The Third Sin (4 page)

‘I sense a “but”,’ Fleming prompted.

‘Yes, a but … He didn’t die in the accident. The pathologist is prepared to be specific, for once – he was killed with a single blow to the back of the head. The weapon was round and very solid. Could even have been a cosh but there’s no sign of it – either removed or washed away after the car entered the water.’

‘A cosh – could be a professional? Right,’ Fleming said slowly. ‘Do we know if he was driving?’

‘Inconclusive. Lots of smudges on the steering wheel but no clear prints. His prints were clear elsewhere, though, so it was presumably his car. Anyway, that’s the story, basically. But we have a problem, Marjory. We’re embedded in the mudflats, you could say.

‘The car’s number plate was false – it’s all too easy to get them on the Internet, so that was a dead end. The engine number wasn’t any use either; the original owner sold it in a private arrangement five years ago. Now nothing’s happening. It’s like Einstein’s definition of insanity around here – repeating the same action and expecting different results. I’ve got dozens of lads out there duplicating investigations they’ve done already. And this is the bit I will deny flatly if challenged – I have absolutely no confidence in Len. He’s sloppy, he hasn’t an idea to take forward, he’s going round and round in ever-decreasing circles and acting like a Rottweiler guarding a bone and he won’t let anyone else take over. He’s been so offensive to his DCI that she’s off with stress.

‘I need your help.’

Suddenly it didn’t seem quite such an attractive proposition. ‘And what makes you think he’ll let me take it away without taking my hand off first?’ Fleming asked.

‘I’m going to have a very straight talk with him. If we haven’t some progress to show for the time and the money in the next couple of weeks there’ll be an official case review, with his methods scrutinised. I think he’s scared himself – he’s actually a very insecure individual.

‘You’ve got a good record. Now we’re all meant to be working together, I want to tap into that. Please, Marjory – as a favour to me.’

‘Let me recap,’ Fleming said dryly. ‘You don’t know where the car came from, you don’t know when it happened, you don’t know who the body is—’

‘Oh, we know that,’ Taylor said.

‘Do you?’ Fleming was surprised. ‘I haven’t seen anything about that.’

‘No,’ he said, a little awkwardly. ‘We haven’t announced it yet. Dragging our feet a bit, I admit. The thing is, going by the DNA records we have he’s been dead for two years.’

When the doorbell rang, Heather Denholm was peeling potatoes. ‘Can you get that?’ she called through the open door to the sitting room. ‘My hands are wet.’

Her partner Donald Falconer, who was watching the six o’clock news, grunted and got up. She heard him cross the hall to open the door, wondering who their visitor was, ready to abandon the potatoes and be hospitable if necessary.

Someone on TV was reporting on a new protest about fracking somewhere but she could hear none of the normal sounds of greeting from the hall. Curious, she put down the potato peeler and came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

Donald was standing very still by the open door, staring at the girl on the doorstep. At first glance she looked to be no more than a teenager, dressed in skinny jeans with a black-and-white striped T-shirt and a grey waistcoat, worn open. Her dark hair was piled loosely on top of her head and she was very pretty, with striking blue-green eyes and delicate features. Looking more closely, Heather realised she was older than she had seemed and the thought suddenly struck her. Could it be …?

‘Well, well, well,’ Donald said heavily. ‘Fancy that.’

The woman’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Hello, Dad.’

Heather came forward. ‘Are you Skye? Oh, I’m so pleased to see you! Your father has been so worried about you, all this time.’

Donald shot her a cold look. ‘Have I?’ he said ominously. ‘Oh yes, perhaps I have. It had just slipped my mind – the searches in case you’d had an accident and come to grief somewhere, the phone calls to the hospital and to everyone I had ever heard you mention, the police enquiries that had them questioning me as if I’d done away with you myself. You didn’t think of maybe just phoning or sending me a text to say you weren’t at the bottom of the Solway Firth with your pal Connell?’

Skye bit her lip. ‘It was … difficult,’ she said.

Donald drew in his breath but before he could say anything Heather cut in. ‘There’s no need to stay standing on the doorstep. Come in, dear. I’m Heather.’

With an uncertain smile Skye shook the hand held out to her but her eyes went back to her father’s face and she only stepped over the threshold once he had stepped aside.

On the news, they were talking about a royal visit now. Donald killed the programme and sat down in his usual chair while Heather fluttered about, ushering Skye to a seat on the sofa.

‘Would you like a drink or something, dear?’ she offered.

Skye shook her head.

‘Whisky,’ Donald said.

As Heather scurried to the kitchen to get it she heard Donald say, ‘And are you going to tell me where you’ve been?’

‘No.’ Skye’s voice was flat.

‘You don’t think you owe it to me?’ Donald’s voice had risen. ‘It killed your mother, you know. Proud of that?’

Heather felt tears come to her eyes. That was cruel – and not true, either. How would the poor girl feel after an accusation like that?

Hostile, apparently was the answer. ‘I heard it was cancer, actually. And you’d both made it very clear to me that I wasn’t welcome at home any more after what happened.’

‘You’re surprised? The reports after the inquest – disgusting! And if you think you can just swan back here, come home as if nothing had happened—’

‘I don’t. A lot happened and everything changed. I only came to tell you I was back in the neighbourhood before one of the neighbours did.’

‘Why did you come back at all, then?’

Donald sounded rough, angry, but Heather could hear the hurt in his voice. He was still hopeful, wasn’t he, even now – hoping that, after the blazing row he needed to have with the daughter who had turned her back on him in this ruthless way, the air could be cleared and some sort of healing could begin.

‘I wanted to.’

Through the open door Heather could see that Skye had stood up.

‘Oh yes!’ Donald gave a bitter laugh. ‘That was always your only thought – what you wanted. Never mind anyone else. It didn’t occur to you that after the shame you brought on this family I might appreciate it if you just stayed away?’

‘Leaving you to relish the thought that I was probably dead? I
didn’t think of that, no, though I probably should have.’

Heather heard the hurt in her voice, too, and almost groaned aloud. Why did people do this sort of thing to each other? Pride, probably. She’d never been much tempted to pride, herself. It only seemed to cause pain and misery, as far as she could see.

She’d poured out Donald’s whisky already but as she heard the front door slam she unscrewed the cap of the bottle and added another measure.

‘What did he say?’ Jen Wilson asked, though her friend’s drooping shoulders and the look on her face gave her the answer already.

Skye Falconer shrugged. ‘Same old, same old. I’m rubbish, and basically he’d rather I was dead.’

‘I’m sure—’ Jen was about to go on, ‘he wouldn’t,’ but on reflection thought that he very likely would. She’d felt bad about keeping Skye’s secret after all the fuss about her disappearance but when a guilty conscience prompted her to go round to see the Falconers, their reaction – a tirade of abuse from Donald, tight-lipped anger from his wife – convinced her that they were more enraged than heartbroken. She left feeling justified in keeping her promise of silence

‘Come and have a drink,’ she said instead.

Skye nodded listlessly and followed her through to the kitchen. As Jen fetched a bottle of Sauvignon out of the fridge she said, ‘She seems nice, his partner. Can’t imagine why she took up with him, to be honest. She seemed quite keen to welcome the black sheep but he just wanted to know why I’d come back at all.’

It was the question Jen had been longing to ask too but it had seemed inhospitable when Skye, badly bruised, thin and strained, had turned up on her doorstep one morning.

‘I’m looking for sanctuary. Promise you won’t tell anyone I’m here – now or ever?’ she’d said, but she’d only shaken her head and begun
to cry silently when Jen tried gently to find out why. It had seemed pointless, even cruel to persist and Jen couldn’t but sympathise with this poor little shadow of Skye’s former self. An imp, a sprite: those were the sort of words people had used to describe her, drawn to the sparkling personality and charm. They wouldn’t say that now.

She was having bad dreams, too, but the first time Jen woke to muffled groans and a startled waking cry and went through, Skye hadn’t welcomed her. ‘Sorry – did I wake you? Just a dream,’ was all she would say and there was nothing Jen could do but wonder.

She’d always felt that Skye’s love of pleasure, which had drawn her to the Cyrenaics, had had a sort of innocence about it, unlike Jen’s own attraction to the darker glamour of decadence. What had happened to Skye had been like breaking a butterfly upon a wheel.

Today had been the first time Skye had left the house since she came. ‘Pretend I’ve only just arrived – promise, on your honour? Promise? I want him to think I dashed round whenever I got here. I just had to let my face heal first.’

Jen suspected that she had needed time to recover from whatever had caused the injury as well, and soothed her with a solemn promise.

Skye had been an ideal guest, appointing herself housekeeper so that Jen had the luxury of coming home from a tiring day to a clean house and a meal, but she had said nothing about moving on. Now, as they sat at the table with their wine, Jen said, ‘So what next?’

Skye looked down at her glass, turning it in her hands. ‘Would it be awful to stay a bit longer? I just need some time to think – get my head straight. I’d help with expenses, of course – I’ve got money …’

Jen was far from sure that she did. ‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘And you more than earn your keep. It’s been total bliss being spoilt.’

The relief on Skye’s face was obvious. ‘Thanks, Jen. Don’t know what I’d have done without you.’ Then she smiled and she suddenly looked younger, her face impish once more.

‘Let’s celebrate! As far as my father’s concerned, I’m dead. We have to hold a wake.’

They both laughed but Jen gave a sudden shudder as she went to fetch the bottle from the fridge to top them up. ‘Oooh – goose walked over my grave.’

‘
My
grave, you mean,’ Skye corrected her and they both laughed again.

DS Tam MacNee parked his car and walked across to the police headquarters, Galloway. He was, as always, wearing a white T-shirt, jeans and trainers with a black leather jacket and recently he’d been asked by a cheeky DC if it wasn’t time he gave up trying to be James Dean – a man of his age?

He’d got a dusty answer. MacNee had been much the same age as the ill-fated star when he left the uniform branch and adopted it as a uniform of his own. He intended to go on wearing it until they did the whip-round for his retirement party. Possibly even after that; it was a few years yet before he’d need to decide.

Today he was in a sullen mood. His wife Bunty’s Aunt Jessie was coming to stay to give her put-upon daughter some much-needed respite and as well as having to watch Bunty working herself into a frazzle – the old besom didn’t seem to know slavery had been abolished – he’d have to bite his tongue for two whole weeks if he wasn’t going to make the situation even worse for his warm-hearted, long-suffering wife. And to protect Bunty, he’d chew his tongue off at the roots, if that was what it would take.

Added to that, the latest Scottish independence referendum poll had been alarming and he couldn’t even have a good moan about that, since Fleming had banned discussion of it in the team. ‘Too many people feel too deeply about this one,’ she’d said. ‘Feelings are running high and taking sides would affect operational efficiency.’

She was certainly right there. Conflicts within her team of four detectives caused problems – you only needed to look at all the tiptoeing round they had to do because DS Andy Macdonald and DC Louise Hepburn seemed to be permanently at each other’s throats, and it was just a mercy that DC Ewan Campbell was normally so silent it would have been hard to work out if he had a problem with one of the others. But it was frustrating when you wanted to let off steam about the stupidity of the folks who couldn’t see things your way.

He wasn’t looking forward to his shift, either. He’d to be in the district court this morning which meant sitting around wasting his time until the case, a minor charge of theft, was called or more likely went off because the accused hadn’t got out of bed to come to court. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty other stuff to get on with – not that he wanted to do that either, since most of it would involve writing up a report on a credit-card fraud.

His day, however, improved almost immediately when he arrived in the CID room to find a message that a plea of guilty had been entered in the theft case, and improved even more when DI Fleming came looking for him a little later.

‘How are you placed this morning, Tam?’

MacNee brightened. ‘Me? Oh, I’m fine. Nothing that wouldn’t wait.’

‘Come with me, then – five minutes? Something’s come up. I’ll explain in the car.’

As she left, DC Hepburn who was working at a computer nearby,
looked up enviously. ‘Some people have all the luck. I spent all yesterday catching up with stuff that came in over the weekend and I’m not finished yet.’

‘Och well, you’ll be used to it so you’ll not mind doing a wee bit of tidying up on the credit-card case, will you?’ As Hepburn drew breath to protest, he went on, ‘Thought not. That’s my lass – you’re a wee stotter, so you are. I’m just forwarding it to you now.’

He logged out, picked up the black leather jacket he had slung on the back of his chair and strutted out, giving her a wink over his shoulder and whistling through the gap in his front teeth.

Hepburn groaned. ‘Why me?’ she demanded of the room in general, running her hands through her hair so that it looked even wilder than usual. ‘Why is it always me?’

DS Andy Macdonald, dark and unsmiling, paused on his way out to a house-breaking to say, ‘Punishment for past sins,’ as if it was a joke. It just didn’t sound like one to Hepburn, the way he said it.

‘It’s a bit delicate, this one,’ Fleming said as she drove out of the car park, heading for Dumfries. ‘Hurt feelings on every side. The super thinks Tom Taylor should have asked her to do this, not me, and his inspector is very aggressive and is probably even now working on the hissy fit he’s going to throw the minute I appear.

‘Taylor’s idea was that I should do it on my own but I insisted on bringing backup – I’m taking you along to ride shotgun, basically.’

‘Should’ve brought my
sgian dubh
,’ MacNee said happily.

‘Just as well you didn’t. Since it’s only licensed for carrying in the top of your sock when you’re in full Highland dress, I’d be forced to charge you with possession of a knife and you know you get the jail for that.’

MacNee laughed. ‘Here! You’re in a good mood.’

‘So would you be. I’ve got John Purves conned into taking over the
statistical report that’s been haunting me for weeks.’

‘Funny you should say that. Same here – Louise. Anyway, fill me in on this lad that’s going to set about you.’

‘Len Harris – do you know him? Dapper, thin moustache—’

‘Not Lucky Lennie Harris, who used to be in Glasgow? He was a PC when I moved to Galloway, famed for never actually being on the spot when it got down and dirty. I heard he’d left – in fact, I think I might even have seen the fireworks from the farewell party from down here.’

‘Oh no!’ Fleming was dismayed. ‘It never occurred to me you might have previous where he was concerned. Maybe I should have brought Andy Mac – or Ewan, better still.’ Given his pathological addiction to silence it was hard to quarrel with DC Ewan Campbell.

‘Och, it was just one or two wee minor disagreements,’ MacNee said cheerfully. ‘It was years ago – he’ll likely have forgotten all about them by now.’

Fleming gave him a doubtful look. ‘I hope you’re right. He didn’t strike me as the forgiving and forgetting type.

‘Anyway, this is the situation.’ She explained about the car being found in the Solway Firth on the mudflats near Newbie three weeks before and the forensic evidence of murder, and then the identification of the body as Connell Kane who had staged his own suicide after he was charged with drugs offences, with a charge of culpable homicide pending as well.

‘Oh aye?’ MacNee raised his eyebrows.

‘Supplying drugs to a girl who OD’d two years ago. From what I’ve seen of the investigation, Harris is majoring on just two angles: trying to find out where Connell appeared from after two years presumed dead, and investigating the area near where the car went into the water. Nothing’s come of either approach but he won’t accept it – keeps saying that’s all they need to know and it’s just that they
haven’t interviewed enough people yet. It’s become a matter of pride and he’s blowing the budget to prove himself right.

‘He’s intimidated his DCI to the point where she’s on sick leave, and though Tom Taylor is a nice guy I don’t think he’s got a grip on Harris. When I met them together the man was impertinent and got away with it. Even as a mere inspector, I wouldn’t have taken it from someone junior.’

‘Don’t think I ever heard anyone describe you as a “mere” anything,’ MacNee said dryly. ‘You’re maybe a farmer’s wife but you’re the kind that would cut off tails with a carving knife and not bat an eyelid.’

‘I just believe in the broken windows’ theory,’ Fleming said in her own defence. ‘Ignoring the trivial leads on to big problems later. Taylor is desperate now because if there isn’t major progress in the next couple of weeks it’ll mean an official review and from what I’ve seen they’d shred him. So that’s where we come in.’

‘So where do we start?’

‘We’re meeting Harris at the police garage where they took the car after they pulled it out, so we can take a look at it. The forensic report on it is exhaustive but there’s nothing dramatic and apart from Kane’s own, no fingerprints that check out on the database.

‘There were two or three things I picked up on. Harris seems to have put far too much weight on a sighting of a grey car being driven through Annan with a driver and passenger, both male, who seemed to be having a row – shouting, the witness claimed, though she couldn’t hear what it was about. She didn’t notice the number plate or even the make of car, but on the basis that Annan isn’t far from Newbie, there have been days and days of house-to-house in and around the area and from there down to the Solway coast where the car was found. The car was grey right enough and I don’t doubt the witness, but it still seems a flimsy foundation for such a full investigation.

‘There’s no fingerprint evidence to suggest who was driving, but since he was hit from behind – quite likely coshed – he was probably in the front, unless he was out of the car when it happened. And interestingly, though there are unidentified fingerprints on the other safety-belt releases, on the steering wheel there are only smudges.’

‘Someone wiped it? So someone we know already, maybe?’

‘Might just be someone ultra-cautious. Anyway, Harris’s theory is that this all happened after they were seen quarrelling in Annan, and the men were both in the front. It’s only four or five miles to the coast. In that space of time the murderer would have needed to get behind his victim somehow – get himself into the back seat, or get the other man to step out of the car and turn his back.’

MacNee snorted. ‘When they were having a collieshangie – yelling at each other? Aye, right. He’d have to be daft.’

‘They’d be travelling on minor roads, some of them so small you’d practically be driving through a farmyard, but no one saw or heard anything – they seemed to have checked every house on the route. Some twice. I’ll give Harris that, at least – he’s thorough.’

‘Hmm.’ MacNee considered that. ‘OK, let’s just assume chummie’s got himself there and no one’s noticed. He’s put his car with the body into the river and now he’s miles from anywhere. What happens then?’

Fleming nodded. ‘Exactly. Was there another car travelling with him, maybe? You’re very obvious walking on country roads; any passing car would notice you, unless you dived into the hedgerow – I suppose you could do that, and just keep walking. And then there’s the killer question – the car was badly damaged after being rolled around in the water, but how the hell would you manage to drive on to mudflats without getting solidly bogged down immediately you left the shore?

‘When I got the report yesterday I took a look at the Solway tides
and current charts. They found the car the day after a spring tide and when I checked the weather records there was a strong wind blowing right up the Firth the night before. With the head of water that would produce it could have gone in anywhere, Tam – carried on to the flats at Newbie by the strength of the tide.’

‘So you’re saying he’s blown the budget on a wild goose chase?’

‘Apart from what he’s spent trying to establish where Connell Kane had been since the last time he died, yes. And that hasn’t delivered any results either.’

MacNee whistled through his teeth. ‘Here – you know you said you were worried I might get up his nose? Once he’s heard what you’re going to say, I’ll be his new best friend by comparison.’

DI Len Harris didn’t seem to feel anyone was his friend. He greeted Fleming with barely concealed hostility and MacNee with open aggression.

‘Can’t think what they imagine I’m going to learn from you, MacNee. You weren’t even CID in Glasgow.’

There was nothing MacNee enjoyed more than a bit of aggro. ‘Och well, Lennie, I’ve maybe been learning all the time you’ve been wondering why you should,’ he said cheerfully.

Fleming shot him a warning look that he took care not to see as, with Harris walking stiff-backed before them, they went into the garage workshop where the car was being kept securely as a crown production.

It was certainly in a battered state, the paint abraded and the windscreen as well as two of the side windows stoved in. The tyres were ripped and twisted and the doors, buckled by impacts, had obviously been forced open to allow the SOCOs a full examination.

‘Not much to learn from that, as you see,’ Harris said.

Fleming walked round it, studying it carefully. ‘And in your view,
the car – what, was deliberately driven on to the flats with the corpse inside it, somewhere around here?’

He began to explain about the eyewitness, but she cut in. ‘Yes, I’ve read all the background. But it did occur to me – could it have been just a passing grey car, nothing to do with this at all?’

A flush of colour came to Harris’s face. ‘Yes, of course. But you have to say it was suggestive – two men quarrelling, the right area—’

‘Of course, absolutely,’ Fleming said soothingly. ‘If the car was driven into the water at Newbie—’

‘If? How else would it get there?’

‘Well, it was just the timing – the weather, you know.’

‘Oh yes, the weather.’ It was plain that he hadn’t thought about the effect of the spring tide; he coughed, then went on, ‘You’ve formed some theory, have you, because of the weather?’

‘Not exactly a theory, just a thought about keeping the options open. With the spring tide and the wind direction, it’s conceivable that the car could have gone in further down the estuary and been swept up here.’

Harris had a very prominent Adam’s apple and it bobbed up and down as he swallowed. ‘Er, well, of course I did consider it. Naturally. But that would make the search almost impossible – we can only work on information received.’

Fleming sensed MacNee moving restlessly, heard him draw in his breath to speak and interposed, as she thought tactfully, ‘It’s always the problem, isn’t it? Look, is there somewhere we could go for a cup of coffee and talk this through?’

‘Oh, I suppose so. The station’s just round the corner.’

‘There’ll be a space in the car park there? Fine, we’ll drive round and see you inside,’ Fleming said.

As she drove off MacNee gave a low whistle. ‘Man’s a liability. Seems to think a detective’s job is to sit and wait till someone comes
and tells him what happened. Starting from scratch, then, are we?’

‘With the trail cold and the budget blown already,’ Fleming agreed grimly. ‘Fun, fun, fun.’

In the gleaming, stainless-steel kitchen at the back of The Albatross pub, Logie Stewart was preparing for the lunchtime service. He was in a bad mood; he always was when it came to wasting his considerable talents on the day-to-day, boring stuff, the food that would appeal to the passing trade or the less discriminating local clientele. The Albatross might be a destination restaurant as a result of his culinary skill but a tasting menu event once a month, parties in the chic private dining room upstairs and fine dining à la carte wouldn’t keep your head above water, particularly before the tourist season got going.