Evil for Evil (4 page)

Then Andy’s arms were round her. ‘It’s all right, Christie, it’s all right. One of these idiots just burst Dave’s balloon, that’s all.’

Half dazed, she sat up, then felt a hot tide of embarrassment flood right through her, turning her face puce. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Oh God! How humiliating.’

Conversations began again, with sympathetic murmurs and glances. Some people had obviously seen the TV programme, though Andy clearly hadn’t. As he helped her up, her face still aflame, one of his friends who looked almost as uncomfortable as Christie felt came to apologise for bursting the balloon.

‘Sorry’ seemed to be the key word tonight. He said it several times, she said it several times, each politely laid claim to total stupidity, then he went back to the group with obvious relief.

Christie’s heart was still pounding and her legs were shaky. She
needed to sit down before she fell down and made a fool of herself all over again. She headed for a window seat.

‘I’m fine now, thanks,’ she said to Andy, who was still holding her arm. ‘You go back to your mates.’

‘I’d rather talk to you.’

They squeezed on to the narrow seat and he said, ‘Right. Tell me what all that was about.’

When Matt Lovatt, his dog loping alongside, appeared on his way to the boat half an hour later, Lissa was still sitting there. He waved, not slowing down, but she scrambled to her feet.

‘Are you going to the island? I’ll come.’

He groaned inwardly. He loved being alone on his island on a soft night, when colour had gone from the sky and it became a place of shadows and ambiguity, when his pretty dappled deer could slip into the trees and mysteriously vanish, when the offshore breeze died and everything went still.

He knew, too, why Lissa wanted to go – she only ever had one reason, which always broke her apart all over again. Anyway, Matt would have liked to check before she did – he’d found a nasty little message sprayed on the headstone recently.

‘Won’t you be cold like that, Lissa? And it’s getting dark. I’m just dumping concentrate for the deer and coming straight back.’

She shook her head. ‘No. I want to take him these. He’d like them.’ She bent to pick some harebells, making a dainty posy.

‘Fine,’ Matt said. She followed him to the jetty, walking on the grass verge in bare feet. At a gesture, the dog jumped into the motor boat, sitting like a figurehead in the prow. Matt helped Lissa aboard and started the engine.

Her eyes were fixed on the island – wide, hungry eyes. Matt
glanced at her, then glanced away. With hindsight, he’d been crazy: he could easily have said a burial on the island wouldn’t be allowed. It was unfortunate he’d remembered the consecrated ground around the tiny ruined chapel, with a couple of old headstones weathered to anonymity, and exploited that to get permission. Close by was the burial cairn and the Norse graves; Matt had liked to think of the child, who had never lived and now was little more than a scar on his mind, in the company of the old warriors.

If he was honest, it had been a bid for permanence. For the first time in his life he had felt rooted; the island was his place. Lissa would never want to leave if the grave was there. It hadn’t occurred to him that his salvation might be his wife’s destruction.

He swept round to bring the boat in, jumped ashore to tie up and held out his hand to help Lissa ashore. In her other hand the fragile flowers were losing colour, wilting already, dying in front of his eyes. The symbolism was deeply uncomfortable.

Matt clicked his fingers and the dog came to heel. ‘I’ll go to the bothy then come back here. Don’t hurry – I’ll wait for you.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’

In the deepening dusk he couldn’t see her face, but he knew the look – the one he had seen so often, asking for something he couldn’t give and filling him with guilt at his failure. If there was graffiti on the headstone, it was too late to do anything about it now.

‘No,’ he said gruffly.

Lissa paused briefly then set off on the grass in her bare feet, ignoring the track which curved round the hill then ran from one end of the island to the other.

Matt watched her go before he followed the track to the bothy. Sheltered by the trees at the seaward end of the island, it had housed a shepherd in his grandfather’s day. Matt had made it
weatherproof with a storage area below and basic accommodation above where you could doss down if you had a sick animal or an orphan fawn.

There were a couple of does moving about, browsing and nibbling at low scrub. Dawn and dusk were their times; they were happier in half-light, like all prey animals. One raised her head as he passed, pricking the ears that looked far too large for the neat head, her tongue going out to moisten the shiny, plastic-looking nose. Then she went back to her bushes. They were used to him, and even to the dog at his heels, though sometimes it sniffed the air as if some atavistic memory stirred.

Matt did his errand, then returned to the boat. He had no idea how long Lissa might be and with the dog again in the prow, he settled down to wait.

From across the water he heard a brief, strange, coughing roar, and his head came up, listening. It wasn’t repeated, but Matt smiled. They’d have to bring in the stags tomorrow and isolate them; the rut was beginning. It wouldn’t be long before the buck on the island was barking his intentions too.

It was only minutes later he saw Lissa coming back down the hill, pale dress glimmering like a ghost in the gathering darkness. He bent to start the engine. It meant he didn’t have to see the tears he knew would be trickling down her face.

From the wooden chalet above Fleet Bay, Derek Sorley trained binoculars on the island – the island he now refused to call Lovatt. He had only recently learnt the old name – Tascadan. It was Gordon Lovatt, Matt’s great-grandfather, who’d changed it in 1883, and the locals still hadn’t forgiven him for his arrogance.

The sound of the motor boat had brought Sorley to the picture
window which was about the only good thing about this shabby, gimcrack place, with doors that had warped and gaps round the ill-fitting windows that the draughts whistled through and sometimes even the rain, with the wind in the wrong direction. And there was the dirt-cheap rent too, admittedly – modern holidaymakers demanded standards his landlord was too mean to provide.

Sorley would have preferred to live in Kirkcudbright where he had a job at the moment driving a van for a stationery company, but with a piddling wage, docked anyway by the Child Support Agency for that vampire bitch, his ex-wife, all he could afford was a room in someone else’s house and having got rid of one nagging woman he’d no wish to acquire another. At least here he’d the place to himself.

Seething with loathing, he watched the Lovatts and the devil dog heading for the island. It was the dog had sniffed him out that day, all but given him a heart attack, staring at him as if sizing him up for attack – shouldn’t be allowed, having an animal like that. Then Lovatt had come to see where his precious dog was and lost it completely, yelling at him, making accusations, ordering him off his land. With the dog growling, Sorley wasn’t going to stay to argue.

He’d been so careful, too. He’d checked that Sunday: he’d seen Lovatt make a visit and return before he tackled the causeway of rocks and shingle which made the island accessible at low tide. There was no reason Lovatt should have come back unless he’d been tipped off – and strangely enough, Cal Findlay’s boat had been in the bay earlier.

What made Sorley sick was he’d just had a reaction from his second-hand metal detector, there by the burial cairn. Gold, it had signalled – gold! His heart had flipped, then turned a couple of
somersaults. Things like that didn’t happen to him – but maybe his luck had turned. Norse gold was big, big money.

Lovatt had no right to ban him. Scottish Right to Roam legislation should mean no private property any more beyond your garden, but when he’d taken it up with his local councillors – without mentioning the metal detector – they weren’t interested.

If only he’d got there before Ma Lovatt popped her clogs. No one ever went near the island then. She’d a tenant farmer, Hugh Donaldson, whose croft adjoined Lovatt land; he’d retired just before Ma Lovatt died, and his son Steve had thrown up his job in Paisley to come home and take over. Then Matt Lovatt arrived and wouldn’t grant a new tenancy, leaving Steve with no job and a scruffy croft that didn’t offer a decent living. There was only one man hated Matt Lovatt more than Derek did and that was Steve.

Sorley’s fingers were drumming on the window sill. He wasn’t going to accept this. He could see it so clearly – armlets, twisted brooches, dirty after years buried, but rubbed with his thumb revealing the dull tint of old gold.

He’d offered at the time to split proceeds but Lovatt hadn’t listened, red in the face with rage, apart from the scar that stayed deathly pale. That, as well as the devil dog, had spooked Sorley.

Steve’s croft had some burial sites as well – barren sites, unfortunately, when Sorley had checked. But if he could get at the stuff on the island – if he took it across to Steve’s place … The sort of money you’d be talking, he wouldn’t grudge splitting it two ways for provenance. An amateur trying for a no-questions-asked sale could be stitched up, cheated on the price, definitely – maybe shopped to the police too. Legal and above board was safer, and more profitable as well.

But how could he dig there? He could slip across – as indeed he had, to leave his poisonous message in revenge – but disturbance round the graves would soon be spotted.

As the drumming of his fingers became a thumping with his fists, an idea came to him. The island must be abandoned again and there was only one way: drive the bastards out.

His brow furrowed in thought, he took out his mobile and tapped in Steve’s number, but frustratingly there was no answer.

Sorley went back to his binoculars. The woman was climbing the hill, heading for the grave, no doubt. His mouth flickered in an unpleasant smile. She’d be running back down soon, sobbing. ‘
We must leave this awful place!
’ he imagined her saying. But there she was, sitting down instead.

His smile faded. Someone must have cleaned it off. Disappointed, he turned away and his eye lit on
Gaelic for Beginners
lying on the rickety coffee table. He might as well put in a bit of time on that. There certainly wasn’t anything better to do.

He’d started learning Gaelic because the Scottish Nationalist government was shovelling money in that direction and, if he got fluent, there were cushy jobs for the asking. But who’d have thought his studying would have such an early benefit? It was how he’d discovered the meaning of the island’s name, Tascadan: it came from
taisgaedan
, the Gaelic for treasure.

Kerr Brodie had unlocked the gun cupboard, tipping some bullets into his hand from a box of ammunition then dropping them into a capacious pocket of the shooter’s waistcoat on a peg alongside. He took a .243 rifle from the rack to check it over; he was fanatical about preparing his equipment and he was irritated when the phone rang. He propped up the gun and reached the kitchen extension just in time to stop the answer service cutting in.

Brodie glanced at the number that came up – not one he knew, but the Glasgow code. ‘Yes?’ he said.

The voice was husky, tentative. ‘Sarge?’

Brodie frowned. ‘Who is this?’

‘Crawford. Fergie Crawford.’

The frown deepened. ‘Crawford? What are you wanting?’

He didn’t sound encouraging, but a frantic outpouring came from the other end. He listened with increasing concern.

‘No, no, don’t do that. Give me a moment.’ Kerr was scowling now. Then he said, ‘OK – I’ll tell you what to do.’

He gave instructions, then rang off and swore violently. This he didn’t need. He walked back to the gun cupboard in an evil mood.

It was half past eleven when Marjory Fleming drove up to Mains of Craigie. The outside lights were on, but the rest of the house was in darkness, apart from the middle window above the front door where a light was still burning. Cat’s bedroom.

Her heart lifted just slightly. At least she could go and apologise, maybe even have the chat she’d missed at supper. She hurried in, dumping her shoes in the sink in the mud room. She’d felt sickened on the way home by the lingering smell.

Marjory ran upstairs and tapped on Cat’s door. ‘Hi, darling. Back at last! Sorry about that.’

There was no response. When she opened the door, the room was in darkness and her daughter was only a hump under the bedclothes, her back to the door.

She hesitated. She could say, ‘Cat, I know you’re awake,’ and insist they talked. But Cat wasn’t a child any more; she was a young woman about to begin her own life and if this was her decision it ought to be respected. Anyway, Marjory couldn’t think it was likely to prove a constructive conversation.

She closed the door again. She could understand Cat’s resentment,
of course, but if she’d put a family supper ahead of a case that might prove to be murder, her bosses would seriously question her priorities. A woman’s place is in the wrong, Marjory reflected bitterly, as she went to have a long, scented bath to get the stench of the day out of her nostrils.

It was one o’clock in the morning when Jamie started screaming.

‘What on earth is the matter, Jamie?’ Tony Drummond, startled out of deep sleep, was more annoyed than sympathetic.

His wife Rosie pushed him aside, giving him a death stare as she hurried to her son. ‘Darling! What’s wrong?’

Jamie was bolt upright in bed, hair tousled and damp with sweat, mouth square as he uttered scream after scream, his eyes wide and staring. As his father snapped on the light he put up his hand to shield them.

Rosie, alarmed herself, sat down and took him in her arms, rocking him like a baby. ‘Sssh, sssh! It’s all right, sweetheart, just a bad dream, that’s all.’

The screaming stopped, but he began to cry shuddering wails.

‘He’s getting hysterical,’ Tony said. ‘Jamie! You’ve had a nightmare, you’re awake now. Nothing’s wrong.’

Rosie looked reproachful at the sharp tone, but the boy’s sobbing died down a little. ‘Tell you what,’ she said soothingly.
‘We’ll go downstairs and I’ll make you hot chocolate, with lots of marshmallows. Would that be nice? Come on, then.’

Jamie, shaking violently, allowed himself to be led towards the stairs, still crying. His father followed them out of the bedroom, then hesitated.

‘Er … not much point in us both losing sleep. If you’ve got it covered …’

‘Oh –
men
!’ Rosie gave him a withering look, but she didn’t insist.

Five minutes later Tony was sound asleep. When she woke him again, he was confused. ‘Did the alarm not go?’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s half past one. Jamie’s still freaking out, but he won’t tell me why. I need you.’

At the kitchen table, Jamie had stopped crying but was still shaking uncontrollably. At the sight of his father he bit his lip.

What was that about? Frowning, Tony drew up a chair beside his son, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘OK, Jamie, let’s sort this out. You’d a bad dream, right?’

The boy nodded.

‘Dreams aren’t real, you know that.’

Another nod.

‘Do you want to tell us what it was about?’

He shook his head violently. Rosie said, ‘I’ve tried. He won’t.’

‘Hmm. So there’s something else, is there? What is it?’

Jamie’s eyes flicked to his father’s face, then away again.

‘Something you don’t want to tell us.’ Tony thought for a moment. ‘Is it something you’ve done that you shouldn’t have?’

The child’s head sank down. His parents looked at each other.

‘We promise we won’t be angry, darling,’ Rosie said reassuringly.

Tony’s reaction was less comforting. ‘Better tell us before we find out. What were you and Craig up to this afternoon?’

‘F–fishing,’ Jamie faltered. He began crying again, and then it all spilt out.

Which was why Tony Drummond was in his boat at first light, heading for the cave on Lovatt Island, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. He wasn’t upset, though. From the sound of it he was on to a good story.

Smugglers, ancient skeletons, adventurous kids, nightmares – it had all the ingredients, a gift to a journalist. Good visuals as well – this could be one for BBC Scotland, even national, maybe, a soft tail-ender for
News at Six.
In a spirit of keen anticipation Tony steered the boat through the mouth of the cave.

He’d glanced inside once, years ago, but seen nothing to tempt him further. Now he couldn’t see anything either and for a moment wondered if he was chasing a figment of a child’s vivid imagination. It was still fairly dark, though, and like Craig he got the torch out of the locker and shone it round – nothing. Then Tony shone it above his head.

And there it was. The rock shelf it was lying on was man-made, definitely – wide and deep, with a couple of empty shelves above it. The skull was close to the edge, and when he stood up in the boat he could see the ribcage, too, and leg bones. And horribly, a lower arm bone and a lower leg bone hanging, clamped to the wall by iron staples.

He had time to think, ‘Poor bastard!’ and wondered what ancient crime had merited such a hideous punishment. Then he noticed what was still round the arm, resting on the staple.

Marjory Fleming put the bacon in the pan on the Aga, then fetched eggs from the larder. There were mushrooms to chop too, and she’d better not forget baked beans. It was the full works today, with Cat going off.

She’d shed some quiet tears feeding the hens this morning. Tomorrow night there’d be three in her family, not four. Cat’s visits would be frequent, no doubt, but just that – visits. Catriona Fleming doesn’t live here any more. Her precious daughter was going out into the world alone – willingly, eagerly, without a backward glance over her shoulder. Just as she should.

The thing was, Marjory thought mutinously as she put plates to warm beside the sausages in the oven, no one ever explained as they put the tiny, utterly dependent creature into your arms –
your
baby, flesh of your flesh – that you were at the start of a relentless process of giving her up, to nursery, to school, to friends. Imperceptibly, a whole new life developed, where you had no part any more. Of course, she’d never been
yours
at all – it had just felt like that during the long years when you had her on loan. Having to face the reality felt almost like bereavement.

Marjory was swallowing hard when Bill came in.

‘Ah! Best smell in the world, that!’ He was looking unnaturally tidy in a tweed jacket with a checked shirt and even a tie.

‘Mmm.’ His wife prodded the sizzling bacon with a fork. ‘Any signs of movement upstairs? I don’t want to fry the mushrooms too soon, but you could open the beans and dump them in a pan.’

She hadn’t turned to look at him. Instead of obeying instructions, he came and put his arm round her shoulders.

‘Finding it tough? So am I,’ he said. ‘My wee girl – do you remember when she couldn’t say “mushrooms” and—’

‘Bill, stop it!’ Marjory said sharply. ‘Go and be sentimental somewhere else. If you want Cat to find us snivelling over the sausages, I don’t.’ She paused. ‘How was she – last night?’

Bill grimaced. ‘Subdued. She’d set her heart on the last family meal—’

‘And I let her down again. I know, I know,’ Marjory said unhappily. ‘All for a domestic, and the woman’s recovering. Still, we can have a nice leisurely lunch in Glasgow today before we get her settled in at the residence.

‘Can you check Cammie’s getting up? I woke him, but he always goes back to sleep.’

Bill went to shout up the stairs as Marjory started putting bacon on to a plate in the oven. When her mobile rang, she froze. Had the wretched woman died after all?

She fetched it from her bag and listened. ‘How extraordinary!’ she said at last. ‘I’m off-duty today – get DS MacNee down there to check it out, and report to me. I’m going to Glasgow but I should be back late afternoon and I’ll call in then. Doesn’t sound as if there’s much urgency about this one.’

Eddie Tindall was always at his desk by seven-thirty in the office which was the hub of his extensive motor trade business, with branches right across the Midlands. Saturday was always a busy day, and his PA came in at nine.

Marianne Price had been with him twenty years, a small, tough Scouser with a bright-red frizz of hair and a penchant for tight skirts and stilettos. She was competent, discreet and utterly loyal, though she’d made it plain her loyalty was sorely tried in relation to his second wife. Discouraged perhaps by chilly courtesy, Elena almost never came to the office and he was surprised now when Marianne announced she was there.

‘I’ll show her in, shall I?’ she said.

Eddie jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll come. Didn’t know she knew nine o’clock even existed.’

He laughed, and Marianne gave a thin smile as he hurried past
her. He felt, as he always did, a little thrill of pleasure when his wife appeared unexpectedly, but anything unusual was enough to make him worry too.

Elena was standing in reception beside the red plastic bench seating and the coffee table covered with brochures and slightly dog-eared motor magazines, tall and elegant in a navy linen shift dress with a jade cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders and lots of chunky gold costume jewellery. She looked exotic and seriously out of place.

Eddie came over to kiss her. ‘Nice surprise. Got a busy day, doll?’

She smiled at him. ‘Just a plan. Thought I’d take off for a bit of me-time, if that’s all right.’

‘Of course,’ he said instantly. ‘Need any money?’

Elena shook her head. ‘I’m fine. You really are a sweetie, Eddie. I’ll be in touch.’

‘You do that, my love. Have a good time. Take care.’ He took her in his arms and she allowed herself to be kissed.

As she left and Eddie headed back to his office, Marianne’s mouth twisted into a cat’s bum of disapproval. She hated seeing him jerked around by that little slut.

Eddie didn’t settle straight back to work. He hadn’t asked where Elena was going – he never did. Not after that first time, when she had burst out that if their relationship was to continue, sometimes she just needed space, without accounting for herself to anyone. At first he’d wondered about a lover; if that was her price he’d put up with it, as long as she came back afterwards.

But if he didn’t ask, he always knew. She probably hadn’t thought of it, bless her, but paying her credit card bill told him what she’d done – a stay at a spa hotel, a few days in London perhaps. The other expenses would be shopping or theatre or meals for one person. He’d
relaxed long ago. If she needed to feel a free spirit, fine – just as long as he knew exactly where she was and what she was doing.

But Eddie still craved reassurance. Now, he phoned to ask for the statement, but this time there was no reservation deposit. She didn’t usually go on spec. Frowning, he called up their joint bank account, but Elena only ever used it for ATM withdrawals – two hundred pounds every few days, the last two days ago. He clicked it off, disappointed. He’d just have to wait to follow her trail, then – it wouldn’t be long.

But there was that niggle at the back of his mind: the way she had looked last night. He could always tell when she was stressing, even when he’d no idea why, and where Elena was concerned anything out of the ordinary set his nerves on edge.

‘Where?’ DS MacNee said. ‘Never heard of it.’

He jotted down location and details from the officer in Kirkcudbright, put down the phone with a groan then checked on the huge Ordnance Survey map on one wall.

He was alone in the CID room. He’d managed to farm out interviews arising from last night’s fracas and after an extended shift yesterday felt smugly entitled to a quiet morning with a wee bit of gentle catching-up and maybe a chat to Sergeant Jock Naismith, always abreast of the station gossip. Now with Andy Macdonald off on leave and Ewan Campbell out doing interviews, he’d have to take this one himself – at least an hour’s journey with a boat trip at the end. MacNee could feel sick going ‘doon the watter’ on a Clyde ferry, and that was before they left the pier. He set off thinking bitterly of Campbell, out on what now looked like a real doss, just standing listening to folk for a while before he came back for his pie and beans.

The sunshine and the scenery didn’t cheer him. MacNee had a townie’s distaste for anything involving fresh air and mud, and the tractor drawing a horsebox which kept his speed to nineteen miles an hour on a narrow road bounded by stone walls for a quarter of an hour didn’t improve his temper.

The local constable was obviously getting his knickers in a right twist. A couple of messages had come through from HQ asking for an ETA, and MacNee’s responses had got sharper and sharper. With the time the victim had waited already, another half-hour wasn’t going to make a whole lot of difference. Anyway, a historian was likely to be more interested than the police.

But here at last was the small village he was looking for – just a wee street of houses straggling along the edge of the bay. Bonny enough, MacNee admitted grudgingly, with the islands out there and the sun shining.

The Smugglers Inn was halfway down the street. There was a badged car in its small car park with a young constable beside it, looking spare. As MacNee drove in, he turned, a hopeful expression on his round pink face.

It wasn’t easy to get space to park, with three other cars and too many people around, and MacNee noted darkly that one had a professional-looking camera. He slotted the car in beside a shrub with small pink flowers, swarming with wasps. He batted at them irritably as he got out.

The constable hurried across. ‘DS MacNee? PC Hendry, sir. Glad to see you. It’s been a wee thing tricky—’

He was immediately joined by the man with the camera, holding up a card. ‘Tony Drummond. Press. You took your time!’

MacNee assessed him sourly: mid-forties, balding a bit, paunch, but with sharp brown eyes. Not with a national; he recognised the
name from his byline in the local paper and he probably acted for a news agency too. That explained Hendry’s anxiety – he’d be pressured by the man trying to protect his scoop.

‘Well, Mr Drummond,’ he drawled, ‘I can’t tell you anything till I’ve had a word with the officer here. So perhaps you’d let me do that, while you wait, say – over there?’ He gestured towards the wasp-infested bush. Seemed appropriate.

Drummond laughed. ‘Ah, Sergeant, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m the one you want to talk to, not Doug here.’

The look MacNee gave Hendry at this evidence of fraternising with the enemy reduced him to stammering. ‘Mr Drummond – it was him found the body – well, the bones.’

‘I see,’ MacNee said stiffly. ‘Better give me the facts, then, sir. Constable, have you arranged a boat?’

‘No need,’ Drummond said promptly. ‘I’ll take you out myself.’

‘Good of you,’ MacNee said, with an ill grace. It was entirely unsatisfactory, but what else could he do? And those others – interested locals, no doubt, half a dozen men and one woman with blonded hair who was giving him a friendly smile.

MacNee didn’t return it. He went to speak to them. ‘Right, lady and gents. Any useful information, speak to PC Hendry here. Otherwise, you may as well go home. There’ll be nothing happening for a good wee while.’