Lying Dead (46 page)

    ‘Better wait till you get the note,’ she advised. ‘But even if he doesn’t make it, you’d probably better go and dig around the background anyway.

    ‘Still, it doesn’t mean ignoring everything else. You were going to check with Fingerprints to see if Murdoch’s tally with the ones on the cutting – then we’d have at least one hard fact in this case, which would make a change. They sent it back to me once they’d finished with it – it’s here somewhere.’ She rummaged in one of the wire baskets on her desk and produced a plastic evidence bag. ‘You might as well take it, but don’t lose it – we may need it as a production in court.

    ‘I want to have a word after the morning briefing with Andy Macdonald, see how he got on with interviewing the daughter. And I’d better report the assault. Though frankly, I won’t be surprised if it turns out Susie’s not fit to plead.’

There was a lot of activity at Kirkluce HQ this morning. There was overtime on offer, so that even officers who weren’t on shifts had come in, but Fleming had decided to keep the briefing meeting short. She was conscious there was disappointment that they hadn’t made concrete progress; most of them were well aware that the arrest of Ingles had been an error, and with no strong leads she could almost hear them thinking that the inquiry into Davina Watt’s death at least was going nowhere. Even in Murdoch’s case they had passed the golden period after a crime when recollection is fresh in everyone’s minds – and the mass retreat of possible witnesses from Drumbreck hadn’t helped there either – and from now on it would all get tougher.

    She wasn’t prepared to disclose the latest information about Adrian McConnell; until they knew more about it, it could only be a distraction from the important, if humdrum, routine – the formal statements, door-stepping, the fingertip search which would take place this morning around the area of the burned-out car. But she’d also hold out the hope of forensic magic, though they’d get nothing out from the labs until after the weekend and there were tests, too, on DNA that could take a week or more to show a result.

    First, though, there was the awkward business of explaining her face. She could read their expressions as they gawped at her – sympathy, in one or two cases (those were the women officers), astonishment from most, and ill-concealed amusement in the case of DS Allan, who was sitting in the centre with Kingsley beside him.

    Fleming touched her face. ‘Let’s deal with this first and get it out of the way. I was attacked last night by one of the suspects – Susie Stevenson, whose husband Findlay works on our farm.’

    She saw astonished annoyance in Kingsley’s face, heard his mutter to Allan, ‘Bloody woman didn’t tell me that, did she?’ but went on as if she hadn’t.

    ‘The details, of course, will be entered in the file once I’ve made a formal statement after this. But to draw conclusions would be seriously premature. Kingsley, you’ve broken ground on this, along with Kerr, so I want you to take it on. The problem may be that she will be unfit, so there could be a hold-up.’

    ‘Do we have an address for her, boss?’

    ‘It’ll be in my statement on the assault.’ She turned from the topic with relief, outlining the other tasks for the teams, reminding them to keep up to date with the reports. ‘Greg, you’ve just come on duty, haven’t you? Perhaps you could anchor operations here again. And now I’ll hand over to Sergeant Naismith to hand out action sheets.’

    As they gathered round him, Fleming singled out DC Macdonald. ‘Andy, did you see Mirren Murdoch yesterday?’

    ‘Yes. Yes I did, but I’m kind of unhappy about it.’ He ran his hand over his close-cropped head. ‘I was going to come and see you, boss. The kid’s a weirdo. Her mother was sitting in on it, of course, and it was sort of—’ He hesitated, groping for the words.

    Fleming perched on the edge of a table. ‘Take your time.’

    ‘The kid just sat there, totally unfazed. It was the mother who twitched whenever I asked her anything, and it was like she was trying to protect her, but didn’t really know how. Does that make sense?’

    ‘Like she didn’t know what Mirren had done, but didn’t want you to find out either?’ Fleming suggested.

    Macdonald latched on to that. ‘Yeah. But Mirren didn’t stress about any of the questions – like where she was when her father was killed, just said she was in the house from suppertime on and of course Mum backed her up. Didn’t know anything about the fire either till she heard her mother getting up, and then she just went back to bed, like she was told.

    ‘Then I asked if she’d been very upset about her father’s death, and that was what really spooked me. She’s got these funny dark eyes, almost like they’re black, and she just looked at me and said, “Well, he was going to kill Moss.”

    ‘Of course her mother got a bit frantic and started talking about how she didn’t mean it, how she was in shock and stuff, but it didn’t look that way to me.’

    Fleming considered what he had said. ‘Ingles would have to be back in the frame, if we were running with that. A child couldn’t have killed Davina.’

    ‘I’ll tell you the other thing,’ Macdonald went on. ‘What did get a reaction out of her, was when I’d finished the interview and asked Mrs for permission to access whatever was on the computer, as part of our checks on Murdoch’s effects, like we agreed, boss?’

    Fleming nodded.

    ‘And I’d swear she was just going to say yes, when Mirren went OTT. Started shouting about privacy, and her father didn’t use it anyway, and we’d no right to go poking our noses into other people’s business. Then of course her mother jumped in, said it was her computer and that Murdoch hadn’t used it so there was no point. I tried pushing it, but in the end I got a flat refusal. And then the girl calmed down, and gave me this sort of “That’s seen
you
off” look. Didn’t know where to go from there, to be honest.’

    MacNee glanced at Fleming. ‘You were on about the kid, weren’t you?’

    ‘Yes. It just didn’t feel right. OK, Andy – thanks. You did your best. Just leave it with me – I’d better go and see them myself. Where’s Tansy? I know she was working with Jon on the Stevenson thing, but I don’t think there’ll be progress today. She’d be the best person to have along.’

    ‘Around somewhere. I’ll tell her,’ Macdonald said quickly.

    ‘I’d better go and report this now.’ Fleming was not looking happy as she left.

    The two men exchanged glances. ‘She doesn’t like the thought that it could be the kid,’ MacNee said. ‘But she’s got problems about Susie Stevenson too.’

    ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. We’ll be lucky to pin it on anyone, at this rate.’

    ‘Where is Tansy, anyhow? Didn’t see her at the briefing.’

    Macdonald grinned. ‘She’d a big party last night. I’m just away to ring her now. She’ll be pleased.’

    ‘Here, did your lot get Murdoch’s prints yesterday?’ MacNee called after him, remembering the cutting he was still holding. ‘She wants a comparison with this – see.’ He took it out of the bag and pointed to the article about Ingles’s release. ‘It was in one of Davina’s drawers and we’re guessing it was maybe him sent it to her.’

    Macdonald took it and glanced at it. ‘Right. Yes, they got the same ones on his comb and toothbrush, so it’s a pretty safe bet.’

    ‘I’ll away along and see if it’s a match. That’s where I’ll be if there’s a call from Glasgow.’

As the room emptied, Allan was left behind alone. It would be another day of pushing paper, of keeping all the other inquiries going, like the shoplifting gang and the wave of car crime. Better than a fingertip search, admittedly, but he felt Fleming was keeping him off the task forces deliberately, to humiliate him. He wasn’t going to stand it for much longer; he’d told Jon that.

The phone ringing cut through Tansy Kerr’s head like a red-hot wire. She’d taken the precaution of switching off her mobile, but this was the land-line. Groaning, she groped for it on the bedside table without opening her eyes.

    Macdonald’s voice was offensively chirpy. ‘The boss wants you. Ten minutes ago. She’s going to see the Murdochs and she wants you along.’

    Tansy’s tongue was thick in her mouth. ‘What time is it?’

    ‘Half nine.’

    ‘Oh God!’ She put the phone down and blinked round the bedroom of her poky rented flat. If this had been a crime scene after a burglary, they’d have been sending in victim support.

    She rolled out of bed, swearing, and staggered into the inadequate shower which dribbled instead of blasting you awake, dressed in her last pair of clean jeans, a grey T-shirt she’d only worn once and picked up an acid-green hoodie she’d regretted buying from the floor of the wardrobe. She swallowed a couple of paracetamol and poured down two glasses of water, but decided she’d better get the essential fix of caffeine from the machine in the canteen. As long as Big Marge wasn’t standing in reception tapping her foot.

    The sunshine hit her like a blow and she fished in her bulky shoulder bag for dark glasses as she walked down the row of small terraced houses towards the High Street.

    Kirkluce had not yet been hit with the curse of the supermarkets, and though there were always rumours, the council had so far stood firm against them. There were still butchers and bakers and greengrocers and on a Saturday morning people who came out with their baskets for their shopping, gathering in gossiping groups and blocking the pavement as Kerr, with no very warm feelings for the charm of market town living, wove her way through them.

    She reached the CID room via the coffee machine without being nobbled, at least. Kingsley was there, ready with a rude comment about her appearance as she phoned to get her orders.

    ‘See you in the car park in five minutes,’ Fleming said, and Kerr raised her eyebrows as she put the phone down.

    ‘Sounds a bit terse this morning.’

    ‘You’ll understand when you see her. Incidentally, you left me with all the paperwork to wrap up the charge on Findlay Stevenson—’

    ‘So?’ Kerr swigged down the coffee with a grimace. ‘That’s what constables do, Jon, and I wrote the report.’

    Bad moods were infectious. Kerr was, uncharacteristically, scowling as she went out to the car park, putting her glasses back on.

    Fleming was there already, unlocking her car. She was wearing dark glasses too, and as Kerr got closer she could see there were cuts on her face. Her expression was sardonic.

    ‘Is this a carefully contrived wet-look, or are you only just out of the shower?’

    Mumbling something, Kerr got in.

    ‘Just as well I’m driving. You look as if you could turn the crystals at twenty paces. I thought I looked bad, till I saw you. And to save you asking, I’ll tell you what happened.’

    Kerr listened in amazement, her hangover almost forgotten. ‘Don’t say Jon’s going to turn out to be right again! It’s not good for him.’ Or for any of the rest of us, she added silently.

    ‘This isn’t proof of anything except that the woman’s unstable. And right now, we need to talk to Jenna Murdoch and, more importantly, Mirren.’ Fleming gave a brisk outline of the situation Macdonald had reported.

    ‘I’d kind of like to think a kid couldn’t do something like that,’ Kerr said. ‘But we did
Lord of the Flies
for Highers, and you begin to think he’s right and they’re all savages unless you force them not to be. Look at this happy-slapping stuff, and that fifteen-year-old in Stranraer who got his head kicked in by his little school chums.’

    ‘It’s fanaticism that scares me. It seems to have got to the point where, whether your religion’s based on God or a football club or a belief in animal rights, it entitles you to consider anyone who doesn’t bow down to your particular idol as a legitimate target for destruction.

    ‘That’s what’s getting to me about this one. Mirren Murdoch’s been living within a rotten marriage, and she’s friendless by the sound of it too. I phoned Laura this morning, after what Andy said, and she made the point that sometimes it isn’t about loving animals. It’s about hating people.’

‘Mum! It’s the police again,’ Mirren Murdoch shouted up the stairs to her mother.

    Jenna, with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, put down the razor blade she was using to get paint spots off the window-panes. ‘Take them into the sitting-room,’ she yelled back, and hurried down.

    It was the tall woman, the inspector – Fleming. She was wearing dark glasses this morning, looking as if she’d been in a cat-fight, and there was a younger woman with her with a green streak in custard-yellow hair and wearing a hoodie. She looked the sort that might get turned out of a shopping mall, but she was being introduced as DC Kerr. Mirren was standing in the further corner of the room, her eyes dark and watchful.

    They hadn’t sat down, and Jenna didn’t invite them to. This time, she wasn’t going to trouble to hide her irritation. ‘What do you want now? The constable yesterday took statements from us both, and that’s all we have to say.’

    ‘Mrs Murdoch, I wonder if you and Mirren would be kind enough to look at the site of the fire with us? I’m not sure I understand quite what the building was or where the fire started.’