Dead in the Water (32 page)

He sighed. ‘I’d like to think I have no enemies, though I suppose it would be naïve to think everyone likes me,’ he said with a smile MacNee considered smarmy, but it got an answering smile from Fleming.

‘Even police inspectors have been known to have delusions like that, sir,’ she said.

If she was going to start being winsome, MacNee would definitely throw up. ‘Delusion’s right,’ he said. ‘So, if we cut out fantasy, what’re we left with? Mrs Grant’s top of the list – you know that.’

He got a look of annoyance from his boss, but if Big Marge didn’t want him butting in, she should stop playing mental footsie and get on with the job.

‘Jean Grant,’ Lindsay said slowly. ‘You think it could have been a woman?’

‘Do
you
think it could’ve been a woman? You were there, I wasn’t.’

‘Unfortunately, sergeant, I might as well not have been. Can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

Back to square one. MacNee subsided, and Fleming took over. ‘On a different tack completely, could I ask about your relationship with Sheila Milne?’

MacNee gaped. Where the hell was Big Marge coming from on this one?

Lindsay gaped too. ‘You’re not suggesting she’s somehow involved in this?’

‘Of course not,’ Fleming said smoothly. ‘A different matter completely.’

‘Er – well, we knew each other in Glasgow.’

MacNee noted Lindsay’s discomfort with considerable interest. A casual friendship, eh? He wasn’t acting casual now.

‘I can’t remember where we first met – at a party, probably. I was appearing at the Citizens’ Theatre, and she was one of the Friends. Very supportive – came to all the social events for the stage-door johnnies and jennies.’

MacNee had a happy vision of the Procurator Fiscal staking out the stage door in her fake fur coat, holding out – what would you use to attract a male star? Hardly a bunch of flowers – bottle of single malt, perhaps.

Fleming was pressuring Lindsay. ‘So you saw her quite regularly?’

‘Oh well, you know . . .’

‘And you’ve kept in touch?’

‘No, no! Hadn’t spoken to her for years. Not since I started
Playfair
, anyway.’

‘Did you have a relationship with her?’

‘Look, I can’t see what this is about. So we knew each other – she knew a lot of people at the theatre. Why are you asking this?’

MacNee wanted to hear the answer to this too, but Fleming said only, ‘Tying up some loose ends, that’s all.

‘Now, something else totally unrelated. Would you object to giving us a sample of your DNA?’

This, at least, MacNee knew about – Fleming had told him on the way here – but it certainly threw Lindsay.

‘My DNA? May I ask why?’

‘To eliminate you completely from the Ailsa Grant enquiry, since we’re now in a position to establish the father of her child. The sample would be destroyed immediately afterwards, of course.’

MacNee thought he caught a flicker pass over his face, but Lindsay said quite steadily, ‘A DNA test? It seems unnecessary, I have to say. I think I’ve already done all I need to do to prove I had nothing to do with it. Unless there’s a more compelling reason for wanting it, this appears to me an unreasonable request.’

‘You’re entitled to refuse, of course.’ Fleming looked disappointed. ‘But I’m sorry you feel like that.’

Lindsay put a hand up to rub his temple. ‘Is this going to take much longer? I’m beginning to feel very tired.’

To be fair, the guy didn’t look great. It was surprising that Fleming had pushed him quite so hard.

But she immediately said, ‘Of course,’ and got up. As she and MacNee reached the door, she turned. ‘Just one thing more, if you can bear it.’

Uh-oh! That old tactic! MacNee waited, with real interest, for what was coming next.

‘You’d a phone call from someone asking you to lie to the police. Who was that?’

Lindsay jerked round, winced, and swore. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ Then he gave a short laugh. ‘Oh, of course! Jaki. It was a joking conversation, that’s all, and as Jaki no doubt also told you, I said I wouldn’t.’

Fleming went very still, like a cat who has suddenly seen a mouse poke its nose out of its hole. ‘A joking conversation,’ she said slowly. ‘Oddly enough, that was just how you described your conversation with Sheila Milne. Mr Lindsay, did Ms Milne ask you to lie to the police?’

He was visibly shaken. ‘No, of course not,’ he tried to say, but stumbled on the words.

‘I think that’s exactly what you’re doing now. And I wonder why? Could it have anything to do with some sort of favour she did you – to do with some charge against you? My guess would be for speeding.’

He was ashen now, but she went on mercilessly, ‘Because you see, Mr Lindsay, I can order checks to be made. But a confession’s always better.’

‘I – I can’t . . .’ Lindsay stammered.

‘My, you’re a gallus fellow!’ MacNee said in mock admiration. ‘Brave enough to risk a charge of delaying the ends of justice! You can get the jail for that.’

‘Can I remind you again – it will be on record.’ Fleming piled on the pressure.

MacNee whipped out his notebook expectantly as Lindsay groaned.

‘Oh, God! Very well then. I’d nine points on my licence, and I got zapped again. I mentioned it to her – hoping, I suppose, for advice – and she promised she’d try and find some reason to drop it.’ He put his head in his hands.

‘Better out than in,’ MacNee said cheerily.

‘Will – will I be charged?’

‘Not on this basis,’ Fleming said. ‘We’d have cautioned you if you were anything other than a witness. Could I ask you why Ms Milne should have done this?’

Lindsay looked up at that. ‘Why do you think! The bloody woman fancied me!’

‘Take it out in trade, did she?’ MacNee said coarsely, and got a look of loathing in response.

‘No, sergeant. I do have my standards.’

For a terrible moment, MacNee thought Fleming was going to laugh.

As they went out into the garden, Fleming said, ‘Well, what did you make of that?’

‘I don’t know,’ MacNee said honestly. ‘You tell me. But if you’ve got the Fiscal on your list of suspects now, all I can say is,
Welcome to your gory bed!
’

The footprints expert was a small, quiet man in a black sweatshirt and black jeans. He was on hands and knees on the grass beside the shrubbery, spraying a footprint impression with what, bizarrely, appeared to be hairspray, then pouring in some sort of thick mixture. Behind him, a platform of planks had been laid over the terrace, and there was a camera on the ground beside it. Fleming waited until he had finished the delicate operation before she spoke.

‘Dr Madsen?’

He stood up. His hands were covered with white powder; he wiped them on the back of his jeans, clearly not for the first time, then looked at them ruefully. ‘Better not shake your hand,’ he said.

Fleming smiled and agreed, then jerked her head towards the footprints. ‘Anything for us yet?’

Madsen was a man of few words and he had the scientist’s usual reluctance to offer untested theories. He stalled, but eventually indicated that footprints had been made on more than one occasion.

‘One set – ground dry, so very shallow. There’s others, overlapping sometimes, deeper, when the ground was wet. Can’t tell you yet how many occasions there were.’

‘Kind of shoes?’ Fleming asked.

‘Boots, not shoes. Give you a size and make later.’

‘Guess as to height?’ Brevity seemed to be catching.

‘Have to do some calculations. Not small, anyway.’

MacNee had drifted across to the patio. ‘Wouldn’t get much from here, I suppose,’ he said.

Madsen followed him over. ‘You’d be surprised. Don’t need mud, these days. See the slime there?’ He pointed to the green growth on the patio slabs. ‘Came up well on the camera, enlarged. Can tell you about three people. One small, woman probably – she slipped. Someone with a bigger foot slipped too – finished up against the doorstep there. The victim?’

Fleming was listening, fascinated. ‘That’s right – concussed himself.’

‘Now here,’ he pointed to the area around the French windows, ‘can’t make any sense of this. Too many people back and forth. Your lot, I guess.’

‘Ambulance crew too,’ Fleming said regretfully. ‘Tried to keep them off once I got here, but it was too late. Pity. Might have got something useful.’

‘Not finished yet.’ He led them to the edge of the patio nearest the house and pointed, with a smug expression. ‘This is the interesting bit. The third set. See there? Someone stood just at the corner. Turned, moved quickly following the victim – his prints overlapped. Then beyond,’ he indicated, ‘the prints are closer. Running then, you see, then swerved off into the grass.’

‘Our friend in the boots,’ Fleming said, nodding.

Madsen shook his head. ‘Someone in trainers. And smaller feet.’

‘What? The person who was standing watching didn’t make the attack?’

‘Couldn’t have. Different size of feet altogether.’

Completely taken aback, Fleming stared at the patio, then back to the shrubbery. After a moment, MacNee said jauntily, ‘Queuing up, then, like I said, remember? And this is the guy who thinks everyone likes him!’

Jean Grant was cooking mince, prodding the greyish sludge of boiling meat and carrots without interest. There were doughballs, gluey and soggy, waiting to be put on top but it was still too early. Stuart had his dinner at midday.

So she was surprised at seeing him come across the yard towards the house. There was no way he’d get his dinner at half past eleven – he should know that by now.

To her greater surprise, she saw him going towards the car, parked at the back door. She hurried out.

‘Where do you think you’re away to? Your dinner’ll be ready in half an hour and you’ve work to do before you get it.’

Stuart gave her a cold, sullen look. ‘Never you mind,’ he said, got in, and drove away before she could stop him.

‘Someone must have deep pockets,’ Fleming said, looking round with some amazement as she and MacNee arrived at Miramar and got out of the car. A grey-haired workman glanced round briefly, then went back to installing a window frame. He looked faintly familiar, though Fleming couldn’t think why.

‘It’s her that’s got the money, apparently. Quite a lot of it, by what I’ve heard.’

‘You’ve spoken to her husband. Do you want to take the lead on this?’

MacNee rang the doorbell. ‘Och no. You just carry on – I’ll interrupt when I feel like it.’

‘You always do,’ Fleming was saying tartly as the door opened to reveal a matronly blonde in a bright yellow top and Diesel jeans that were a little too tight. ‘Mrs Hodge? DI Fleming and DS MacNee. Can we have a word?’

She looked at them, dismayed. ‘Oh! But – but my husband isn’t here.’ She gestured wildly towards the drive. ‘He went to Stranraer to see his lawyer. I don’t know when he’ll be back, so—’

‘That’s all right, Mrs Hodge. It’s you we want to see. May we come in?’

As Fleming moved confidently forward, the woman fell back, still murmuring, ‘But – but—’ in a helpless sort of way.

‘Through here, I suppose.’ Diane took them to the conservatory. She plumped down on one of the wicker chairs with a peacock-tail back, but sat forward on the edge of the orange cushion.

Sitting down herself, Fleming puzzled over the woman’s reaction. She didn’t look the nervy type: you’d put her down as bouncy, confident, a bit loud, perhaps. She certainly wasn’t confident now.

Leaning forward, Fleming said, smiling, ‘We won’t bite, you know.’ She spoke in the low, pleasant voice she used like an instrument, and Diane relaxed a little in the warmth of her smile.

‘No, of course not! It’s – it’s just I’d have liked my husband here.’

‘No need. It’s the simplest of background questions we want to ask. You were away last night?’

‘Yes. It was a pity, because I could have confirmed my husband was here all last night. He phoned me from here at – at about ten.’

‘Did he tell you to say that?’ MacNee shot at her.

Diane’s eyes widened. ‘Of course not!’ she said unconvincingly.

Fleming didn’t mention phone records – there seemed little point. ‘Marcus Lindsay was an old friend of yours, wasn’t he, Mrs Hodge?’

‘Just Diane. Sounds more friendly, doesn’t it?’ She smiled hopefully at the less alarming detective. ‘Yes, we knew Marcus way back. Before he was famous.’

‘What was he like then? Was there a good teenage scene around here?’ Fleming was trying to get her talking. Diane looked the chatty type and she didn’t want her scared; she looked meaningfully at MacNee but he only looked back at her in the bland, infuriating way he had.

‘Oh, he was lovely! Very good-looking, of course, and a bit sophisticated. We all fancied him like mad.’ She gave a girlish giggle. ‘His parents were very posh, but he wasn’t stuck up or anything.’

‘Were you one of his girlfriends?’