Dead in the Water (5 page)

‘All right, all right.’ Stuart got to his feet and went towards the door.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘That Marcus Lazansky – Lindsay, he’s calling himself now – he’s back here. Staying for a week.’

Stuart stopped. Without turning round, he said, ‘Is he?’

‘Yes. What are you going to do?’

‘Who said I was going to do anything?’

His mother glared at him. ‘Your sister—’ she began.

‘Don’t start!’ His voice was ragged with anger. He gestured towards a table where a large photograph of a girl with long blonde hair stood, flanked by two candles that were never lit. ‘You didn’t help, at the time.’

‘How dare you!’ Jean’s eyes flashed fury. ‘Your sister’s death ruined my life, and I’ve never forgotten who was to blame, even if you have.’

He looked as if he might reply, then shrugged. ‘We know what we know,’ he said. ‘And I heard what you said.’

He went out, leaving her glaring after him. Then she got out a duster and a can of pine-scented Pledge to polish the table. She picked up the picture, rubbed the glass, and stood looking at it for a long time.

Jaki Johnston was in a bad mood by the time she reached Tulach House. She’d got up at an hour she’d barely known existed on a Saturday morning, driven for what seemed like years, and even so she was late for lunch. She should have called Marcus, but she was so pissed off she’d decided he could sweat it out and switched off her phone.

The way Marcus talked, she’d thought this was something really special, and she’d even got some cool stuff to wear. She’d seen country-house weekends in films, and actually meeting Sylvia Lascelles – well, that was special in itself for a girl who’d grown up in social housing in Wishaw.

Jaki was feeling quite nervous. The woman was a legend, after all. The whole team was excited about her being in this episode, but only Jaki would have the chance to get to know her properly before filming started.

But this – this plain, boring house, no turrets or anything, out in the sticks with an overgrown garden and windows needing painted? What a let-down! She’d thought there’d be a town – well, not exactly a town, she wasn’t stupid, but a cute village with craft shops and a decent restaurant for eating out. Marcus had told her he hadn’t any proper help and she couldn’t see him cooking. But this Ardhill place was the ass-end of space. What did they do round here? Eat grass?

Her pretty, glossy lips were dropping at the corners as she parked her bright red Ka. She was small and slight, with neat, pert features, big brown eyes and a creamy complexion; her dark hair, cut in a feathery gamine style, had a henna shine. The wind ruffled it and she shivered. The outfit that had looked great in Zara wasn’t suited to this climate and her stiletto-heeled ankle boots would be ruined by the time she’d crossed the weedy gravel to the front door.

Where was Marcus, anyway? She scowled, dragging her cases from the boot. He should be looking out for her, worrying in case she was lying in a ditch somewhere.

It wasn’t a good sign. Just lately she’d sensed a slight cooling-off, which gave her a little flutter of panic. She wasn’t absolutely sure she was still in love with him, but he was her security in the cut-throat game which was her profession.

Jaki was remarkably realistic. She was talented, but so were plenty of other pretty girls, and she hadn’t yet won the viewers’ hearts to the point where she was fireproof. While she was Marcus’s squeeze, she could be pretty sure she wouldn’t be written out.

That made her sound a hard, calculating bitch – well, perhaps she was, in a way, but she genuinely had fancied Marcus rotten. He was the dream answer to an internet WLTM ad: BHM, GSOH, NM – and who wouldn’t like to meet a not married, big handsome male with a good sense of humour, and a bit of fame chucked in for extras? And he didn’t fancy himself even more than you did and play the big star. He was a honey, and she’d had a crush on him right from the start, never thinking he’d look at her twice. But in the long intervals between takes they’d talked a lot, and she made him laugh, then one thing led to another.

For someone over forty, he was pretty cool, but she had to admit they hadn’t much in common. His idea of a great night out was something heavy at the theatre, then a restaurant where the waiters winced if you clinked a glass accidentally, and the only time she’d taken him clubbing had been a disaster. ‘How can you stand the
smell?
’ he’d demanded, wrinkling his nose. ‘All these sweaty bodies! And the noise . . .’

So she hadn’t tried again. Jaki did her clubbing when he was otherwise engaged, but she was always careful. Marcus was showbiz news, in Scotland at least, and no rotten stringer was going to catch her draped around some other guy and write an item he’d see sooner or later. She’d no illusions about ‘for ever’ – and she knew he didn’t either – but she was in no hurry to move on.

Though as she rang the bell and crossed the cavernous vestibule to open the front door, the thought crossed her mind that if spending much time in this dump was a condition of the relationship, she might be ready to move on sooner rather than later.

‘Darling, could I possibly have some more Badoit?’ Sylvia Lascelles was being saintly about the delay to lunch, but subtly so that it was hardly noticeable how saintly she was being.

Marcus, who had refilled his own glass with wine more than once, leaped to oblige. ‘I’m sorry, Sylvia. I can’t think what’s keeping Jaki. I tried ringing, but she’s switched off.’

‘Very sensible, when she’s driving,’ Sylvia said sweetly. ‘Don’t worry. I’m happy just sitting here and looking out at that divine view.’

The conservatory at the back of Tulach House had an elevated position, making it possible to look out on one side to the Irish Sea and on the other to Luce Bay. The sun was shining but a strong wind was seeking out the gaps around the window panes where the putty had perished.

Sylvia, a veteran of Tulach weekends, had come armed with a soft blue-grey cashmere throw – by some happy coincidence, almost exactly the colour of her eyes. Marcus was wearing a thick-knit navy Guernsey sweater and even so his hands were red with cold. He was further away from the radiator than she was.

The sound of a clanging bell brought him to his feet, relief showing in his face, though Sylvia judged, clinically, that this had more to do with the delay to lunch than with loving anxiety.

‘Great! That’ll be Jaki. I’ll introduce her, and check that the food –
not just food, M & S food
–’ he parodied the advertisement, ‘hasn’t been reduced to a crisp.’

Sylvia sighed as he left. This tedious girl, butting in on her idyllic weekend in Laddie’s glorious house with her darling Marcus! She didn’t think the relationship sounded serious, though, and she’d just caught the faintest hint that he regretted asking Jaki down early. She’d seen the girl on the box and she wasn’t Marcus’s type at all – a common little floozie, Laddie would have called her. His son might well find his impression of her changed now she was here at Tulach, still so much infused with Laddie’s personality.

She could hear their voices now, the girl’s high-pitched and querulous. Marcus wouldn’t like that, especially since she should be apologetic about keeping them waiting. Sylvia swivelled in her chair, prepared her high-wattage smile and beamed it at the girl who came in.

‘Jaki, darling! Come and say hello.’ She held out her hand, heavy with rings. ‘Have you had an absolutely
ghastly
journey? Poor love!’

The girl did indeed look a little dazzled. ‘Miss – Miss Lascelles,’ she stammered, and came to take the bejewelled, twisted hand. She was wearing skinny jeans, green suede ankle boots and a short-sleeved, low-necked smock in olive, burnt-orange and brown, and she was shivering.

However much it might be ‘in’ this year, it wasn’t a good look – muddy colours with that slightly sallow complexion and goose-flesh on her bare arms.

‘But you’re freezing!’ Sylvia exclaimed. ‘Come and huddle by the radiator, and Marcus shall run and get you one of his huge cosy sweaters. Quick, Marcus darling, before she dies of hypothermia!’ Marcus departed.

‘Now, what you need is a dram. Over there – the decanter.’ She indicated a tray with a silver-topped crystal decanter, tumblers and a bottle of Badoit.

Obediently, Jaki went over to it. ‘Is there any vodka and tonic?’

‘Goodness, sweetie, here you have to drink the
vin du pays
! It’s the only thing that keeps out the cold. That’s Bladnoch, the local malt.’

Dubiously, Jaki poured some into a tumbler and came to sit as close to the panel heater as she could, sipping it uncertainly.

Marcus reappeared, holding a huge, very thick, scratchy-looking oatmeal sweater. ‘It’ll look a bit odd, I’m afraid, but it’s the warmest thing I could find.’

He pulled it over her head and surveyed the result. ‘Oh dear,’ he laughed. ‘It does rather swamp you. But Sylvia understands all about the draughts here and I think you’re gorgeous anyway.’ He kissed her on the tip of her nose.

Amused, Sylvia noticed that the smile Jaki gave him as she thanked him and wrapped it more closely round her suggested that she had murder in her heart.

Marcus was peering doubtfully at the cottage pie – it seemed to have sort of black bits round the edges – when the phone rang. It was the landline, not his mobile, which was surprising. Being here so seldom, he never gave anyone this number.

It must be someone local, a family friend, perhaps. ‘Hello?’ he said tentatively.

‘Marcus! A voice from your past! You’ll never guess who it is!’

It was a loud, over-confident voice, and he did, in fact, recognize it. It belonged to Diane Hodge, and he almost groaned aloud. She was the spoiled only daughter of a Glasgow businessman who had come for years to holiday in Sandhead, over on Luce Bay, and she had horrified her family by marrying the barman from a local hotel. They’d lived there for a few years in the Eighties, but before long Gavin Hodge joined his father-in-law’s building firm and they’d gone off to Glasgow.

The local grapevine must be working overtime. Before, no one knew if he was popping down for a weekend and he’d been spared this sort of call.

‘Diane!’ Marcus said without enthusiasm. ‘This is a surprise.’

‘You guessed!’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Well, once seen, never forgotten, as they say! I heard in the baker’s you’re back for a bit – to be honest, the whole place is talking about the great man!’

Diane laughed. Marcus held the phone away from his ear.

‘We retired down here two years ago,’ she went on. ‘Dad died, and we thought, why not sell up and have a good time while we’re young enough to enjoy it? Gav has a yacht to play with, and I’m afraid we’re serial cruisers too – never at home! Still, we got back from the Galapagos a fortnight ago and we’re here at Miramar all week, so you must come over – no excuses! Bring Sylvia Lascelles too, naturally. I hear she’s staying with you.’

The last thing he wanted was an old pals’ reunion, least of all with Diane and the boorish Gavin, who’d taunted young Marcus Lazansky about his foreign name and called him stuck-up because he’d gone to boarding school. He had no wish to revisit all the unpleasant memories of the time before Marcus Lindsay, actor, was born. He’d shut them off, padlocked away in some dingy attic of his mind, and now Diane was coming, crowbar in hand.

He spoke firmly. ‘Terribly kind, but I’m going to have to say no. Sylvia’s not awfully mobile so we’re saving her strength for filming next week.’

He should have known that wouldn’t work. Diane’s attitude to obstacles in her path had always been to stomp them flat.

‘What a shame! I’d have loved to show you Miramar – we designed it ourselves, you know. But we’ll pop over instead, cheer you both up. Can’t have you just sitting staring at each other all weekend!’ She laughed again. ‘Anyway, I’m dying to meet Sylvia. I’m her biggest fan! Tonight? Tomorrow?’

Tomorrow was at least further away. Outmanoeuvred, Marcus agreed to that.

‘Brilliant! Sixish?’

‘Sixish,’ he agreed gloomily, and set down the phone. He should have said no, flatly, but he wasn’t very good at that. He could only hope the price for his weakness wouldn’t be too high.

3

No body. No crime scene. No SOCOs to send out to do a detailed search. No sophisticated forensic analysis to provide answers. No computer summary of reports. No eyewitnesses to question. No adrenalin rush.

Just dusty papers and reports, a box of personal effects and a few photographs of Ailsa Grant, alive and dead, yellowed with the passage of time. Cold case was a good description, though perhaps dead case was better. It would be no more than dry bones that lay in these boxes.

Fleming had only a hazy memory of the news story concerning a murdered young woman thrown into the sea at the Mull of Galloway and some sort of scandal, the detail of which eluded her. It wasn’t like a case where the body was there in front of her. And yet, and yet . . . those photos.

The photos were on the top of the first, catalogued box. There was one of Ailsa Grant, alive: a studio portrait of the type then fashionable, showing a face broad across the cheekbones, with strongly marked brows and a wide mouth. The hair was long and blonde, though dark eyebrows suggested this was not its natural colour. She had slightly hooded, grey-blue eyes and a tiny mole to the left of her mouth. Her nose and chin were a touch too prominent and she had, Fleming suspected, the sort of looks that wouldn’t wear well. Here, though, with the blush of youth and her lips parted in a studied smile, she looked pretty enough.