‘Did you see Ailsa before she went out?’
‘Not after we had our tea. She went away up to her room – she was mostly in her room then. I hardly saw her except mealtimes. The roof of one of the sheds round the back was leaking and the tarpaulin we’d put over was lifting so I’d to go out to sort it before it blew away.’
‘You were out?’ MacNee said sharply.
‘Oh aye. I got all the dirty jobs. He always said he’d done them for years and now it was my turn.’
Stuart had clearly misunderstood the thrust of the question, and MacNee wasn’t about to enlighten him. ‘On a terrible night like that! How long did it take you?’
‘Hard to say, now. An hour – maybe longer.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘Went in. They were watching the telly, so I watched for a bit, then went up to my bed.’
‘And nothing was said about Ailsa having gone out?’
‘I thought she’d gone to bed earlier.’
So Robert Grant’s solid alibi was now only from his wife – was this why she had wanted to be present while her son was questioned? Presumably Donald Bailey had not insisted on separate statements. And while Fleming was sure Stuart would not have lied to protect the father he clearly hated, she could readily believe Jean Grant might have her own dark purposes.
There was one last area to cover and she was almost reluctant to do it.
‘When your sister’s body was recovered, you and your father went down to the lighthouse?’
Fleming could read in the sudden hunching of his body, as if against a blow, that this still hurt even today.
‘You identified her?’
‘Aye.’
‘And the officer who was there – he said you could bring her back here?’
‘That’s right! I’d forgotten. I mind him fine, though. Thought she’d killed herself, and it was only to be expected, that she was just a wee hoor. A hard-faced bastard.’
It was surprising how much that unexpected comment stung, but Fleming said steadily, ‘Yet he allowed you to take her body home instead of leaving it where it was?’
‘Aye. I was surprised at that.’ He sounded surprised too, even now. ‘She was lying there, for everyone to look at . . .’ Stuart chewed his lip, and it was a moment before he went on. ‘I asked, could we not just take her home? Oh, he gave us this big lecture about what was supposed to happen, but then he let us take her anyway.’
Why had Angus done that? Fleming only realized that she was puzzling over that, instead of putting the next question, when MacNee asked, after a curious glance at her, ‘And it was definitely you, not your father, who asked?’
‘Him? He wouldn’t care.’ Stuart spoke with great bitterness.
Fleming recovered. ‘And what happened when you got her back here?’
‘My father just went away out. My mother was going daft – got a comb and stuff, fussing round, washing Ailsa’s face and that.’
‘Can you remember what exactly she did?’
His defences swung into place. This was, it seemed, simply too painful to talk about. He erupted into rage. ‘No, I bloody can’t. You’re talking about my sister, lying dead. I didn’t notice much – I was probably crying. All right?’ He put his head in his hands.
‘Yes, of course.’ With a swift movement, Fleming stood up. ‘You’ve had more than enough, Stuart, and you’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you now to get back to your beasts.’
As the car drove off Jean Grant came into the kitchen like an avenging fury. ‘What did you tell them?’
Stuart was at the back door, pulling on his boots. ‘Nothing.’ He didn’t look at her.
‘What did you tell them?’ she repeated. ‘It was a long time, to have told them nothing.’
He stood up. ‘Oh, I can tell folk nothing for far longer than that,’ he said over his shoulder, and walked out.
Gavin Hodge, his hands in the pockets of his Diesel jeans and his Ralph Lauren jerkin zipped up against the cold wind, stood assessing the progress of the steam room.
‘I thought you said you’d be putting on the roof before the end of the week?’ he said aggressively to the silent man in front of him. ‘You haven’t even got the frame up.’
Stefan Pavany’s face was stony. ‘I am trying to find a roofer.’
‘Trying to find one?’ Hodge’s voice rose. ‘I understood you had the men to do the whole job. There’s no way I’d have given you the contract if I’d known we’d be waiting while you “found” a roofer. I feel I’ve been conned, and no one does that to Gavin Hodge.
‘Looks like that’s your bonus for an early finish gone. And if you’re late on completion, I’m going to dock your payment for every day it overruns.’
Hodge didn’t stop to hear Pavany’s reply. He wouldn’t have understood it anyway, delivered as it was in a furious undertone and a foreign language.
The other two builders had paused to watch. Pavany swore at them too, then snarled, ‘
Zabieraj s
e
˛ do roboty
. Get on with your work. No breaks. I have something to do.’
He went to the battered white van parked on the gravel sweep and drove off.
‘One down, one to go on the alibi,’ MacNee said as they left the farm. ‘I always had her old man fingered for it.’
‘That’s what they reckoned last time, too,’ Fleming pointed out, ‘but they’d no proof. And if they hadn’t then, what chance have we got now?
‘But don’t forget Jean Grant. She told me she and Ailsa were close, which doesn’t square with what Stuart said just now.’
‘In it together, maybe?’
Fleming pulled a face. ‘Maybe. I’m fairly sure they didn’t have a good marriage.’
‘With that ill-natured besom, who could? At least she’s safe from hellfire – “
The de’il could ne’er abide her!
” But maybe they agreed the girl was bringing shame on the family. Or say he killed her, and she realized after. But by then Ailsa was dead anyway, and if he got the jail for it, who’d run the farm? Stuart would be too young. Or look at it the other way – here, see me? Just full of ideas this morning! Say she lost her temper, killed Ailsa herself, then made Robert lie for her. I like this – Jean Grant would knock you over the head as soon as look at you.’
MacNee was taken with his latest theory, but Fleming sighed, then shook her head.
‘I know what I said. But somehow, when you spell it out, I just can’t buy it. I wish you’d heard her yesterday. I believed she truly cared about her daughter – and yes, of course I believe Stuart too, that she was raging with her. Believe me, for a mother these emotions are not mutually exclusive.
‘But there was something else there, Tam – something I can’t put my finger on. She made an excuse to leave the room at one point and I thought it was because she wouldn’t let me see her cry, but now I wonder if it was to get a breathing space.’
‘What were you asking her at the time?’
Fleming shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Something about whether Ailsa had taken anything with her, I think – it probably wasn’t about that at all. I keep trying to pin down what struck the wrong note, but I’m not getting anywhere.’
‘Park it and forget it,’ MacNee advised. ‘Anyway, I thought we got pretty straight answers from Stuart.’
‘Yes. And I certainly think the brother–sister relationship was perfectly normal – bit of hero worship perhaps, for his older sister. And it was pretty obvious he resented Marcus, whatever he said.’
‘Why not just admit it? Marcus seems to have been a right little sod. Still is, likely.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Fleming said, signalling a left turn off the main road, ‘I just want to drop in again at Tulach. I’d one of my cosy girls’ chats with Sheila Milne last night and she said she’d had a complaint about harassment from Marcus Lindsay. I thought I’d better go and apologize.’
MacNee turned to stare at her. ‘
Apologize?
For asking a few simple questions? Have you gone clean daft?’
‘Apologizing shows a magnanimous spirit,’ Fleming said sententiously. ‘And it’s a good excuse for going. I want to know why he should be so sensitive about those few simple questions. And why he should have complained to the Procurator Fiscal, when I’d be willing to bet he’s one of about three people in Scotland, outside the legal professions, who would know she was in charge of investigations like this.’
It was Mrs Boyter, resplendent in her pink pinny and an air of importance, who opened the door. ‘Oh, I’m afraid Mr Marcus isn’t here. Miss Lascelles –’ she lingered lovingly on the name – ‘is in the conservatory and if you wish to speak to her, I can see if madam is at home this morning. The other two are filming down in the village. But you can give me a message and I will see he receives it on his return.’
‘Thank you, but we’ll try to catch Mr Lindsay there,’ Fleming said.
They left Mrs Boyter looking crestfallen. ‘Delusions of grandeur,’ MacNee snorted. ‘Thinks she’s butler to the stars now. Doesn’t take much to turn some folks’ heads.’
The road through the village was an obstacle course of vehicles – vans, a bus, cars, and even cameras on mechanized trolleys. Weaving her way through it, Fleming was waved to a standstill by a uniformed officer. When he realized who it was, he saluted and came over to the car. She opened the window.
‘Sorry, ma’am – they’re going for a take. They’ll be calling Action in a moment.’ He used the technical terms with some pride. ‘So unless it’s urgent—’
‘No problem,’ Fleming said, not immune to the fascination of watching the cameras in action herself. She found a space to park, then she and MacNee strolled over to join the small crowd of onlookers, standing in impressive silence watching the process.
The cameras were set up to give different angles, their focus a man standing on the edge of the further pavement, with a woman fussing over his hair with a comb.
Fleming didn’t recognize Marcus Lindsay immediately. His hair had been covered by a shaggy grey wig and he was wearing a thick navy fleece with a torn pocket over shabby blue jeans and dirty trainers. His personal style was neat, almost dapper, but now he looked what Janet Laird would have called ‘a right shauchle’.
‘Working under cover then, is he?’ MacNee said in a hoarse whisper, earning a stern ‘Shush!’ from the formidable matron to his left. He subsided.
Someone stepped forward, snapped a clapperboard shut and called, ‘Action!’ Lindsay stepped off the pavement, walking like a man exhausted by heavy physical work, crossed the street, stepped up to the baker’s shop in front of him, and had put his hand on the door handle when another voice shouted, ‘Cut! Thank you. Very nice.’
A buzz of talk broke out as everyone stood by, waiting for the verdict on the shot. Fleming turned to MacNee.
‘You don’t quite believe they really do that – you know, the clapperboard-action-cut bit. It’s such a cliché, you’d think it was probably rubbish – you know, like us saying, “ ’Ello, ’ello, ’ello.” ’ Tam looked blank, and she went hastily on, ‘Anyway, he didn’t do very much, did he? It must take a hell of a time to film a whole episode, if it’s in tiny pieces like that.’
‘Took the best part of an hour just to get that,’ MacNee’s neighbour put in. ‘Rehearsals and all. And then they all go and have a coffee. Oh look, there’s that Jaki Johnston, coming out of the caravan. I like her – she’s good.’
‘Carrying on with him, is what I heard.’ A woman on Fleming’s other side leaned forward and the two began a lively discussion across the officers.
A voice called, ‘That’s a take!’ and the scene of suspended animation burst into activity as cameras moved off and a woman hurried forward to take the wig Lindsay had pulled off to run his hands through his hair. He had taken the jacket off too and looked round. ‘Where’s Frocks? I don’t want to wear this – I’ll be in the Winnebago when you want me for the next shot.’
A young man came hurrying up and took it from him, and Jaki Johnston came over and slipped her arm through his. ‘Well done!’ she said, and Fleming heard Lindsay say ironically, ‘Oh, absolutely. Move over, Ken Branagh!’
They walked off, Lindsay once again looking smart and fit, despite the cheap checked flannel shirt and baggy jeans. It had been a convincing piece of acting.
With MacNee following in her wake, Fleming excuse-me’d her way through the crowd. There were curious looks from the team as they walked up to the Winnebago and tapped on the open door.
Lindsay was sitting on a cream leather couch at one end of the van and Jaki was operating a coffee machine in a neat kitchen area at the other end. He looked surprised to see them, then got up.
‘Inspector! This is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you?’ The words and smile were amiable, but Fleming, as she tended to do, looked at eyes not mouth, and the telltale wrinkles which denote a genuine smile were missing.
‘May we come in?’ Fleming said, equally pleasantly. ‘We’re both intrigued to see where the stars hang out.’
‘Of course! Jaki, can you find another couple of mugs?’
‘No, no, not for us,’ Fleming said without consulting MacNee, who gave her a dirty look. ‘It really won’t take a moment. I gather you made a complaint to the acting Procurator Fiscal about police harassment after our visit yesterday, and we’re here to apologize.’
Lindsay looked stunned. ‘Complaint? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His bewilderment appeared entirely genuine.