what he would make of it, she tried not to give it a subjective slant.

‘Reaction, Tam? Take your time – it’s a long, long drive down the Mull.’

MacNee glanced about him. ‘It’s a rare day for it, anyway.’

They had turned off the A75 and were driving now past Sandhead, looking out to Luce Bay. It was, indeed, a fine day for early April, clear and windy, the sea a dark blue flecked with white caps. The tide was out: miles of wave-scoured sand fringed the bay, punctuated by long lines of black rocks, draped in bladderwrack. To the landward side, great clumps of gorse were just coming into flower and behind these stunted trees leaned away from the prevailing wind.

‘I like the countryside fine,’ MacNee observed, ‘but just to look at, mind, not live in. Too quiet.’

Fleming smiled. MacNee was still a townie at heart, even if he had compromised on the douce charms of Kirkluce to keep his adored wife Bunty happy. Somewhere inside, though, he was still hungering for the raucous, edgy atmosphere of his native Glasgow.

He began thinking aloud. ‘The father – I’d be taking a good shufti at him. He’d got motive, means, opportunity – and what have we got instead? Someone phoning her up to arrange to kill her? Sounds kind of far-fetched to me. What does he do – rolls up to collect her, ties her wrists, bangs her on the head then tips her off the cliff, all within half a mile of her home? Surely there’d be better ways.’

Fleming agreed. ‘It was the risk that struck me. He couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t tell someone who she was meeting.’

‘She didn’t tell anyone who the father was. But even so  . . .’

‘I want to see what the parents and the brother have to say now. It’ll be useful to compare with the original statements.’

‘Have to consider the brother as well, of course. You never know what goes on in these country places,’ MacNee said darkly.

‘Not, of course, in Glasgow? But I agree, that needs consideration – which it certainly didn’t get last time round.

‘The other visit this afternoon is to Marcus Lazansky – or Lindsay, I suppose he likes being called now. Based in Glasgow, but he’s here filming
Playfair’s Patch
this week, Cat tells me. She has dreams of stardom once she’s spotted during her twenty seconds of glory as an extra.

‘It sounds as if he’d a solid alibi not only for the murder but also the time of the child’s conception, but as far as I can tell he’s never been questioned. If we do that now, pushing a bit to see if it checks out, we can maybe eliminate him. I thought we’d go there first and hope to catch him at Tulach House.’

MacNee grunted. ‘You don’t watch that rubbish, do you?’

‘Never managed to watch an episode right through. The kids and Bill like it and they send me out of the room because I keep groaning. I can see why he’s popular, though.’

‘Oho – fancy him, do you?’

‘Tam, don’t leer. It’s not a pretty sight. No, not really. I prefer the rugged type that make me feel small and feminine.’ She gave him a warning glance. ‘And snorts of derision constitute insubordination.

‘And by the way, what did Jock have to say about the knifing?’

MacNee pulled a face. ‘Not a lot. Bad feeling between the Poles and the neds, he reckons, and I’d put good money on it that our old friend Kevin Docherty’s at the bottom of it. But they stonewalled the nurse at the medical centre when she asked.’

‘I’m edgy about this. They all begin carrying knives for protection and that’s a recipe for disaster. I’ll get someone out there tomorrow to see what we can do. Getting Docherty back behind bars would be a good start.

‘Oh, that’s the turn for Ardhill. Not far now.’

The wind took them as they climbed out of the car outside Tulach House. MacNee staggered and swore.

‘What a godforsaken place! If you’d money to build a big grand house like this, what would you put it here for?’

‘Look at the view, Tam!’ Fleming gestured towards the Irish Sea on one side, Luce Bay on the other. ‘It’s amazing!’

‘Oh, it’s that, right enough.’ Muttering something only marginally appropriate about ‘
chill November’s icy blast
’, MacNee gave a disparaging look round, pulling up the zip on his black leather jacket and heading for the shelter of the pillared porch.

A thick shrubbery encroached on the side of the house, and what had once been a lawn looked more like a hayfield. The flowerbeds were overgrown, and the paintwork of the house too showed the signs of neglect. It was sad, Fleming thought, given the elegance of the original building – like a grand lady reduced by circumstances to a down-and-out.

There were several cars parked on the weedy gravel in front of the house. As MacNee rang the bell, Fleming glanced at them, noticing that one had a disabled sticker.

It wasn’t Marcus Lindsay who opened the door. This was a short, plump little man who greeted them cheerfully when they explained who they were.

It wasn’t often their unexpected arrival met with such enthusiasm. ‘Oooh, how splendid! I’m Barrie Craig, but I expect you really want our First AD – Assistant Director. He takes care of liaison with the police – actually, if I’m honest, takes care of just about everything. I promise you, he’ll see that none of the locals are upset.

‘But do come and meet Marcus first – he’ll be so tickled to meet you!’

‘Yes, it was him we were hoping to speak to,’ Fleming said.

‘My goodness, fans – in the Force! I’m thrilled skinny!’

MacNee opened his mouth but at a look from Fleming shut it again, and they followed Craig through an airy hallway floored with black and white marble tiles and with a curved wrought-iron staircase sweeping up in front of a long arched window. From an open door came the sound of animated conversation.

There were five people sitting around, but Fleming’s eyes went immediately to the woman in the wheelchair, pulled up close to the log fire. She wasn’t speaking, just watching with a slight smile on her face, but even in her silence her presence dominated the room. There was a much younger woman, whom Fleming recognized from the series, perched on the arm of a sofa talking to a man with a clipboard. Beside him was another man with a bag full of technical-looking stuff at his feet. There was some sort of argument going on.

‘OK, I can do that,’ Jaki was saying, ‘but you really can’t expect—’

Craig bustled in. ‘Marcus! Someone you simply have to meet!’

Fleming hadn’t noticed him initially. He was behind the woman in the chair, a little in shadow. She recognized him too, naturally, but he was much less striking in real life – a quiet, attractive-looking man with none of the swagger of his TV persona. Then he smiled and stepped forward, and it was as if he had suddenly taken the spotlight. Out of the wings, on to the stage, Fleming found herself thinking.

‘Superintendent Playfair, meet DI Fleming!’ Craig declaimed. ‘And – er – and her sergeant.’

As Fleming moved forward to shake his hand, she realized MacNee hadn’t moved. He was staring at the woman in the wheelchair, who had noticed this, and as Lindsay disclaimed entitlement to such an introduction, directed a smile at MacNee which had him moving forward with a silly smile on his own face.

‘Miss – Miss Lascelles!’ he stammered, taking the hand she held out to him and holding on as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it now.

Sylvia Lascelles detached herself with the grace of experience. ‘Goodness, you are clever to recognize me! I must have changed a bit since last you saw me.’

‘Couldn’t forget,’ MacNee said, a little hoarsely. ‘
For Ever
– my – my wife’s favourite film.’

It wasn’t kind of Fleming to say, ‘Oh come, Sergeant MacNee, I’m sure you enjoyed it too,’ but she did enjoy the unusual spectacle of Tam MacNee blushing. She went on, ‘We really wanted to have a word with you, Mr Lindsay, if you don’t mind.’

Barrie Craig interrupted. ‘He doesn’t know a thing about it. The person you want is Tony here, our First AD.’ He indicated the man with the clipboard. ‘Show the officers the arrangements, Tony.’

‘That’s all right,’ Fleming said quickly. ‘There may be questions from the local uniformed branch, but it’s not really our business.’ She turned, making a gesture towards the door. ‘If there’s somewhere we could talk, Mr Lindsay . . .?’

He was looking politely puzzled. ‘Yes, of course – this way.’

‘Oooh, they’ve caught up with you, Marcus!’ the irrepressible Craig was saying as they left, and Fleming heard Sylvia’s voice asking, ‘What on earth was that about?’

The room he took them into was a book-lined study. It had an air of decay; motes of dust danced in the sunlight and the backs of the old volumes, untouched for centuries, were dry and faded. There were leather chairs and a chesterfield, cracked and splitting; the tapestry curtains were heavy with the grime of ages and at one end had fallen off the curtain rail. Above the mantelpiece was a striking portrait sketch of a very good-looking man in the traditional pilot’s pose – flying jacket, white silk scarf. Laddie Lazansky, presumably: he was clearly still a presence in the house.

The room was very cold. Apologizing, Lindsay switched on a small electric fire, incongruous in the impressive fireplace. ‘Sorry – I’m afraid I don’t use much of the house. Things got neglected latterly and I’m hardly here myself. Now, what can I do for you?’

He took the chair nearest the inadequate fire and MacNee, in a swift outflanking move, secured the one on the other side, leaving the chesterfield and the draught from the window for Fleming.

‘This is going back a long way, Mr Lindsay,’ she began. ‘You may remember that in October 1985 a young woman was found dead in the sea at the Mull of Galloway – Ailsa Grant.’

‘Ailsa Grant!’ he said slowly. ‘Yes – yes, of course I remember. A tragedy – I used to know her when we were young.’

Was that a guarded reply? ‘A murder enquiry followed, but no one was ever charged. It is policy to review cases of this sort, and I am in charge of a fresh investigation.’

MacNee, too, was watching the man closely. He leaned forward. ‘You see, however long ago it was, it’s still our job to see she gets justice.’

Lindsay seemed quite relaxed – but then, Fleming reminded herself, he was an actor. ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said gravely. ‘If there’s anything I can tell you, I’m happy to do it.’

A wholly appropriate response – almost too perfect, as if someone had given him his lines. Fleming went on, ‘Did you have a relationship with Ailsa Grant?’

‘Relationship? Oh – I don’t know that I’d call it that. I took her out a few times when we were – what, seventeen, eighteen? It didn’t amount to anything except a few kisses in the back of my mother’s car.’

She pressed him. ‘No more than that?’