‘Sounds it.’ Fascinating as this sidelight was on Marcus Lindsay’s home life, it wasn’t getting them anywhere. ‘But there’s no one you can think of, no one Marcus has had a row with, say?’
Jaki thought for a moment. ‘There was this guy came round for a drink one night with his wife. Gavin Hodge – they’d known each other way back, and I think Gavin really hated him. His stupid wife kept flirting with Marcus, and told this story about Gavin getting paralytic and Marcus being a hero pulling him out of the water when he fell in and could have drowned. Gavin totally flipped and I was like, “Whoa! This is going to turn nasty,’’ because I could see Marcus getting stressed, but he changed the subject and it was OK, sort of.’
That was interesting. It sounded as if there might be a back story. ‘Do you know why they didn’t like each other?’ Kerr asked, but Jaki could only say feelingly that Gavin Hodge was the type you took an instant dislike to because it saved time.
‘That’s helpful, though,’ Kerr said encouragingly. ‘Anyone else you can think of?’
Jaki shook her head. ‘No. At least—’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s nothing, probably. But there was this phone call – some woman wanting Marcus to lie to the police, and he was annoyed – said he wouldn’t and he hated being manipulated.’
‘And you don’t know who, or why he was to lie to the police?’
Jaki shook her head again. ‘That’s all I remember. I can’t think of anything else at all.’ She sounded as if she’d had enough.
Kerr said hastily, ‘That’s brilliant – certainly enough for one morning,’ and went, leaving the girl to huddle again over the fire, alone with her thoughts.
‘You’re very quiet today,’ the chef in the catering truck said jovially to Karolina. ‘Don’t worry – they took the guy who did it away last night, you know.’
Karolina nodded. Her pink cheeks were still pale with shock, though. They’d said at first that Marcus Lindsay was dead, so what they said about the person who’d done it being arrested might not be true either. She could only hope that it was, because her first thought on hearing the news had been the look Kasper had directed at Marcus Lindsay after the chef warned him about his clumsiness, and the knife she had found in his pocket.
DS Macdonald, in charge of the teams working at Ardhill, had been having an unsatisfactory morning. They were going ahead with filming scenes involving minor characters for
Playfair’s Patch
.
Tony Laidlaw had been blunt. ‘You can make us pack it in, obviously. But if you let us go on filming, you’d be saving the taxpayer money for the dole. Marcus claims he’ll be fit tomorrow, and if we get this done now, and Miss Lascelles can manage a scene this afternoon, we may just be able to keep it on the rails.’
With some reluctance, Macdonald had agreed. As a result, witnesses being questioned were distracted and interviews had to be conducted in snatches – not that they had anything to say, except about the ruckus in the bar a couple of nights ago. As far as Macdonald could tell, there were no budding stars nursing an obsessive grievance about Lindsay’s success.
By the time DC Kerr arrived, Macdonald was thoroughly frustrated. ‘I hope you’ve had more luck,’ he greeted her. ‘None of this lot have anything to offer, and all the door-to-doors are bringing in is stories about Kevin Docherty being a villain, which is hardly news. Nothing about anything suspicious last night.’
‘I’ve got a lead,’ she said smugly. ‘Well, two, but I haven’t much to go on with the second one.’
She told him about the Hodges, and Macdonald looked around the cluttered street. A couple of DCs were having coffee at the catering truck, and he said, ‘I can leave them in charge and come with you, if you like.’
‘Just because you’re bored,’ she taunted him. ‘Say please nicely.’
‘Please nicely. OK? Your car or mine?’
DS MacNee stood on the sweep of gravel in front of Miramar and looked about him. He’d heard it was her that had the money, and if so this certainly suggested that she’d more of that than she had sense.
Its latest ambition was something looking like a boil on its bum, a small extra room with builders still working on it. The roof timbers were being put in place and MacNee recognized the man on the roof as one half of the fight yesterday. The other half, the older man, was installing a window frame.
They both noticed him and he saw recognition on the face of the lad on the roof; the older man, though, looked at him with dead eyes and turned back to his work.
A man wearing ash-grey chinos and a pink polo shirt with a crocodile on it answered the door. MacNee eyed the logo with contempt: he couldn’t understand why anyone over the age of six would want wee pictures on their clothes.
‘Mr Hodge? DS MacNee. Could I have a word?’
‘Police! Well, well – to what do I owe the honour?’ Hodge said with heavy jocularity. ‘Smash-and-grab raid on the souvenir shop in the village?’
It was overdone. The man was distinctly uneasy, MacNee noticed with sharpened interest. Marcus Lindsay had said he would warn the Hodges to expect a police visit about Ailsa Grant; had this unsettled him – or was there some darker reason?
‘Not exactly, sir,’ he said with elaborate patience. ‘May I come in?’
‘Come away, officer, come away!’ He bowed, and with a sweeping gesture ushered MacNee into the house. A door stood open on to a large conservatory, and Hodge took him through there. They both sat down.
‘What’s the problem?’ Hodge said.
‘I wonder if you’ve heard the news, Mr Hodge?’
‘News? No,’ Hodge said flatly, then, ‘I don’t know what news you may be talking about.’ It was a slightly odd thing to say.
‘Marcus Lindsay was attacked last night.’
‘Attacked? At Tulach House? Good lord! Burglary, was it? We’re like Fort Knox here, but I don’t suppose there’s a single modern lock in that house.’
He hadn’t asked if Lindsay was all right. It seemed a phoney reaction, but then the whole set-up here was phoney. ‘No, not a burglary. This was an attempt on Mr Lindsay’s life.’
‘Attempt?’ Hodge said. He looked taken aback and there was a pause before he said, ‘Er – well, it’s come to something when you’re not safe, even in a place like this!’
Again, MacNee was picking up strange vibes. ‘On his life?’ would be the natural question, not ‘Attempt?’ And surely ‘Is he all right?’ was next?
He didn’t ask it, though MacNee gave him the chance before he said, ‘We’re gathering background information. You and Mr Lindsay – old pals, are you?’
‘Known him a long time, yes.’
‘Someone’s got a grudge. Any idea who?’
Hodge had no suggestions. ‘Anything that might have set someone off?’ MacNee persisted. ‘Even if it was a long time ago?’
Who said he couldn’t do subtle? That brought it round nicely – but Hodge wasn’t playing ball, shaking his head and again looking blank.
That could only be deliberate, MacNee thought, unless you’d a space where your brain should be – though in this case that was a distinct possibility. Now Hodge was spreading his hands in a pantomime of openness.
‘Wouldn’t have the first idea, to be honest with you. We went over for a drink the other night – the wife thought it would be neighbourly, with him there for a week – but I hadn’t spoken to the man in years.’
‘Perhaps your wife might have more idea?’ MacNee suggested. ‘Is she—’
‘Staying with a friend in Glasgow.’
‘All on your own here, then – or have you family living at home?’ MacNee nodded towards a photograph on one of the side-tables – a young man, with a marked resemblance to Hodge himself, standing beside a yacht.
For some reason, this threw Hodge. He jumped, then stammered, ‘Er – no, not at all. My son’s away. New Zealand. On a farm working for a friend of mine.’
What on earth was that about? MacNee filed it away as he went on, ‘So you were here on your own last night?’
The man visibly collected himself. ‘Yes, that’s right. Watched a bit of sport on Sky, had a few beers. Of course, that was after I went over to Tulach and sank a knife in Marcus!’
He laughed. MacNee didn’t. ‘How did you know he was stabbed, sir?’ he said quietly.
‘You’ll like this place,’ Macdonald promised Kerr as they neared Miramar. ‘It’s like the Scottish parliament – cost a fortune and none of the bits relate to each other.’
As they turned into the drive, Kerr gaped. ‘See what you mean. That’s – that’s awesome. I like the novelty tarmac path there – meant to match the lawn, presumably, supposing the lawn was bright emerald. I can’t wait to meet the owners if this is their dream, not a nightmare.’
She was doomed to disappointment. There was no answer when they rang the bell.
‘There’s workmen round the side there,’ Macdonald said. ‘We can ask if they know where the Hodges are.’
‘Probably won’t speak English,’ Kerr pointed out. ‘Nearly all the builders around here are Polish.’
‘One of them does – I spoke to him before.’
They went round the side to the new building. The younger workmen looked up but went on working. The older man glanced round and came over.
They showed their cards. ‘We’re looking for the Hodges,’ Kerr said. ‘Do you know where they are, or when they’ll be back?’
‘She?’ He shrugged. ‘She went away yesterday – I don’t know. But he – I think you will know?’
He had a harsh, stern-looking face, but when he smiled he was quite good-looking, Kerr thought. She smiled back. ‘Why should we know?’
‘It is one of your own takes him away. A small man, a black leather jacket—’
Tam MacNee! The words ‘jammy bugger’ formed in a thought bubble over the detectives’ heads.
‘Er – took him away?’ Kerr asked delicately.
‘He is not happy. His face. Grey like his trousers.’ He was still smiling. Mr Hodge clearly was not popular.
One of the men guffawed and another was grinning broadly, though Kerr noticed that the one on the roof – seriously fit, that guy – was still doggedly hammering.
As they returned to the car, Kerr demanded, ‘How the hell did Tam get on to that? There wasn’t a mention of the Hodges at the briefing.’
Macdonald had the answer. ‘Sold his soul to the devil years ago. We’d better get back – there may be new instructions.’
‘ “Helping us with our enquiries” – I see. I’ll be right down, Tam. Well done.’
Fleming put the phone down, shaking her head in wonder. MacNee’s instinct was formidable. He’d cautioned not to expect too much, but she couldn’t help hoping.
On her way to the interview room she bumped into Macdonald and Kerr, just back from Ardhill.
‘Anything useful come up?’ she asked in passing.
‘Not at Ardhill, no,’ Macdonald said.
Kerr chimed in, ‘Boss, do you know if Tam MacNee’s brought Gavin Hodge in? They said he’d been taken away – we went there hoping to interview him.’
‘Did you, indeed? What put you on to him?’
‘Jaki Johnston said Hodge hated Lindsay – she didn’t know why, really.’
‘Thanks – that could be useful. I’m going to talk to Hodge now – he’s helping with enquiries.’
‘There was one other thing,’ Kerr said. ‘I asked her if Lindsay had been having problems with anyone else, and she said some woman wanted him to lie to the police and he wouldn’t.’
‘Lie to the police?’ Fleming was startled. ‘Any indication who it was?’
‘Sorry. That was all she knew.’
‘We were wondering,’ Macdonald put in, ‘how Tam thought of Gavin Hodge? It wasn’t mentioned at the briefing.’
Uncomfortably, Fleming said, ‘Oh, you know Tam. Has his methods,’ and hurried on. It looked as if they’d be going public with the cold case review sooner rather than later.
‘Thank you for finding the time, Ms Milne,’ Superintendent Bailey said, sitting down opposite the acting Procurator Fiscal in her office with its walls of box files, table with unstable piles of books and paper-cluttered desk. Bailey looked round disapprovingly. He liked a tidy desk himself – organized desk, organized mind.
‘Glad to see you, Superintendent. I’ve felt for some time we should have a chat about your problems.’
Her condescending manner made him want to slap her, but she wasn’t looking well. She looked tired, and the thick, glossy lipstick she always wore – another thing Bailey didn’t like – was too vivid, accentuating the pallor of her face.
‘I’m sure that would prove most enlightening. However, I’m afraid I have rather more urgent business than discussing your no doubt helpful suggestions.’ Bailey could condescend with the best of them. ‘The attack on Marcus Lindsay—’
He thought she coloured, but she said, ‘I was appalled to hear about it. And one of my deputes gathered from an officer of yours in court that someone appeared recently at the medical centre with a knife wound, but there has been no follow-up.
‘You seem to be presiding over an epidemic. What are you doing about it?’
Bailey’s teeth ground together. She was an advocate, of course, trained to think on her feet, return any attack and give nothing away. He was up against it here, but by God, he’d give it his best shot!