Trapped and tackled, p.10
The Party House, page 10
But how the hell had she got there?
He forced himself to think back to that night, aware that he should have talked to Caroline sooner. Got their story straight again, before the police started their interviews.
He tried to recall what exactly he’d said last time, because no doubt they would have the records of all those interviews from five years ago as the case had never been closed.
Did they still have the DNA records of every man in Blackrig? Or was it not the case that, if you weren’t convicted of a crime, they had to remove your profile from the DNA database in Scotland?
He realized that it didn’t matter, because they would simply do the tests again. And fingerprints, of course.
Colin had said that Harry thought they’d got trace evidence of her attacker from the remains. And five years, he reminded himself, was a long time in the world of forensics. God knows what they could do now.
Arriving at the village hall, he joined a line of vehicles parked outside, most of which he recognized. Across the road, the village car park was busy too, with holidaymakers’ cars and a couple of campervans.
The Scottish schools had broken up at the end of June; the English wouldn’t until the third week in July. So he had to assume for the moment that the tourist traffic was mainly from other parts of Scotland.
No doubt more folk would come, if or when the discovery of the body made it into the mainstream media. With no TV or radio at Beanach, maybe the news was already out there and he just hadn’t heard it.
It was too late now to check online. He would have to do that later.
He suddenly recalled walking in unexpectedly on Joanne earlier, when she’d been at her laptop. She’d undoubtedly been surprised, maybe even displeased to see him, but had managed to cover it. Might she have been checking online to see if the discovery of the body had already made the news?
As he parked, he chastised himself for doubting her again. After all, he’d been the one to screw up today, not Joanne.
The double front doors of the hall being firmly closed, he made for the back entrance. A uniform he didn’t know was at the door and checked his name off a list.
Glancing into the main hall, he saw the rows of seats set out just as they’d been on the night of the council meeting to discuss the Party House reopening. This time, however, the seats were occupied by males only, all local.
Some concerned faces glanced out at him and he wondered if he was meant to join them, before the police officer motioned him into the smaller of the two back rooms.
‘DI Snyder wants to see you right away.’
Why me? he thought, his stomach turning over.
The wee back room was normally used for meetings between Malcolm and folk who wanted to discuss problems that the community council might help with. He’d had a few meetings in here with Malcolm himself, which generally ended up in the pub, where the problem was usually solved.
On entering that familiar place, he found Snyder and a woman detective, he assumed, seated together behind a table, a single seat for an interviewee in front.
They were talking about something, and Snyder was laughing at whatever the woman had last said. It was strange to hear Snyder laugh, he thought. Especially since the detective was, in his eyes at least, already the devil incarnate.
Suddenly spotting Greg standing hesitant in the doorway, Snyder resumed his police officer expression and beckoned him in.
‘Mr Taylor. This is Detective Sergeant Reid.’
Now that she was in full rather than side view, Greg registered an attractive woman, more than likely younger than him, with cropped blonde hair and steady brown eyes. As she mutually studied him, his first thought was that if she was already a detective sergeant in her mid-twenties, she was good at her job. So double trouble now on the interviewing front.
Snyder’s voice brought him back to the task in hand.
‘First, I’d like to check a few details with you?’
Greg nodded, as though he had a choice in the matter.
‘Your name is Greg Taylor. You are head keeper on the Blackrig Estate and currently live at Beanach, about a mile outside Blackrig?’
Greg nodded again. ‘Yes.’
‘I’d like you to repeat your story regarding the discovery of human remains in the grounds of Ard Choille.’
Expecting to have to talk about the night Ailsa had disappeared, Greg was slightly thrown by the request to tell that story again, before remembering he had it off pat. Plus there might still be time to talk to Caroline about their story of five years ago, before he was asked to give it.
Relaxing, he repeated what he’d said before, noting at the same time that the female officer was listening intently.
When he’d finished, she was the first to ask a question.
‘I understand there was bad feeling in the village about Ard Choille? Can you explain why?’
She must know this already, he thought, so why did he have to repeat it?
He gritted his teeth and gave a potted version of the virus story.
Her face, he saw, visibly changed when he told the stark truth about the deaths of five of the village children, plus their district nurse. Then she said, ‘And this bad feeling was evident at the meeting earlier in the village hall?’
‘People were emotional, yes.’
‘That must have been awkward for you, being an employee of the estate?’
Greg could feel it still, the growing animosity in the hall, the angry glances thrown his way. Nevertheless, he said, ‘I’m only an employee. I have no control over when the owners open Ard Choille.’
She nodded, as though accepting that, before she posed the next question.
‘What happened when the group of young men arrived?’
So, someone had already told her about that, he thought, wondering who, and what exactly had been said. He decided to keep his answer general.
‘Everyone was angry. They just joined in that anger.’ Which was true enough.
‘I understand you and your apprentice left at that point?’ she said.
Who the fuck had given them the full story? It wouldn’t have been Malcolm, that was for certain. He would definitely have played it low key, not wishing to point the finger at anyone.
‘We had stuff on, and we weren’t doing any good there anyway.’
‘What stuff?’ Snyder immediately asked.
‘We’ve had reports of poachers in the area.’
God, shut up, he thought. What if they asked Colin the same question and got a different answer?
‘Plus,’ he added, this time sticking to the truth, ‘as estate employees, we were becoming a distraction.’
Snyder came in then. ‘Do you have any idea who might have destroyed the hot tub?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Greg said firmly.
Snyder seemed to accept that and, with a nod to his colleague, said, ‘We’d like to talk to you now about Ailsa Cummings. How well you knew her and what you remember about the night she disappeared.’
And there it was. The words he’d been dreading.
‘You believe the body you found is Ailsa?’ he heard himself say.
‘That’s still to be confirmed.’
But Greg knew by the detective’s demeanour that they were already certain.
He hesitated, reminding himself internally to say little and to not elaborate. ‘It was five years ago,’ he began. ‘And I said it all in my last statement.’
‘Nevertheless, we’d like to go over it with you again,’ Snyder said. ‘But first Detective Sergeant Reid would like to take a mouth swab, if that’s acceptable to you, Mr Taylor?’
He’d been expecting this all along, just not at this precise moment. It seemed it was Snyder’s forte to lead a suspect down one path, only to surprise and unnerve them by suddenly taking another.
It was obvious that he couldn’t refuse such a request, although every fibre in his body wanted to.
‘Of course,’ he heard himself say.
He almost gagged as she poked the cotton bud into his mouth, all the while thinking that they had to have got DNA from Ailsa’s body.
Which would be bad news for him.
Joanne
It was as though there were multiple Gregs. The smiling funny one on their trip out today and the frighteningly angry one in the Land Rover.
And what about the sensual one? She and Greg were well matched sexually. He was as rough as she wanted, but also tender. Was liking two out of the three versions enough to stick around, even for a good story?
She was still trying to work out why his mood had changed so rapidly.
His anger hadn’t been directed at her. That she was sure about. It was all to do with the radio call. He’d told her last night how much he hated Stratton and what was going on at Ard Choille. Might the call have been from Stratton?
If so, surely he would have headed for the Party House rather than downhill towards the village?
At that moment an alternative scenario presented itself. What if the call was from Caroline? Something was definitely going on between the two of them. What that thing was, she had no idea, but it was strong enough that he’d chosen to tell Caroline that the body was likely Ailsa’s. Something he hadn’t wanted to confide in her.
Not for the first time did she consider what the obvious bond between them might be. Just old friends or former lovers? Or might it be something directly related to the dead girl?
According to newspaper reports, Ailsa had been seventeen when she’d disappeared from Blackrig. Greg would have been in his mid-twenties back then. When she’d asked if he’d known Ailsa, he’d responded by saying of course he had, because everyone knew everyone else in Blackrig. But he hadn’t known the girl well, because she was younger than him.
Caroline had said that she and Greg had gone to school together, so presumably they were around the same age. Yet Greg had told her that Caroline had been a close friend of the teenage Ailsa. A woman in her mid-twenties best friends with a seventeen-year-old girl? Was that likely? Not in a city, but in a small village perhaps?
Then again, if Ailsa had been a real friend, shouldn’t Caroline have been traumatized by the possibility that she’d been murdered and buried in the grounds of Ard Choille, rather than triumphant that Greg had contacted her, yet apparently his latest girlfriend didn’t know?
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Greg wasn’t being altogether straight with her on his relationship with Caroline, and maybe even Ailsa.
What was it Kath had said? It’ll be bad here again. Especially for Greg.
Had that been a coded message about a possible involvement between Greg and the missing girl? Or was it because the body was found on the estate and Greg, being an employee of Global Investment Holdings, would be put in a difficult position?
Fetching the telescope from the house, she checked out the village in case there might be evidence there as to why he’d headed in that direction.
Seeing three police vehicles, plus a line of parked cars outside the village hall, Greg’s Land Rover among them, she surmised that the reason for his rage was most likely to do with the investigation.
Had Greg been summoned to the hall? Was that what had so incensed him?
It was as likely an explanation as any other, she decided.
Having intended going back to work on her article, she now considered an alternative way to spend the afternoon.
Caroline’s sudden appearance at the so-called fairy glen had stopped her plans to photograph the carvings there, to illustrate her Blackrig article. She would walk back and do that now, she decided. Plus she also wanted to check out the village cemetery for the graves of the children and the nurse who’d died during the pandemic, an essential aspect of the story of the Party House and the villagers’ animosity towards it.
Setting off down the hill, she added a further possibility to her afternoon itinerary.
Kath Webster had seemed quite happy to chat to her earlier. Maybe her best bet was to call in at Kath’s in the hope she might gain even more information about the comings and goings of the folk of Blackrig, including Caroline and Greg.
A small feeling of guilt nibbled away at her as she walked. Greg had welcomed her into his home and his life. Despite the fact he’d never imagined she would take him up on his offer to come here.
Yet here she was, digging into his present and his past. For what?
I have trust issues, she told herself. Especially with men.
But not all men are like him, she reminded herself.
Just as she reached the entrance to the woods, she spotted the post van climbing the hill towards her. Was it heading for the Party House or Beanach?
The answer presented itself as the post van drew up alongside her and the window rolled down.
‘Joanne Addington?’ a female voice asked.
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I have a package for you. I can drop it at the house, or—’
‘I’ll happily take it here,’ Joanne said. ‘Save you the trip.’
The supplier had promised discretion, with no outward signs as to what the small parcel might contain. As it was passed out of the open window, she hoped the guarantee had been kept.
Trying to appear nonchalant, she slipped the package into her jacket pocket.
‘Great weather for your stay,’ the postie said. ‘Have a nice holiday.’
Doing a swift three-point turn, the van then headed back towards the village.
Taking refuge in the woods, her heart pounding, Joanne waited until she was well out of sight of the road before she examined the package. It was impossible to tell what it contained, she decided, and luckily, since it hadn’t been delivered to the house, she need not field any possible questions from Greg.
The next task would be to use it. She found herself recoiling at such a thought. Since the odd performance of her stomach in the house at Forrigan, she’d felt okay. Yet still the concern haunted her.
She would take a test and prove herself right.
But what if you’re wrong?
She had weeks to sort that out, her inner voice replied. And the longer she stayed up here, the further she would be from his view.
The saddest part of all of this, she admitted to herself as she chose the path which led to the fairy glen, was that the longer she stayed, the bigger the web of lies would become.
Greg
Finally told he could go, a shaken Greg emerged to stand in full view of the forest path, which was the last place Ailsa had been seen alive. He wondered if the fire exit was being used as a memory jogger for the innocent or a way of triggering fear in the guilty.
DI Snyder, he now knew, did nothing without careful consideration.
So what had the detective thought of his performance? And what about his sidekick, DS Reid? Greg had been as uncomfortable under her gaze as he had with Snyder. His gut feeling was that DS Reid also had a keen nose for a liar.
And he’d definitely been one of those.
He made a call to Colin when he reached his vehicle. The speed with which it was answered didn’t bode well.
‘Where are you? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.’ Colin’s voice rose in the way it did when he was more than a little freaked.
‘I’ve just been interviewed at the hall,’ Greg said as calmly as he could.
A horrified silence followed, before Colin said, ‘About finding the body or five years ago?’
‘Both,’ Greg said. ‘If, or when, they get round to talking to you, just stick with our story.’
‘Okay.’ Colin sounded doubtful.
‘The murder inquiry takes precedence now and you weren’t around when she disappeared, so relax,’ Greg added for emphasis. ‘Are you still at the Bothy?’
‘I’m on the hill with Stratton and the other bloke. They decided to go hunting after all and he wasn’t well pleased when you weren’t available. I told him you were still organizing things with the police.’
Greg didn’t openly congratulate him, but he hoped Colin could tell by his voice that he’d done well.
‘How is it going?’ he said.
‘Okay. Stratton moans a lot.’ There was a pause, then in a cheerier voice Colin said, ‘Were you and Joanne up here at the hide?’
‘We were,’ Greg admitted. ‘How’d you guess?’
‘Someone’s been at the whisky.’
‘A giveaway,’ Greg agreed. ‘Can you continue to hold the fort? I’m going to have a word with Malcolm about the ceilidh tonight. Caroline and I had agreed to help in the bar.’
‘Can Stratton sack me?’ Colin suddenly asked.
‘Over my dead body,’ Greg assured him.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Colin said grimly.
It was Greg’s job to hire and fire his assistant ghillies, but Stratton might well decide to challenge him on that. If he did, that would be the last straw, he decided. If Colin went, so would he.
If you are still a free man, he reminded himself.
The front door to the pub stood open in the sunshine, the four outside tables occupied by visitors. Stepping into the dimmer interior, he found more tourists.
The sound of their chatter was both a pleasure and a sad reminder of the endless months of lockdown, when the hotel had been closed. Malcolm had dealt with the situation by keeping on his staff, cooking for those who were housebound or shielding, and doing up the main room in the pub.
He’s done a good job too, Greg thought, as he made his way over to the bar, where Malcolm was pulling a pint for a customer.
Spotting him, Malcolm told Greg to head through to the kitchen. ‘Help yourself to a coffee.’ He turned to Karla. ‘You can manage on your own for a bit?’
Karla smiled. ‘No problem.’ Originally from Denmark, she’d come over to work in Blackrig one summer before the pandemic and had decided to stay.
Greg poured two mugs of coffee from the machine and took a seat at the big kitchen table. During lockdown, he, among many others, had picked up the hot food deliveries Malcolm and Karla had prepared, and distributed them around the village and its surrounds.
