Dead in the Water (2 page)

‘Today she’d a face like a dropped meat pie when it didn’t go her way. They’re saying she’s like that about everything – the depute PFs are all muttering. And there’s rumours about her taking a strange interest in some of the minor cases that wouldn’t usually come her way. Like prominent citizens’ speeding tickets, for instance . . .’

Fleming looked at him sharply. ‘Tam, what are you saying?’

‘Me? I’m saying nothing. Only that it’s the Fiscal’s decision whether to prosecute or not. And she’s had a big extension put on to her house.’

‘Are they suggesting she’s doing favours? That’s serious stuff.’

‘Oh, no one’s daft enough to come right out and say anything. Just mutterings, like I said. They’re all hoping Duncan Mackay recovers and comes back.’

‘He’s not far off retirement. I think we’re stuck with her. And of course the Super will go doolally about the headlines.’

MacNee nodded in sympathy, then opened his mouth to speak.

‘Tam,’ Fleming cut in, ‘if you’re going to quote Burns at me, or tell me I never died a winter yet, I swear I’ll do you a mischief.’

Wisely, he shut his mouth again and in gloomy silence they took the long road south to Kirkluce.

It was no surprise, when DI Fleming reached her fourth-floor office in the Galloway Constabulary Headquarters in the market town of Kirkluce, to find a message waiting for her from Superintendent Donald Bailey, requesting an urgent meeting.

She grimaced. Sheila Milne had obviously got to him already. Mobile phones had their uses, but all too often it only meant trouble came your way faster.

Fleming had never relished deskwork, but it looked positively tempting compared to having her head pulled off by Bailey. She might as well get it over with – do the penitent bit, suffer his recriminations and hope the storm would blow itself out before there was significant damage to life or property – but it wasn’t a fun way to spend quarter of an hour. When she reached his office and heard a crisp ‘Come!’ her stomach gave a nervous lurch.

To Fleming’s surprise, she was greeted with, ‘There you are, Marjory! Good. Now, what are we going to do about all this?’

She could read the signs of displeasure – furrows in his brow going right up into his bald head, plump cheeks flushed, down-turned mouth – but apparently she wasn’t the target. She had barely sat down before he began his tirade.

‘That woman is simply, totally and utterly impossible! I have never heard such impertinence in my life. She spoke to me in a tone that – that – what’s that phrase? “Would be offensive if the Almighty God used it to a black beetle!” Who does she think she is? Oh, I’ll have to see the Chief Constable about
this
– though of course he’s in the States for a fortnight.

‘She had the gall to suggest this was an incompetent Force – and on what grounds, pray? That an advocate who specializes in finding loopholes had found one – as if cases didn’t go off because of technical failures by the PF’s office every week! Then she’d the nerve to rant about a waste of money, and demand an investigation! I pointed out this would only waste more money and I certainly wouldn’t authorize it, since the reason was plain as a pikestaff – an unfortunate mistake.’

‘I’m very sorry, Donald. There’s no excuse. An elementary error.’

‘I won’t deny it’s most unfortunate, but these things happen,’ he said with uncharacteristic magnanimity, explained as he continued heatedly, ‘To be honest, what concerns me more is the Fiscal’s general attitude. Naturally we must comply with all lawful instructions, but Mackay always had the grace to acknowledge expertise. I haven’t directly crossed swords with her until now, but you have had unwarranted interference, haven’t you?’

As she agreed that working with the Fiscal was no bed of roses, Fleming breathed a grateful prayer for the Law of Unintended Consequences. Sheila Milne losing it today had given Fleming useful protection against the woman’s hostility, dating back to a murder case over which they’d disagreed, when Milne had been proved wrong.

‘So,’ Bailey was saying, ‘what can we do about it, Marjory?’

‘Tam MacNee’s got suggestions, but I don’t think any of them are legal, or even in some cases physically possible. Short of that, I’m not sure that there’s much. Comply with definite instructions, but keep reports as general as possible, while we do what’s needed, I suppose.’

‘Good, good. That’s what we need – a strategy.’ He sat back in his chair, propping his fingers together in a pyramid over his paunch. ‘In a sense, she’s even threatening the position of the CC and I can tell you now that he won’t like it at all. Questions may have to be asked at a higher level, with the Lord Advocate, perhaps. Though of course, today’s problems weaken our position. She’s been trying to get her foot in the door – this gives her a chance.’

‘Yes. And the headlines tomorrow may not be exactly friendly,’ Fleming warned. Bailey was inclined to panic about adverse press coverage.

His frown returned. ‘I have to say that worries me. A bad press can do us a lot of harm.’

‘Perhaps you could issue a statement regretting that a mere technicality should ruin months of painstaking police work, pointing out that despite this setback we will vigorously pursue further investigations to ensure justice is done in the end. The press always like that – how the courts are too soft and more interested in the rights of the criminal than the rights of ordinary decent working families.’

Bailey was impressed. ‘Excellent, Marjory! I’ll get the press officer to draft it right away.’

‘Fingers crossed. And I can only apologize again.’ She got up. ‘I’d better go and tackle my desk—’

Bailey shifted in his seat. ‘Actually, there’s something else I have to talk to you about.’

‘Oh – fine.’ She sat down again, then realized Bailey was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Ms Milne’s parting shot was to remind me of government policy on cold cases, and she’d obviously been trawling the records. There is only one unsolved murder on our books and she wants it reviewed. Nineteen eighty-five – before you joined the Force, Marjory. A girl found in the sea, down at the Mull of Galloway.’

‘Yes,’ Fleming said slowly. ‘I remember something about that, but only very vaguely.’

‘I am hoping you will take this on. I’ve called the CC and he agrees we should check it out ourselves. We don’t want to wait until there’s a demand for an external review – reflects badly on our efficiency.

‘The thing is, I was in charge and your late father was involved. I’m afraid his behaviour led to a formal reprimand, and it may make difficult reading for you.’

‘I see.’ She was taken aback. Her relationship with Sergeant Angus Laird had never been easy, but she had always believed he had an unblemished record as a straightforward, if distinctly old-fashioned policeman. Nineteen eighty-five – she would have been twenty-four, still living at home, doing a series of unsatisfying jobs. But she’d never heard of a problem at work; she wondered if even Janet, her mother, knew. She realized Bailey was waiting for her to speak.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just – surprised. Yes, of course, if you want me to review it I’ll treat it like any other professional commitment.’

He relaxed a little. ‘I knew I could count on you. This way, we’re seen to be running our own ship and – well, it’s in the family, isn’t it?’

Thinking about her father, Fleming hadn’t considered how embarrassing this was for Bailey too. An unsolved murder case is a professional failure for the Senior Investigating Officer, and to have someone else check on you, trying to pinpoint mistakes you might have made, perhaps even finding the answer you hadn’t found, must be an uncomfortable thought.

It wouldn’t be comfortable for her either. She’d have to put him on the spot, quite possibly find fault . . . Not exactly the best position to be in with your boss. A nasty suspicion took hold of her. ‘
In the family?
’ Was he, and was the CC, expecting her merely to rubberstamp his decisions?

As delicately as she could, she suggested someone from outside. ‘They would find it easier to see things clearly. I might find it hard to be totally objective—’

‘No, no!’ he cried. ‘I have confidence in you as the best officer I know. And we want the best possible job.’

She hadn’t thought it would work. ‘Thank you for the compliment,’ she said with a sickly smile.

Bailey beamed. ‘Well deserved. And naturally, you must
grill
me on what I did. I don’t expect any favours. And if you succeed where I failed, I shall be delighted.’

Perhaps he even thought he meant it, but human nature being what it is, he wouldn’t be delighted in the least. He had to be hoping she too would find the case insoluble. Fleming’s heart sank further. ‘I can only do my best,’ she said hollowly.

‘Good enough for me. I’ll arrange for the material to be sent to you, and you can have whatever back-up you need, of course.’

Fleming left with a sense of foreboding. The classic no-win situation: success would mean her superintendent being humiliated; failure would give Sheila Milne ammunition for the vendetta she seemed determined to pursue.

The connection with her father, too: the more she thought about it, the more uncomfortable she felt, as if she were being drawn into disloyalty. And she had, too, an uneasy, superstitious feeling about digging up events from long ago. You never knew what ghosts would emerge from the grave of the past.

Marjory Fleming headed out of Kirkluce on her way home to the farm owned by her husband Bill, and his parents and grandparents before him. Farming wasn’t an easy life these days – if it ever had been – and the catastrophe of foot-and-mouth, scare stories about BSE in sheep and the flood of ever-changing European directives had made the last few years particularly stressful, but even so her heart always lifted when she turned up the farm track.

Mains of Craigie was looking particularly appealing today. It sat on rising ground, looking out to soft green Galloway hills, and with the brisk March wind the daffodils that straggled up by the farm track were dancing with an enthusiasm to inspire Wordsworth to a positive frenzy of poetic rapture. The sky was clear, with fluffy clouds whipping past, and on the hill opposite were half-grown lambs, still at the playful stage, playing King of the Castle on a tussock. As Marjory parked the car in the yard and got out she could hear loud triumphant cackling coming from the old orchard below the house, where one of her hens had obviously laid an egg.

Smiling, she went to look down at them, the cares of a bruising day slipping away. Just watching them, plump and confident, strutting and scratching around in the rough grass, and hearing their comfortable sounds always put things into perspective.

She hadn’t worked late tonight, so Bill would probably still be out around the farm. The kids should be home, unless Cammie had one of his rugby training sessions. It would be nice if they could all have supper together – it didn’t happen as often as it should.

Supper was something to look forward to these days. Karolina Cisek, whose husband Rafael worked for Bill on the farm, had transformed Marjory’s life, not only by helping with laundry and cleaning. She also provided delicious meals from the small catering company she had managed to set up, despite three-year-old Janek whose mission in life seemed to be to run his mother ragged. With her quiet, even shy appearance – soft fair hair, blue-grey eyes and dimples in her pink cheeks – you could never guess she would be so dynamic. She was fluent in English now, though her husband still struggled and they always spoke Polish at home. Marjory suspected Rafael wasn’t altogether happy with his wife’s new career, but no doubt the money was welcome.

Her mother’s little car was parked in the yard, she was pleased to see. She was worried about Janet Laird, who had coped well with her husband’s distressing decline, but since his death eighteen months ago had been . . . It was hard to define exactly what, since Janet was still her gentle, cheerful self, and her face was rounded and plump once more. But she was, Marjory sensed, diminished in some way, as if in losing Angus she had lost part of herself too.

It was hard to know what to do, since enquiries invariably met with a smiling ‘Och, I’m fine,’ to which you could hardly say, ‘No, you’re not,’ without evidence to back it up. All Marjory could do was hold a watching brief and keep her mother involved in family life, without letting her do too much and wear herself out. She’d always felt guilty about taking advantage of Janet’s uncomplaining readiness to provide childcare and supplement Marjory’s own lack of culinary skills. Now the children were older and Karolina was doing most of the housekeeping, Marjory could make sure Janet was free to enjoy her friends and her garden instead of servicing the demands of the Flemings.

Taking off her shoes in the mud room, she could hear Cat chattering away in the kitchen. She sounded cheerful and excited and Marjory smiled. At sixteen, Cat had suddenly shaken off the worst of her teenage rebellion; she’d got very good marks in her Standard Grades last year and was working hard towards Highers, hoping to become a vet. She was even stepping out with a nice lad with ambitions to be a doctor, and Bill and Marjory were beginning tentatively to hope that, allowing for occasional lapses, the worst was probably over.

Cammie, at fourteen almost as tall as his father, had reached the spotty, hairy, grunting stage. He had dark hair and eyes like his mother’s, but his looks weren’t improved by bruises and the occasional black eye, and his nose was no longer the shape God had intended. Not that he cared; rugby and his training were still the most important things in his life, ruling out the drink-drugs-girls problems most parents with teenage boys worried about. He seemed set for a professional playing career with the farm to come back to later, and since he couldn’t actually have forgotten how to talk, communication would no doubt be re-established in a year or two. He was good around the farm anyway, and conversation wasn’t a necessity when you were heaving bales or dipping sheep.