I smiled. ‘Not a fucking chance.’ I turned for the door, said, ‘Tell the police. Maybe they’ll haul us both in for a chat, Mrs Crawford.’
She turned her head slightly, removed a hand from her son’s shoulder and tucked a stray curl of hair behind her ear. I thought she might say something but she merely opened her mouth, almost imperceptibly, then closed it again.
‘Och, you don’t like that idea,’ I said. ‘Wonder why.’
Chapter 32
My docs were pounding off the pavement. I lit out before I was being cable-tied by plod in the Crawfords’ front yard. I could see it coming, this lot were playing for keeps. It was looking as if I was up against more than a connected family. No one acts that arrogantly in the face of damning evidence unless they’ve got some serious protection.
At the end of Ann Street I ran into the jolly-hockey-sticks brigade. A crowd of students, chinless Home Counties types, Oxbridge rejects up here to drink our bars dry of gin at mummy and daddy’s expense. They were acting up, playing slapsie and yaw-yawing at each swipe as it landed. As I waded through them I caught sight of a bloke tending his garden. He was in his element, lapping up their antics. It was the kind of metaphor for what Scotland had become that I didn’t want to see. I thought: This life I could not get used to. There might be comfort in reward, but what you had to sell to reach this level I wasn’t putting on the market. Ever.
A north wind T-boned me at the junction. Fastened my coat just as a Volvo estate pulled up. It was Katrina Crawford.
‘I didn’t mean to make you agitated,’ she said.
I almost laughed — when was I never? Said, ‘Oh no?’
She scanned the junction. A Tesco home delivery driver was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for her to pull out. ‘I’d really like to talk to you if that’s okay, Mr Dury.’
‘What about?’
The driver sounded his horn. The judge’s wife turned down the corner of her mouth, waved him away impatiently. ‘Would you like to get in?’
I didn’t answer that one; walked round the front of the car and opened the passenger’s door. I slumped in the seat and eyed her cautiously.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
We drove through the city, avoiding the main thoroughfares; it was a big car but she handled it effortlessly. Small chat was all I got from her, nonsense about the state of the roads since the trams work had gone ahead. I wanted to pull on the handbrake, say Cut the shit, but I sat back and observed her. Katrina Crawford wasn’t the type to show nerves. Likely she’d had too much practice at her New Town dinner parties to be fazed by a near-jakey like me.
She pulled the Volvo up outside the Parliament, took a slot in the car bays in Holyrood Park. ‘It seems nice out. Shall we go and sit by the swan pond?’
‘Okay.’
I played it cool, as cool as I could be. I wanted to grab her paisley-swirl pashmina, tighten it till she told me what the fuck was going on with her son and the murder of Tam Fulton, why I was being put in the frame for it and just what kind of a mug did she take me for?
As we walked through the park she yabbered; more small chat. ‘It’s so lovely here. They want to build on all the green belt now, though.’
‘Oh, I think Her Majesty wouldn’t be too chuffed with her view of the Craigs being interrupted. This patch of green’s safe enough… Some people in Edinburgh you just don’t mess with.’
She didn’t register a hit; politely smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘If it was up to me I’d be building on all the golf courses. Not that we need more developments in Edinburgh, but we do need fewer golf courses… everywhere. Do you play golf, Mrs Crawford?’
A wide smile. ‘Yes, a little. You can call me Katrina.’
We schlepped on, sticking to the path. Had a feeling we were being followed but there was no sign of it. I hadn’t met the plod yet that could manage to tail me without making himself known, so I put it down to paranoia, or the fact that I was getting jumpy.
My mind had been on Moosey. Swung the pendulum from being pissed off for getting me wrapped up in another below-radar city killing to something approaching sympathy. The more I imagined what must have been going on, the more I saw Moosey as a pathetic pawn.
Katrina took a seat on a bench by the side of the loch. ‘Here will do.’ A smile; fine lines formed at the sides of her mouth. She put her bag over her shoulder, asked me to sit.
‘I’d sooner stand.’
She didn’t respond, looked ahead.
The wind came sharp below the Craigs, whistling down over Saint Margaret’s Loch and smacking the senses. Made me feel like a drink, said, ‘Why don’t you tell me about Christine.’
She lost her composure, seemed less communicative. The strap of her bag fell from her shoulder. She watched it rest on the crook of her arm but didn’t move to correct it. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
I wasn’t either. I felt an inward wince that I’d raised the death of this woman’s daughter so abruptly. ‘I’m sorry… it must still be very painful for you.’
A weak smile. ‘No, it’s all right… I mean, yes, it’s still a fresh wound but I can talk about her. I loved my daughter.’
She seemed to suddenly tense up; her jawline firmed and tight muscles showed in her neck.
I said, ‘I understand.’
‘Do you?’
She turned to face me but I couldn’t hold her gaze. I dropped my eyes and ferreted for my cigarettes. I lit a tab, offered, but got a shake of the head.
‘We all know about loss, don’t we?’ I said.
‘After a certain age, Mr Dury… Christine was three years old when she was murdered.’ Katrina crossed her legs away from me, watched as a van from the SSPCA pulled up. Two workers got out and headed for the swans. It was business as usual whilst we delved into this woman’s hurt.
‘The man who killed Christine was a common criminal. How can you defend him?’ She put the emphasis on ‘common’. I didn’t like the way she used the word.
‘I’m not defending him. But if I was, I’d remind you murder is murder, Katrina… Your husband knows the law of this land better than me. Hasn’t he pointed that out to you?’
She looked offended, eyes widening. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that remark.’
I put a foot on the bench, leaned over her. ‘Well, let me spell it out for you… I saw Mark at the murder scene and I wasn’t the only one.’
‘What?’
‘The police had a witness, an old derelict who was living on the hill, who saw Mark there too. I found him and he was ready to make a statement when he was run down in the street like a dog. Someone killed him, and I’ve good reason to believe that someone is connected to your son.’
She turned on me; her eyes darkened. She spat, ‘That’s crap!’
I let down my foot, flicked the ash from my tab, said, ‘I think you and I both know it isn’t, Katrina. I think you and your husband should think very carefully about how you are protecting Mark.’ I showed her my back, started off in the direction I’d come from. The SSPCA lot had been joined by a pumping lorry from Scottish Water.
‘Wait,’ called out Katrina.
I halted.
She came running. ‘What do you mean by that?’
I looked down the road, then at my watch, said, ‘Time’s running out for your son… He’s up to his neck in the murder of two men and one way or another the truth is going to come out.’
