In the Mists of Time (10 page)

Louise poured him more tea.

The youngest of them, Stewart Lane, smiled at her and offered his cup too. “Do you spend much time up there?”

Louise shrugged as she poured. “Izzy's a friend. Plus, I've started a workshop in woodwork.”

“You're a lady of talents! Who leads that? Not Dougie?”

“No, Rab. Dougie's the mechanic.”

They were clearly fascinated by the setup at the big house, showed her the jewellery they'd bought for their wives and girlfriends, and other souvenirs. Louise detected Chrissy's influence there. By the time she saw her guests off, she had a headache from smiling and being cheerful. The thrill of success was definitely dulled by Thierry-induced misery.

As she and Cerys washed up, she wavered between anger with him for thinking so badly of her—how could he even
imagine
she would go to such lengths just to dig out information for her bloody brother?—and the sharp pain of grief because it was over when it could have been so good.

Ha, who was she kidding? She barely knew the man. It was just sex, damned good sex, but who cared?

She did. But she refused to give in to the vision of lonely years stretching out before her. She had a good life here, she did, and it was getting better. The business was picking up, Aidan was home—mostly—and happy, and she had Cerys and the carers to help with her parents. Compared with the start of the year, her life was great. Compared with last night…

Oh no, I'm not going there.

What the hell had she been imagining about last night anyhow?

Fortunately, perhaps, the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” she said at once, grateful for the distraction, and, leaving Cerys to finish the dishes, she passed through the family living room, where her mother was reading the Sunday newspapers and her father was snoozing, to the hall and opened the front door.

Aidan stood there with another man who looked vaguely familiar. She stepped back. “Forgot your key again?”

“I'd already rung the bell before he caught up with me,” said the man she almost recognized, reaching inside his pocket. “DI Davidson, CID.”

It was like a boulder hurled at her stomach. She backed even farther into the house, although fortunately it probably looked like a welcoming gesture. Now she remembered Davidson. She'd seen him among the other policemen the night Aidan had gone after some drug smugglers back in January.

“It's about Ron,” Aidan said.

“I thought he fell,” Louise managed. She hesitated, glancing at Aidan. “Office?”

Aidan nodded, and she called through to Cerys to say where she was, while Aidan led the detective into the little office.

“No obvious signs of anything else,” Davidson continued their conversation. “But we've been called in, considering the nearest neighbours to the accident—”

“Who, the guys who caught your big-time drug smugglers for you a couple of months ago?” Louise interrupted.

“That's the ones,” Davidson said steadily. “You're almost as protective of them as your brother. Any reason for that? I've met his,” he added with a jerk of his head at Aidan.

“Beyond unfairness, no,” Louise replied with dignity. She gestured to the chair by the desk and Davidson sat while Louise perched on the old kitchen chair, as she had when Thierry'd been here. Aidan lounged against the windowsill, watchful.

“I'm not being unfair,” Davidson assured her. “Your late guest was investigating Thierry Duplessis, who's been living at Ardknocken House since the New Year.”

She couldn't deny it. She'd already told George Harris.

“You must see that puts a new complexion on things,” Davidson added.

“I suppose. But how can I help you?”

At the window, Aidan stirred. “He's been to see Nicole. George knew about it. Apparently, Mrs. Campbell saw some kind of confrontation between them last week, outside the post office. According to Nicole, he apologised.”

Louise frowned, briefly distracted. “Really?”

Davidson scowled at Aidan, presumably to try to shut him up—
Good luck there,
Louise thought wryly—and addressed Louise, “I understand you got involved in this business between Miss Graham and the deceased?”

“I wanted her to report it to the police,” Louise said. “She was reluctant. She has a reputation in the village for…eccentricity. She thought no one would believe her.”

“Did you believe her?” Davidson asked.

“I met her just after it happened. She was clearly upset, so, yes, I believed her.”

“And you confronted him about it?”

Shit. “Once. I warned him to leave her alone. I think Aidan told him the same.”

“What was his reaction? Did he threaten you at all?” Davidson asked.

“Not really,” Louise said doubtfully. “He said ‘Or what?', as if doubting my ability to stop him doing whatever he chose. But he wasn't angry.”

“And this was when?”

“Wednesday.”

“Did you see him after that?”

Louise shook her head. “No. I presumed he was either fishing or pursuing Thierry in some other way.”

Too late, she remembered the fishing rod abandoned outside Thierry's caravan. She hoped to hell Ron had got it back, but a quick glance at Aidan told her nothing. When had she stopped being able to read him? Years ago, once he'd joined the police. Davidson also had a poker face, though his was more obviously deliberate.

“Okay,” Davidson said. “I'm going up to Ardknocken House now. Would you mind coming too? Just to save time, in case something comes up that I need you to confirm.”

His voice was friendly, almost apologetic, more appealing than commanding, but Louise had so many reasons to avoid the big house right now that she was torn. On one hand, there was Thierry. On the other, her mission last night to make their stories match had failed. She needed to know what Thierry said in order to confirm it. Of course, just because she was in the house didn't mean Davidson would interview him in front of her…

“All right,” she said as amiably as she could. Her throat felt slightly hoarse; she prayed it wasn't obvious to the cop. “I'll just be a minute.”

She went to tell her parents and made sure Cerys could stay until she came back. Then they piled into Davidson's car and drove up to Ardknocken House.

* * * * *

The front door was wide open, as it often was when Chrissy wasn't around to shut it. For obvious reasons, the ex-cons liked open doors and windows. In the big garage at the side, someone was cursing in fluent Glaswegian. Something heavy and metallic clattered on concrete.

“Dougie!” Aidan called. “The polis is here!”

“Bugger off, then,” Dougie said, stamping out of his garage in overalls and an obvious temper and striding towards them. His ferocity was tempered with a friendly “Hello, hen” to Louise. “Izzy's up in the flat, I think. You taking the filth with you?”

Davidson blinked.

Aidan said, “No, I mean the polis is
really
here. You remember DI Davidson?”

“Oh. Aye, I do,” Dougie said with an unrepentant grin. “All right, Mr. Davidson? What can we do you for?”

“I'd like a word with Mr. Duplessis,” Davidson said amiably. “And Mr. Brody, if he's around.”

“Front door's up there,” Dougie said with some satisfaction, indicating the fire-escape-type stairs just visible running all the way up the side of the house to the attic. “It's a good climb.”

Davidson eyed it with disfavour. “I understood Mr. Duplessis lived in a caravan.”

“Aye, but he's up there with Glenn, plotting something.” Dougie marched on towards the open door of the house, adding something only partially under his breath. It sounded like “Overthrow of the police state, hopefully”.

Aidan grinned and let Louise lead the way up to the outside door to Glenn and Izzy's self-contained flat. It was Izzy who opened the door, the dog at her heels.

There had been no time for Louise to warn her or Thierry. She'd sat in the front seat beside Davidson on the way up to the house and refused to make anyone look guilty by any furious texting. But she saw at once that Izzy knew. Presumably Aidan had faster thumbs.

“I'm afraid we've come with the police,” Louise said as lightly as she could. “DI Davidson would like a word with Glenn and Thierry, and apparently we're all invited.”

“I see.” Izzy opened the door wider and stood back. “Come in. They're in the study. I'll put the kettle on.”

Before she could lead the way down to the study, which had once been Glenn's bedroom, Jack hurtled out of his bedroom shouting, “Hello, Louise! I just got the high score on Icky Monsters!”

“Fab,” Louise applauded. “How icky are they?”

“Really, really icky. Want a shot?”

“Sounds altogether too icky for me, but maybe Aidan will later. We're just going to see Glenn.”

Jack grinned. “I beat Glenn's high score.”

“He'll get you back,” Izzy promised. “Come and help me get some drinks. Bring Rover.”

Rover, whose real name was Screw because of his propensity to guard what was his, especially Glenn, and now Jack and Izzy too, allowed himself to be dragged away from his suspicious sniffing at Davidson, who looked slightly dazed by this glimpse into the unlikely domestic life of the man once infamous as one of Glasgow's hardest young criminals. However reformed Glenn was, the change obviously baffled the cynical detective. Even after January's events when everyone in the house had co-operated to catch the traitorous Len and his drug-lord allies.

It was easier for Louise to think about Glenn and Davidson than about Thierry, who was discovered in a huddle around a laptop set up on a gate-legged table in the study. He was frowning in concentration, his fingers flying over the keyboard while from either side of him, Glenn and Charlie argued about something behind his back.

It was Glenn who looked up first, his sharp gaze taking in Louise and her companions at a glance. Charlie stopped talking.

Thierry threw himself back in his chair and shoved the keyboard away from him. “Like that,” he said with satisfaction.

Glenn nudged him and stood up. “Hello.”

“Mr. Brody,” Davidson said politely. “Nice to see you again.”

Only by the tiniest twist of the lips did Glenn betray his amusement at any policeman being pleased to see him. Thierry had glanced up eventually, but Louise refused to look at him.

“It was really Mr. Duplessis I wanted to speak to, though your input would also be useful—as would that of anyone else who knows anything relevant.”

“To the death of Ron Main?” asked Glenn, who rarely beat about the bush.

“I thought you might have heard already,” Davidson said, flicking a wry glance at Aidan, who smiled amiably.

“Small village,” Glenn said. “Sit down. How're you doing, Louise?”

“Fine,” Louise said hastily. “DI Davidson asked me to come as well. I'll go and help Izzy with the coffee.”

“No, no,” Charlie insisted, already bolting for the door. “I'll help Izzy; you stay put.”

“Thanks,” Louise said, adding unkindly, if at least inwardly,
Bastard
.

Thierry stayed where he was, merely adjusting his position on the chair to face into the room, sitting astride it with his arms resting along its back. Louise sat on the sofa, where Glenn eventually lounged beside her, facing Davidson in the comfy old armchair.

Glenn and Izzy had turned this room into a comfortable sitting room/study, with furniture restored by Rab, including a very nice mahogany desk where Izzy's computer sat, and a set of Glenn's keyboards. There were loads of books and a vase of fresh daffodils. Again, Louise focused on Davidson, watching him take in this unlikely side to Glenn Brody. She didn't blame him for that. Not so long ago, Louise would have been at least as surprised as he.

“So, Mr. Duplessis,” Davidson said, “when did you first meet Ron?”

“He nodded to me in the pub on Tuesday night,” Thierry said. “Once I'd caught him staring at me.”

“Did you speak?”

“No, not then.”

“Why do you think he was staring at you?”

“Maybe to see if I had a few thousand pounds in my pockets. Maybe to see if I'd got his latest email.”

Louise's gaze flew to Thierry, whose steady gaze remained on Davidson. It was the first she'd heard about emails.

Clearly, it was news to Davidson too. He leaned forward, frowning. “He
emailed
you?”

“Yes, I traced them to him. Anonymous emails saying things like ‘Give the money back or else', and ‘I know you've got it'. Stuff like that.”

“What did you think he was talking about?”

“Money he thought I'd stolen from London and Scottish Life.”

“Did you?” Davidson asked mildly.

“I did time for what I stole from them.”

“So you did. Did these emails bother you?”

Thierry shrugged. “They made me a bit uncomfortable, but, no, they didn't really bother me. I set things in motion to trace them, but that was all.”

“Then can you explain how his fishing rod came to be leaning against your caravan?”

Shite,
thought Louise.

“I thought he'd taken it back,” Thierry said.

“PC Harris recognized it and removed it yesterday. So
can
you explain it?”

“Of course. He left it there the morning he broke into my caravan. Wednesday.”

“He broke into your caravan?” Davidson repeated. “Can anyone else verify that?”

Glenn shrugged as Izzy came in with a tray of cups and a coffeepot. “I wasn't around, but I heard about it.” He stood to take the tray from Izzy.

“I saw it,” Louise said firmly.

Everyone looked at her, even Thierry, though she couldn't allow herself even to glance back at him. She kept her gaze focused on Davidson.