Lying Dead (22 page)

    On an impulse, she picked up the phone again and dialled Tam’s number. It rang for a long time and she was just on the point of hanging up, thinking he’d left for work, when Tam’s harassed voice snapped, ‘MacNee.’

    She could hear a dog yapping in the background. ‘Sorry, Tam, it’s Laura. Sounds like a bad time. Shall I call again?’

    His voice warmed immediately. ‘No, no, Laura. It’s just the bloody dog’s eaten the cat’s food and – but never mind. What can I do for you?’

    ‘Would you be prepared to tell me what you think about Jon Kingsley?’

    There was a silence at the other end. Then Tam said, ‘Not without using words you shouldn’t even know.’

    ‘What’s the problem?’

    She knew Tam would be honest. Now he said, very fairly, ‘He’s a good officer. He’s clever, and he’s got a feel for it. He should have stayed in the big city, probably. He wants to get ahead quickly, and he’s got every right to. It’s just that in a place like this it doesn’t all happen like that, and he’s frustrated.

    ‘So what he’s doing is trying to show the rest of us up, Marjory and me in particular. If we look bad, he looks even better. He goes over Marjory’s head to the Super, who’s not savvy enough to realize what he’s up to. And what’s happening is that he’s splitting the CID team. Marjory’s going to have to tackle it soon; if we’re not working well together in a big case like this, it’s going to go pear-shaped. And it’s not exactly difficult to work out who gets the blame.’

    ‘Oh dear.’ Laura’s heart had been sinking at this recital. ‘I don’t quite know what to do. He was asking if he could consult me, but if he’s trying to use me to get one up on Marjory, he can forget it. I’m her friend, first and foremost.’

    ‘You’re a wee stotter!’ High praise, indeed, from Tam! ‘Here – you don’t think you could just tell him a load of rubbish and then we could watch him fall on his face and have a good laugh? Oh, maybe not – but it’s a nice idea.’

    Laura laughed. ‘I can certainly make it clear that anything I tell him I’m going to pass on to Marjory, and tell her that he’s asked me. That way it’s out in the open.’

    ‘Yes. But could you maybe not lead him on a wee bit, find out what he’s planning, first?’

    ‘We-e-ell, I’ll think about it.’

    She did think about it, a little sadly. She’d really fancied the bloke; when he’d kissed her goodbye on Sunday she’d been more than happy to respond. It was lowering to suspect that his chatting her up was only because he thought she might be useful to him later.

The headline ‘Cops’ Blunder’ hit Keith Ingles with the force of a blow. He was buying a sandwich in a filling-station on the outskirts of Stranraer; when he saw it, with Davina’s photo underneath, on the front page of one of the newspapers in the rack by the door, it was all he could do not to run blindly out of the place. But it was her photo, not his; it could have been worse, he told himself, and soon it will be. He forced himself to pick it up and pay for his purchases calmly, then, with the paper tucked under his arm, walked on until he saw a low wall in a side street where he could sit and read it.

    There wasn’t much in the report. But they had established who she was, which made it a foregone conclusion that they would be looking for him. They had his mugshot readily to hand, and they would have alerted the ports, particularly this, the nearest one. He had missed his chance.

    Perhaps he should have gone sooner, when the nightmare began. But he had no reason to suppose the body would be found for another twenty years, more, even. And by then, who could have identified her? Leaving his work suddenly would have raised questions, which was the last thing he needed. Or not quite, as it turned out. The very last thing Keith needed was to be the focus of a nationwide manhunt.

    He found another cash machine, and with a useful amount of money now in his wallet walked, more or less aimlessly, towards the ferry. And yes, he had been expecting them, but the sight of the two police cars at the entrance to the terminal brought on a lurch of panic. Again, there was the guilty urge to run; instead, he turned into a quieter street and headed back.

    What was he to do now? He couldn’t get anywhere quickly, on foot. He needed either a boat or a car. It would be too obvious to try to hire a boat here, but if he hired a car then drove to the Lake District it wouldn’t be difficult to get one from a marina there. He’d sailed across to Ireland more than once in his yacht club days.

    He definitely couldn’t hang about the place. Even if the papers didn’t have a photo yet, the patrol cars would – and there was one, turning the corner ahead. He ducked swiftly into the nearest shop.

    There were no other customers; the man behind the counter was happy to tell him where he could find a car hire firm and thanking him, Keith headed off. The police car had disappeared and he hadn’t far to go, just a few hundred yards in the direction of the port. Looking towards it, Keith could see another police car joining the two already stationed there. He gave a twisted smile. They must think he was
very
stupid.

‘There he is,’ Jon Kingsley said suddenly. ‘Look, that’s him, isn’t it?’

    ‘Too right,’ Allan said, unbuckling his seat-belt. ‘He’s nicked!’

    ‘Hang on a minute.’ Kingsley, at the wheel, put out a hand to restrain him. ‘Let’s trail him, see where he’s going.’

    The unmarked car nosed out. It wasn’t difficult, in this busy street, to edge along, keeping Ingles in view. After about ten minutes he turned into a garage yard where there was a hire cars sign.

    ‘He’s realized we’ve got the ferry staked out.’ Kingsley parked the car a little further along the road. ‘But we’ve got him nicely now. Less chance of him making a run for it. And I tell you, if we can get him arrested and charged before Fleming and MacNee get back tomorrow, it’ll show who does the real work in the CID, won’t it?’

    Allan’s heavy face brightened. ‘About time too. Good thinking. Let’s go!’

    The two men walked briskly down the street and into the little office where the girl behind the desk was asking questions indifferently as she filled in a form. The man, not small but slimly built, with greying fair hair, wearing a waterproof jacket, jeans and hiker’s boots and with a rucksack at his feet, didn’t turn his head to look at them as they came in.

    ‘Keith Ingles?’ Kingsley said. ‘I am detaining you on suspicion of the murder of Davina Watts. You do not have to say anything . . .’ He recited the caution.

    Even now Ingles didn’t turn. The girl was gaping and shocked, but he stood as if the words had turned him to stone.

Susie Stevenson kept eying the clock nervously as she emptied yet another of the boxes from the removal. Findlay always looked in to grab a mug of coffee and a sandwich around ten, and the bank hadn’t rung with their answer to his application for a loan. Perhaps they would say no, but if not, and if Findlay got a chance to speak to them  . . .

    She bit her lip, looking from the clock to the phone as if will-power could persuade the loan manager to call. But there was Fin now!

    He usually fended for himself but today Susie, willing the phone not to ring now, had his snack ready for him. No, she said, they hadn’t phoned. She took an unusual interest, too, in what he was doing today – cleaning out the steading – and emphasizing how keen Bill must be to get on with buying the new stock. He didn’t linger, and she saw him out with a sigh of relief.

    It wasn’t a moment too soon. She snatched the phone up at the first ring, afraid he might hear it as he crossed the yard. The loan manager announced himself and asked to speak to Mr Stevenson.

    ‘I’m afraid he’s out. But I take it this is about the loan he wanted to arrange through our joint account?’

    The man hesitated. ‘My assistant who took the message when I was out yesterday said I’d be dealing with Mr Stevenson. But since the account is in joint names, I think it will be all right to tell you that his application has been approved.’

    ‘That’s very kind. But in fact, we’ve decided not to go ahead with it just at the moment.’

    The man was taken aback. ‘Oh? I understood Mr Stevenson was very keen—’

    ‘We’ve discussed it, naturally, and we’ve decided that we don’t need a loan quite yet, but perhaps we may come back to you at some later date?’

    ‘Of course. So I should simply destroy the application form?’

    ‘I’m sorry if this has put you to extra trouble,’ Susie said graciously, ‘but that would be best. Thank you so much.’

    She set down the receiver, then, with another nervous glance out of the window – Fin was so anxious that he might look in at any time to see if there was news – she picked it up again.

    ‘Niall? Susie Stevenson.’

    She hated the way he laughed, really hated it. ‘Findlay come up with the money after all, has he?’

    ‘No,’ she said coldly. ‘No, he hasn’t. In fact, he’s decided to withdraw his previous offer. You can do whatever you like with the dog.’

    That surprised him. ‘Really?’

    ‘Yes, really.’

    ‘Fine. Then I shall. You can tell him I’ve made an appointment at the vet’s tomorrow.’

    When Findlay came in at twelve o’clock for lunch, Susie met him with a very grave face.

    ‘I’m so sorry, dear – two pieces of bad news. The bank said no, and Niall rang to say that even if you do come up with the full amount, he’s not interested. He’s not prepared even to discuss it any more.’

Fleming and MacNee made the eleven o’clock train to Manchester with only minutes to spare. It was a good service; they would be in Manchester at around quarter past one and Tam had checked, with due circumspection, that they would at least be expected if not welcomed at the North Manchester Divisional HQ in Bootle Street in the afternoon, once they’d dropped off their cases at the nearby Thistle Hotel where rooms had been booked.

    They’d done their moaning in the car on the way to Carlisle.

    ‘I’ve had to phone Bunty’s sister in Newton Stewart,’ Tam grumbled. ‘Her that’s married to the bank manager, and treats me like sweepings off the street. Sticks in my throat to have to ask a favour, specially since it’s not me wants the house full of the minging things. And she’ll report back to Bunty that I’ve not done the dusting and there’s too many bottles in the bin.’

    ‘I’ve had to give up my week’s egg money to get Cat to look after the hens. She used to do it for fun but she’s got very grasping lately. Still, I drove a hard bargain – she can clean the henhouse at the weekend for that.’

    Afterwards they had taken turns to cast aspersions on the character, acuity and general effectiveness of their superior officer so, with grievances thoroughly aired, they didn’t talk much on the train. Fleming had her laptop and MacNee, who still felt that thought travelled from brain down his arm to pencil to paper, had a notepad, a small bundle of police notebooks and a couple of files. They were lucky enough to get a table to themselves and they worked fairly steadily, with only occasional glances at the countryside as they whirled past.

    When the trolley came round at half-past twelve, Fleming leaned back and stretched. ‘I got quite a lot of useful admin done there. What about you?’

    ‘Seven reports written,’ MacNee said with some satisfaction. ‘Here – there’s something to be said for a day out now and again. Fancy a beer and a sandwich?’

    As they settled to eat, Fleming turned to the topic of the case. ‘We’ll need everything absolutely cut and dried. They’ll be irritated enough; we’re not wanting to give them the chance to accuse us of wasting their time.

    ‘First, Jeff Brewer. Will you take him or will I? We’ve not the time to do interviews together.’

    ‘You better. You had him like a hen on a hot griddle last time, so at the sight of you he’ll crack if he’s anything new to tell you. Anyway,’ he took a pull at his beer and winked at her, ‘someone’ll need to chat up the regulars and it’s not fitting for a lady like you.’

    ‘That was no lady, that was your boss. Still, you might as well. You’re a more convincing bar-fly than I am.’

    ‘Years of practice. So I’m trying to trace someone who can fill in some of the blanks, right? When she came to Manchester and why. Why she wanted to come back, if we get lucky.’

    ‘Try to avoid that Preston woman. Davina clearly wasn’t a friend of hers but she likes the limelight and you could waste a lot of time that way. See if there’s someone around who might be one of her mates. I’ll find out from Brewer if he knew of any girlfriends.’

    ‘And Brewer’s definitely off the hook? We’re assuming Ingles is our man, right, and we flash his photo about too?’

    ‘Right. We get through that asap and hope to be out of Carter’s hair and on the ten o’clock train tomorrow. I’m not comfortable with Greg being i/c under the Super while I’m away.’

    ‘If he is,’ MacNee said darkly.

    They were travelling now through the outskirts of the city. Watching the spreading mass of streets and houses in drizzling rain, Fleming’s mind was elsewhere. She had spoken to Allan about the rift that seemed to be opening up in the CID, but he was the hardest type of person to deal with: he apologized where that seemed to be called for, agreed with her points, expressed himself full of good resolutions and left. He would then go on in precisely the same way.