She flicked on the TV, then, after staring at it without seeing it for ten minutes, switched it off again. She’d made her choice to do what she thought was her duty, so she’d better go on and try to sort things out in her tired brain. It was preferable to thinking about the damage she’d done to her relationship with her son.
The suggestions Macdonald had made in the session this morning about the knife and the transport were ingenious explanations, but they were just that – ingenious. What she liked were straightforward explanations that clicked into place whenever you thought of them. And somehow, despite the hard evidence of fingerprints on the knife and the circumstantial evidence of Franzik’s previous attack on Pavany – and, indeed, Franzik’s resentment of Marcus Lindsay, if you threw that in as well – she was wretchedly unconvinced.
Shoes.
Fleming sat at her desk next morning looking at the report on the footprints round Tulach which Dr Madsen had emailed through.
They had to assume Franzik had assaulted Marcus Lindsay before killing Pavany. But the facts were there in front of her on the desk and, as Tam would have put it, ‘
facts are chiels that winna ding
’ – you can’t get away from them.
She had the size and make of the trainers Franzik wore in front of her. And she had the size and make of the trainers which had made the prints on the terrace – amazing what they could find out nowadays! – and they simply weren’t the same.
This, along with the knife problem, meant that the charge against Franzik was looking distinctly shaky now. She’d have to phone the acting Procurator Fiscal, who would be asking for Franzik to be remanded when he appeared in court this morning, and share her misgivings.
When she got through, Sheila Milne was dismissive. ‘As I understand it, the accused went for Pavany earlier that evening, and his prints were on the knife. You haven’t come up with anything that could allow us to charge him with the minor assault on Lindsay, and frankly, inspector, it’s irrelevant. Leave it alone. It’s only going to muddy the waters.’
‘But—’ Fleming said, and was cut short.
‘I’m due in court. Goodbye.’
Still trying to call the police off Lindsay, was she? The horse had bolted from that particular stable, though with all this going on, the checks on Milne would have to wait. But supposing . . . She’d more or less written Milne off the suspect list after Pavany’s murder, but what if the two really were unconnected and this had given the Fiscal a godsent opportunity to drop a case in which she herself was guilty?
Hold on! MacNee had said something – what was it? ‘She’s had a big extension put on her house . . .’ Coincidence, surely, and nothing to say she’d used Pavany’s gang. They could check it out, but come on!
Perhaps she was losing it completely; she was beginning to wonder what size Milne’s feet were. Fleming ran her fingers through her hair. She had more to do than indulge in wild speculation.
The other footprints, the ones in the shrubbery, were from well-worn Caterpillar boots. You could get them locally – Bill had boots like that. From their size, these might have been Franzik’s, but the report was quite definite: the person who had stabbed Lindsay was wearing the smaller trainers, not the boots.
She had an idea about that, but she had to put it to one side; the press officer was tapping her foot, waiting for a statement.
Shoes! There were too many pairs of shoes in this case.
Then, on a sudden thought, she picked up the phone and dialled the mortuary number. If the answer they gave her to the question she was going to ask confirmed what she thought, it would open up a whole new angle on the case.
The Force Civilian Assistant hovered on the edge of the CID room, clutching a print-out to her like a breastplate and blinking around helplessly.
There were three detectives working at computer stations; DS MacNee, in the middle of writing up reports, looked up hopefully, and spotting a chance to leave his desk, got up.
‘Looking for someone?’
‘Well – I reported to DI Fleming before, but apparently she’s not to be disturbed unless it’s urgent.’
MacNee beamed at her, then tempered his smile when he noticed her alarm. ‘No problem. I’ll deal with it. What’s it about?’
‘It’s a DNA test they did on Ailsa Grant’s baby,’ she said. They’ve found a sort of match.’
‘Have they? The wee dancers!’ Tam crowed. ‘Thanks, hen.’
The FCA scuttled away. Savouring the moment, MacNee took it back and began to read.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said aloud, almost to himself. ‘I did wonder about that.’
‘What?’ One of the other detectives looked up in mild irritation.
‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ MacNee said, but he didn’t go back to his report. He closed the file, seized his leather jacket from the back of the chair and went out.
Jaki Johnston woke slowly and gave a luxurious stretch. She was in her own wee room, warm and safe, with the huge teddy bear she’d had since she was six sitting in the kiddie chair she’d had since she was three, watching over her.
The house was silent. Mum and Dad and her brother must have tiptoed out to work so as not to wake her. She’d been completely wiped out when she got back and the planned clubbing hadn’t materialized; after a few drinks she’d been out on her feet and yesterday she’d spent half the day sleeping and the other half trying to stop her mother shovelling food down her because she was looking peaky.
This morning she felt fine. No bad dreams last night, head clear this morning because she’d stopped taking the pills.
Jaki went to shower, luxuriating in one that worked properly. The ones in Tulach House were antiques and tended to turn icy cold without warning. The whole Tulach experience had been totally unreal, so random she could hardly believe it had actually happened.
Then suddenly, in the way of these things, what she had been struggling to recall came back to her. It wasn’t very significant, after all. But probably, once she’d had breakfast – she was starving now – she’d better phone that nice inspector, just in case.
‘You again,’ Gavin Hodge said. He looked worried rather than angry.
His wife’s car wasn’t in the drive, and MacNee wondered if his previous anger had been staged for her benefit to show injured innocence.
‘Can I come in?’
MacNee’s grave, measured delivery successfully scared his victim. Hodge gave him a terrified look before taking him to the conservatory where they had talked before. MacNee, never averse to a little bit of theatre, had hoped he might do just that.
He didn’t sit down, stopping instead, apparently casually, just beside the table where the photo of the Hodges’ son stood.
‘We now have the DNA results from the child Ailsa Grant was carrying.’
Hodge sat down heavily. There was a greyish tinge to his florid complexion, but he tried to sound indifferent. ‘So? If you want a swab from me the answer’s no, unless you’ve a warrant.’
‘I don’t,’ MacNee said, and saw the man’s tense shoulders relax. ‘We don’t really need one, except for confirmation,’ and he took a malicious pleasure in seeing the tension return.
‘Don’t try playing silly games with me! Say what you mean and get out.’
‘It’s kind of a funny story.’ MacNee picked up the photograph. ‘You see, they’ve come up with quite a close match with one Russell Hodge, convicted of embezzlement three years ago. And the funny part of it is that according to our records, Russell would have been a baby himself at that time.
‘So it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? You and your wife are ashamed that your son’s got a criminal record, but he’s as much reason to be ashamed of you. More, maybe, if that was only the start of the damage you did to that poor girl.’
MacNee watched with clinical satisfaction as Hodge fell apart before his eyes.
‘I – I didn’t kill her.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Yes, all right, it was my child. But I swear to God, I didn’t harm her.’ He began to sob.
MacNee’s lip curled. ‘And why should I believe this, when you’ve told black lies about everything else?’
‘It was – it was all for Diane,’ Hodge snivelled. ‘I didn’t want to upset her. It happened so long ago, and she’s been through a lot with Russell – misses him terribly, you know, but he needed to make a new life—’
‘Spare me your son’s problems,’ MacNee said coldly. ‘And spare me the crap about your wife. She’s got the money, hasn’t she? You’ve been terrified all along she might find out about Ailsa. If she’d found out at the time, you’d have been out on your ear.’
Hodge took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘I never meant it to happen. I didn’t plan it, but Diane had the baby, you see, and not much time for me. I suppose I was lonely and Ailsa – well, she really came on to me and . . .’
MacNee didn’t try to conceal his contempt. ‘Oh, you’re just your mammy’s big tumphy! Next you’ll be telling me a big boy did it and ran away. So cut the sob stuff. Did you tell Ailsa you’d divorce Diane and marry her?’
‘Of course not!’ He was protesting vehemently, but his eyes were shifty. ‘Her getting pregnant was a mistake, that was all. There were no strings attached – Ailsa knew the score. We agreed she’d go home to her parents to have the baby, and I’d send money when I could. I was pretty broke – Diane’s dad had the money then.’
‘Why didn’t she have an abortion?’ MacNee asked bluntly. ‘Nothing I’ve heard so far suggests to me that she fancied being a single mother.’
Hodge was almost writhing now. ‘Maybe she was religious or something,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t know – we never talked about it.’
‘Funny, that, do you not think? Talked about you giving her a bit of money now and then – discreetly, of course, so as not to cause any trouble with your wife’s family – but you never discussed what she and that wee kid were to live on in between times? Listen, you little bastard—’ MacNee’s hands had curled into angry fists and he had to take a deep breath to stop himself using them. Childless himself, he was not entirely rational when it came to casual indifference to a child you had produced.
Hodge had shrunk away from him, back into his chair, and MacNee’s voice was still ragged with anger when he went on, ‘I tell you what it sounds like to me. It sounds a great motive for tipping the poor girl off a cliff. How did you persuade her to go with you that night? Say you were doing the decent thing, taking her away and planning the divorce later?’
‘No! No!’ Hodge cried. ‘It wasn’t like that. I never came near her. We’d a few phone calls, that was all, but I never came back here. I was in Glasgow when it happened. Can’t remember what I was doing, and I don’t suppose anyone else can, but you’re looking in the wrong place, so help me God.’
Did that have the ring of truth? The man had told so many lies and so many half-truths it was hard to tell. MacNee didn’t want to believe him, but there was no scrap of evidence to link this sordid man to Ailsa’s death. Yet.
MacNee stood up. ‘You’ll have to come in and make a formal statement. But not immediately,’ he added hastily, remembering Fleming’s instructions. ‘And no doubt you’ll gladly give a DNA sample then.’
‘Of course, of course. And – and can we keep this from my wife?’ Hodge was wringing his hands. ‘For her sake. It’s all a long time ago, and there’s nothing to be gained by distressing her.’
MacNee eyed him with disgust. ‘They really don’t come much lower than you, do they? Oh, I won’t make a point of telling her, but I won’t conceal it either. And of course if we end up charging you with murder it’ll be a bit of a giveaway.’
Leaving Hodge staring after him in consternation, he left the house. He glanced at the building round the side, its roof half finished and some of the window frames still empty.
MacNee snorted. The man hardly needed a steam room; he was in enough hot water already.
Fleming set down the phone. Ideas were starting to whirl in her mind, chaotic as yet, but she could see a way to order them, if she just had time to think.
The phone rang, and she swore. This better be important—
It was Jaki Johnston. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ she began, ‘but I thought of this silly tiny thing, and I just thought I’d better tell you.
‘The other day I went out into the street in Ardhill and I heard these men talking. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, and then I realized it was because they were speaking a foreign language. Then, just today, I remembered that the night Marcus was attacked, I’d heard someone shout something in a foreign language too. That’s all, really. I hope I haven’t bothered you for nothing.’
‘Of course not, Jaki. We need every scrap of evidence we can get. Was it the same language you heard the men speaking in the street?’
‘I wouldn’t have a clue. Just, it wasn’t French or German or anything.’
‘Right. Thanks, Jaki. And anything else you think of, don’t hesitate to phone.’
A new piece for the jigsaw, but where did it fit? Indeed, did it fit at all? Fleming sat back to think.
To keep down costs, Henryk and Jozef were interviewed together, big, solid young men, one fair, one dark, wearing identical expressions of polite interest as DS Macdonald’s questions were relayed through the interpreter. Neither seemed intimidated, even by DC Campbell’s coolly analytical gaze: it clearly hadn’t occurred to them that they could be suspects.