Lying Dead (6 page)

    Marjory sank her head into her hands. ‘Bill, please don’t do this! Fin’s just awkward but Susie really hates me. I saw her in the street the other day and she didn’t just blank me, she gave me a death stare.

    ‘Of course I’d been thinking you might expand the farm again, take on a man. And I had hoped you might find someone with a wife who’d like a job giving a hand in the house. It’s been quiet lately but when things were busy I was finding it really tough to cope before, now Mum can’t do anything except look after Dad—’

    ‘I know, I know. Maybe Susie could—’ But even with Bill’s optimistic nature he couldn’t finish that sentence.

    ‘No. Exactly. And she’ll hate me even more when I’m in the farmhouse and she’s in the farm worker’s cottage.’ Marjory was fighting a rearguard action, and she knew it.

    ‘It’s a big ask, sweetheart.’ Bill put his hand on hers. ‘But it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it?’

    Marjory withdrew her hand. ‘Of course it bloody is, and of course I’ll do it, and I’ll get new curtains for the cottage and see it’s nice and clean and welcoming, and maybe she’ll be pleased and won’t hate me any more. But I reserve the right to be fed up to the back teeth.’

    Bill smiled, leaning forward to kiss her reluctant cheek. ‘That’s my girl! Feel the pain but do it anyway.’

    She laughed dutifully and got up to start clearing the table, but her throat was tight with misery and her head was pounding now. Her home had always been her refuge, the place she came back to with a lift of her heart. How would it feel when she couldn’t so much as go out to feed her hens without knowing there were hostile eyes watching her?

Chapter 3

The sun was still shining as Gavin Scott toiled up the steep, stony, rutted forest track early on Saturday morning, but it was oppressive and there were bruise-purple clouds boiling up ahead. With sweat trickling uncomfortably down inside his Lycra cycling gear, he gritted his teeth and bent forward over the handlebars of his mountain bike, forcing the pedals round and trying to ignore flies swarming about his helmet with no apparent purpose other than to increase his discomfort.

    Still, it couldn’t be too far to the top now, with its spectacular view out over the forest above the Queen’s Way which links New Galloway and Newton Stewart. It would be good if he could get there before the rain started and after that, going back down on one of the smaller, more rugged tracks, he’d be sheltered better by the trees. He hoped he could find it again; he’d done it once before and it had been a scary, thrilling ride, with twists and turns and potholes and unexpected boulders. And with any luck, the rain would get rid of the effing flies.

    With renewed vigour, he pedalled on.

‘All right, you two? Anything to report?’

    Marjory Fleming plodded through the forming puddles in her heavy black rubber boots, the hood of her well-worn waxed coat pulled up. She was making her way in the teeming rain across the field designated as a car park towards Jon Kingsley and Tansy Kerr, on plain-clothes duty after a report that car thieves might be targeting the Windyedge Sheepdog Trials.

    Jon had dressed for the part in a flat cap, navy weatherproof hooded jacket and green wellies. Tansy, in a pink pearlized zip-up jacket, stone-washed jeans and trainers, with her bizarrely coloured hair plastered to her head by the rain, hadn’t. Marjory reflected that at least she didn’t look like a police officer; she was more likely to be stopped on sus if there were uniforms around who didn’t know her.

    ‘Nothing so far,’ Kingsley said. ‘We’re just wandering round and – er – trying to blend in.’ He gave an ironic sideways glance at Kerr as he spoke, which Fleming ignored.

    ‘Fine. I’ll be—’

    ‘Marjory! Oh good, I was just wondering how to find you.’

    With Daisy, her collie, prancing on the lead, Laura Harvey was coming towards them. She was always clever with clothes: her cream waterproof jacket and dark trousers were practical enough but her blonde hair was bundled up into a wide-brimmed hot-pink rain hat and her wellies had a jazzy pattern.

    Marjory performed the introductions and patted the excited dog. Tansy barely greeted Laura before crouching down to make a fuss of Daisy; Jon, though, held out his hand, looking at her with some interest.

    ‘Laura Harvey! You’re a byword down our nick, you know that?’

    Laura laughed. ‘I hate to think what for! Are you here for duty or pleasure today?’

    ‘Duty, theoretically. But the pleasure element has just started to kick in.’

    Smooth bastard! Marjory gave him an old-fashioned look, but Laura was amused.

    ‘I like that! Do you mind if I write it down? I’m making a collection of chat-up lines.’

    ‘That was just off the cuff. I’m sure, given notice and opportunity, I could improve on it.’

    ‘Oh, I think that one goes down as well.’ She was enjoying herself, her grey-blue eyes sparkling.

    ‘Laura, I’m just going back to watch now,’ Marjory cut in. ‘They were nearly finished with the brace class when I left so they’ll be starting the singles any time now. Coming?’

    ‘Yes, of course. Bye!’ Laura smiled at Jon, and Tansy gave Daisy a final pat. As they squelched off she murmured to Marjory, ‘Mmm! Quite fit, isn’t he?’

    ‘Mmm,’ Marjory echoed. Jon Kingsley wasn’t exactly handsome but he was undeniably attractive, slim-built and a little above average height, with fair hair and a narrow, intelligent face. It really wouldn’t be fair to tell tales out of school and pass on her reservations about him.

    A few trade stands, selling pottery and tweeds, honey and aromatic oils, had been set up in open tents lining the way to the arena. The largest tent had a café and a bar, well-filled at the moment as people took refuge from the rain.

    ‘There’s no point in that. You might just as well get wet right at the start,’ Marjory said fatalistically as they negotiated the sea of slippery mud in the gateway to the field where the trials were being held. ‘This looks as if it’s on for the day.’

    Bill was standing beside the commentary box, a good position right behind the point where the competitor would stand to direct the dog through the long-distance manoeuvres of driving the sheep through gates, and close to the shedding ring where the flock must be separated into two groups and the pen where they must be finally enclosed.

    That was the stage they had reached at the moment, the man holding the gate wide on a rope and banging his crook on the ground to try to persuade the sheep in while his dog crouched, eying them and daring them to break free.

    ‘How’s it going?’ Marjory asked as they reached him.

    Bill didn’t turn his head. ‘Fine, fine. Hi, Laura!’ At his feet Meg, too, ears pricked, was watching with total concentration as if she might be giving marks for performance. A klaxon sounded and a groan of sympathy went round the crowd.

    ‘Timed out. That was bad luck,’ Bill said and turned round. ‘Sorry, Laura – very rude of me not to say hello properly.’ He kissed her cheek.

    ‘Not at all. The flower of courtesy, compared to Meg.’ Laura indicated the dogs: Daisy was pushing her nose under her mother’s chin and licking at her mouth while Meg tossed her head irritably, her attention already on the five sheep being driven in at the farther end of the field for the next competitor.

    ‘How did Findlay get on in the brace class?’ Marjory asked.

    ‘Pretty well. Not first – there was a farmer up from Cumbria who’s a national champion with a very experienced pair, but second’s good enough for his purposes with two young dogs like that. And he’ll be hoping for great things from Flash in the singles – brave dog with a very good eye.’

    The tannoy announced the next competitor – a woman this time – and she took up her position with her dog for their fifteen-minute attempt. The klaxon sounded and an arm movement sent the dog streaking off on its outrun.

    Marjory watched, her mind on Laura’s encounter with Jon, feeling faintly ashamed of herself at terminating it so ruthlessly. She had nothing against the man, really, except that he was a bit cocky and too nakedly ambitious to be a team player. He was good at his job though and he was certainly quick-witted and amusing company. It was just that it was always a pity if a close friend took up with someone you didn’t gel with.

    And Laura was more than a close friend: as a psychotherapist with a growing reputation from her writing and broadcasting, she was someone Marjory relied on professionally for discreet advice which had proved its worth again and again.

    Of course, she was running ahead of herself there. Jon and Laura had barely exchanged two words; it wasn’t as if he’d asked her out or anything. But, Marjory thought gloomily as she applauded the herding of sheep through the first gate, she’d put money on it that he would.

It was drier under the trees now Gavin Scott had begun on the descent. The track was just as hairy as he remembered it being; he braked hard as a boulder loomed up and skirted round it, then, grinning, speeded up again with clearer ground dropping away sharply below him. Thrilling, it was, hovering on the edge of disaster with the wind of speed in his face. He was the man!

    The rain was getting heavier, though, and beginning to force its way through the canopy above him. Its coolness was welcome but it had begun to put a slick of moisture on the stones; he’d need to watch it. There was a nasty moment as he felt the tyres lose adhesion slightly and his stomach lurched in fright, but he corrected it and went on a little more cautiously.

    He didn’t even see the smooth, flat slab of stone in the path until he turned a corner and was on it. A couple of trees had died back and here the rain was falling straight through, converting the stone surface to a patch like wet glass.

    He had no chance. The bike slid, hit a rock and reared up, throwing him to the ground before smashing its front wheel against a tree trunk.

    Gavin lay for a moment, half-stunned. His head had hit the ground with some force, but his helmet had done its job of protection. He hurt all over, though: his back, his elbows, his knee  . . .

    Gingerly, he sat up to assess the damage. His back only felt bruised, though his elbows were scratched and bleeding, there was a tear in his shorts and a gash in the thigh beneath, but his knee – that was seriously painful.

    Clutching at a nearby tree stump, he managed to lever himself to his feet. The knee was swelling already and he yelped with pain as he put his weight on it. And the bike, his brilliant bike, was a write-off. He groaned, looking about him helplessly.

    It was still a hell of a way down to the road. He was sure he couldn’t walk that far; he’d end up shuffling on his bum for hours. He’d have to get help.

    Gavin hobbled across to the bike and was reaching into the saddle-bag for his mobile when a picture suddenly came into his head, a picture of the mobile, sitting on the kitchen table. He’d left in a hurry, hearing the old girl on the move upstairs and keen to escape without her yakking on at him again. He checked the bag, like you always do even when you know it’s pointless, but of course it wasn’t there. Stupid or what?

    It was a bit heavy, being injured and miles from anywhere. The air seemed sort of muffled by the soft steady downpour, like even if you shouted it wouldn’t make a noise. The only sound he could hear was water running nearby, and what he did have in his saddle-bag was a towel; maybe if he soaked it and wrapped his knee it would help. He couldn’t think what else to do.

    It wasn’t far to the burn, but picking his way over the roots of trees and the uneven ground was really slow and painful. At last he reached it and found a rock by the edge where he could sit; he sank down on it with relief and soaked the towel in the clear brown water. He cleaned his grazes, then soaked it again to bandage his knee. It was very cold, almost like an ice-pack. Perhaps it might work, in time.

    Then he heard it: the ringing of a mobile phone, its tinny tune sounding in his ears like the bugles of the US Cavalry. ‘Hello!’ he called eagerly. ‘Is there someone there?’ Self-consciously, he added, ‘Help!’

    There was no reply, only the continued ringing of the phone. Then it stopped and there was nothing but the burbling of the burn and the persistent whisper of falling rain.

    He called again, but there was no response. He frowned. The noise had definitely come from further downstream, across the burn to his left. He listened, then stood up to look, but he couldn’t see any sign of movement.

    If it had been answered he’d have heard someone speaking. So perhaps someone, a forester, maybe, had dropped it and didn’t know where it was and was phoning to try to find it. They might even be hunting for it now, getting closer . . . He shouted a couple more times, then waited for it to ring again, but it didn’t.

    So perhaps it had just been lost. It was like some kind of torture, knowing it was there somewhere, but not how to find it. Needles in haystacks had nothing on this.

    Willing it to ring again, he listened, but it remained obstinately silent. If he waited much longer, with this weather it’d soon be too dark to see his way down off the hill, and he seriously didn’t fancy a night out here. Or he could head in the direction the ringing had come from and hope that his luck might turn. About time!