Their Final Act Page 9

  'How will I know what's pertinent to your enquiries?'

  Morag was definitely making fun of him, he thought. 'You won't, necessarily. And we might not, at this stage. Sometimes things that seem trivial at the time turn out to be significant later. If you see what I mean.' He knew he was on the point on descending into gibberish. 'So, really, anything you can remember.'

  She nodded solemnly. 'That makes sense. He arrived here around six like you say. I didn't register the time particularly, but it was early in the evening. We open the doors at seven, so people can have a drink or two. Then the acts normally go on around eight or eight thirty, depending on how many people we've got on the bill. We normally have more than two, but McGuire and Maggie Laing were both biggish names in their different ways, so we didn't want to dilute the bill too much. Drew comperes and usually kicks off with an introductory set to warm the audience up. McGuire went on about eight thirty and did an hour. We had a break and then Maggie took us through till just before eleven.'

  Carlisle had already noted she called McGuire by his surname and Laing by her forename, and wondered whether that was significant. 'What did McGuire do between getting here and going on stage?'

  'To be honest, he arrived a bit earlier than we'd expected. We encourage acts to get here in plenty of time so we're not fretting about whether they're going to turn up or not. We've had one or two who've cut it fine or even been late, which doesn't do a lot for our blood pressure. At one point, McGuire had got himself a reputation for unreliability so I think he's keen to prove a point these days.' She stopped. 'Sorry. Was keen, I suppose.'

  Carlisle was momentarily tempted to make a joke about the late Jimmy McGuire, but recognised this wasn't the moment. 'So what did he do between his arrival and going on stage?'

  'Not a lot. The other worry we have when acts arrive early is that they might hit the bar. You'd be surprised by how many acts like a drink or two before they go on. Mostly, it's okay. Loosens them up a bit. But we've had the odd one who's had a dram or two too many, and believe me it showed. We were worried about McGuire, given his previous reputation, but he stuck to fizzy water all evening as far as I could see. When he first got here, he was asking if there was anywhere he could get a snack. Reckoned he didn't like to eat too much before going on so just wanted a sandwich. The local cafés were mostly shut by that time, so I sent someone to get whatever they had left at the Co-op.'

  'And after that?'

  'Jimmy sat around in the bar for a while. As far as I could see, he didn't say much to anyone, apart from, you know, exchanging pleasantries.'

  'Anything else?'

  There was a noticeable hesitation this time. 'Not really.'

  Carlisle had been briefed in advance by Ginny Horton. 'Maggie Laing said he spent a bit of time talking to you.'

  'Me?'

  'That's what she said. Do you remember what he talked to you about?'

  'I…' She looked less confident than at the start of the conversation, Carlisle thought. 'Yes, you're right. He did. I look after the admin here. I help Drew with the bookings, and do stuff like organising hotels if the acts need them, arranging taxis. That kind of thing. McGuire came up to me and complimented me on the choice of hotel. They pay their own costs, but we try to find them inexpensive places that are a bit friendlier than the chain hotels. We've got an arrangement now with the one where McGuire and Maggie Laing stayed. It's a comfortable place and they do a decent breakfast.'

  'You said he began by complimenting you about the hotel. Anything else?' Carlisle was beginning to sense that her blether was keeping something back.

  She was silent for a moment. 'Aye, there was, if I'm honest. It started with him getting a bit too close, if you get my drift. Then it felt as if what he was really trying to do was chat me up. It wasn't what he said to start with, it was just the tone.'

  'Maggie Laing said something similar apparently.' Carlisle wasn't sure whether he should say that, but he had the sense Bruce might need a little encouragement.

  'That right? Doesn't surprise me. But I bet Maggie had the sense to tell him to bugger off. I'm my own worst enemy. I went along with it for a bit. You know, flirting. It's just what I tend to do with the male punters. Flatters them a bit, and makes them feel good about the place. But they mostly realise I'm not serious.'

  'And McGuire didn't?'

  'No. Or at least he pretended not to. To give himself an excuse to push it a bit further, you know? Pestered me about what I was doing later in the evening. If I fancied going for a bite to eat with him. I said I couldn't, that I had to stay here clearing up afterwards. Which is true. He got a bit more pushy. Said he'd clear it with Drew. I said that wasn't the point, that it was my job.' She hesitated, and Carlisle realised that she had something more to tell him.

  'Go on.'

  'He got even pushier then, and it felt a bit nasty. He didn't quite say it in so many words, but he hinted that, if I didn't say yes, he'd tell Drew it was me who'd come on to him – to McGuire, I mean.' She took a breath. 'That I'd offered my services to him, if you like, for a fee.'

  Carlisle could feel himself blushing again. 'You're kidding.'

  'No. I mean, like I say, it wasn't as explicit as that. He knew if I tried to make a scene about it he could claim he'd been misunderstood. But that's what he was suggesting.'

  'What did you do?'

  'Just very quietly told him to fuck off. Then I told him, if he tried anything more, I'd tell Drew exactly what he'd said, word for word, and Drew could judge for himself. And that if I knew Drew, he'd make sure everyone on the Scottish circuit knew exactly what McGuire was like.'

  'Good for you. What was McGuire's reaction?'

  'He looked baffled. Said he didn't know what the hell I was talking about. Then he turned and went off to his dressing room and I didn't see him again after that. Thank Christ.'

  'Did you say anything to Drew – Mr Douglas, I mean?'

  'I did afterwards. In case McGuire tried anything. But Drew and I go back a way. We trust each other. I just wanted to make sure it was all out in the open.'

  Carlisle nodded. 'Mr Douglas didn't mention this when we spoke to him this morning.'

  'It was all something and nothing, really. McGuire had always had a bit of a reputation as a womaniser.'

  'This is a bit more than a chat up though, isn't it?' Carlisle said. 'This was harassment.'

  She smiled. 'Most of us women are more than accustomed to that. Especially in an environment like this. We know how to deal with it.'

  'You shouldn't have to,' Carlisle pointed out.

  'Has anyone ever told you how sweet you are? I wish I was a few years younger.'

  'I–' Carlisle had opened his mouth but couldn't think how to finish the sentence.

  'The other reason Drew didn't say anything,' she went on, ignoring Carlisle's increasingly reddening face, 'is that he was a bit afraid it might make us look like suspects.'

  'Suspects?' Carlisle said, relieved to be scrambling back onto safer conversational ground.

  She shrugged. 'I know. It's daft, isn't it? But Drew's a bit paranoid. He thought this gave us a possible motive for wanting to harm McGuire. I said to him you don't kill someone just because they've tried it on.'

  Carlisle could think of murders committed for more trivial motives, but nodded. 'Even so, I suppose I should ask you and Mr Douglas if you can account for your movements after the end of Mr McGuire's set last night.'

  Her eyes opened wide. 'You don't seriously think–'

  'Just for elimination purposes. We'll be asking everyone here the same.'

  'I was behind the bar all evening. Drew was coming and going like he does, making sure everything's running smoothly. Then, like I say, we make sure we've cleared up at the end of the evening. We close the bar at eleven, so it's usually after midnight before we've got everything sorted. Think last night it was about twelve thirty before we got finished.'

  'Who was here then?'

  'Drew and me, along with
a couple of the bar staff.'

  Carlisle nodded. They didn't yet have a confirmed time of death for McGuire, so this didn't entirely let Morag Bruce or Drew Douglas off the hook, but he accepted Bruce's view that McGuire's behaviour at the club was hardly the motive for a garrotting. Both Douglas and Bruce had said they hadn't seen McGuire after his set, but no one else had so far been able to confirm his departure time. 'Anything else you can tell me? Did you see McGuire talking to any of the customers?'

  Morag shook her head. 'Not really. He was still in the bar when we opened up, but it was pretty quiet at first. I didn't really see him after that, except on stage.'

  'Thanks for your time, Ms Bruce. We may want to talk to you again as the enquiry progresses, but that's fine for the moment.'

  'I hope you don't really think that me and Drew might have–'

  He held up his hand in the way he used to when controlling traffic. 'We don't think anything yet. It's very early days in the investigation and we're just gathering as much information as we can. The most important thing is that people are open with us.'

  'Okay,' she said. 'We'll do whatever we can to help. Apart from anything else, it doesn't do the club's reputation much good if an act literally dies on us.'

  'They reckon any publicity's good publicity.'

  'Let's hope so,' Morag Bruce said. 'Because I've got a feeling that there's going to be plenty coming our way.'

  15

  Jane wasn't sure what to call the meal. Netty Munro called it dinner, because she was English and, truth be told, just a bit posh. Jane would normally have called it tea or supper, but then she wouldn't normally have been part of a group that ate as late as this. And she wouldn't normally have been eating this kind of food.

  Munro had insisted that it was just a simple dinner, but it wasn't like anything that Jane was accustomed to. She'd had stews before, of course. She remembered her mother cooking stews sometimes using the cheapest cuts of meat, which they could still afford only occasionally. They'd been a treat then, and she'd enjoyed them. But they'd been thin and watery and flavourless compared with what she was eating now, bulked out with potatoes and whatever other cheap veg they could get their hands on.

  This food was nothing like that. This was a rich casserole, heavy with red wine and aromatic with herbs and other flavourings she'd never tasted before. There was an edge there that she assumed was from the juniper berries that Munro had mentioned. And on top of it was a light but flavoursome crust, which Munro had said was a cobbler made from some local smoked cheese. There were boiled new potatoes and a selection of vegetables, only some of which were recognisable to Jane. Most unexpectedly of all, there was wine served with the meal.

  This was something else that Jane had never really encountered, though she knew it was normal enough. Her dad and Iain had both been beer drinkers, but that had just been something they knocked back as much as they could, whether or not there was food involved. Quantity, not quality. And any other booze they could get their hands on. It had killed her father, and it would kill Iain, not that she cared about that.

  Wine in a nice-looking glass over dinner was something else again. Something she'd never expected would be part of her life. But there she was, sitting out on the decking, working her way through a rich venison casserole with a glass of rosé sitting, beaded with condensation, beside it.

  When Munro had offered her a choice of wines, Jane hadn't known what to say. She'd assumed she wouldn't like wine anyway – she'd never cared for beer – so she thought it probably wouldn't matter. She picked the rosé mainly because it looked the prettiest, and Munro had nodded as if in approval at her choice, although Jane noted that she'd subsequently been drinking red wine.

  But Jane was happy with her choice. With the first sip, she'd been unsure, finding the wine sharper and less sweet than she'd expected. But then she detected the flavours and aromas that people always talked about – something floral, something more fruity like strawberries, she thought. By her third or fourth sip, she'd decided that she really did like this drink after all.

  She was still feeling uncomfortable here, though her discomfort was lessening with every mouthful of wine. She, Elizabeth and Alicia had been joined by another guest for the meal, a middle-aged woman called, rather unexpectedly to Jane, Henry Dowling. Munro had explained that Henry was really short for Henrietta, but Jane still couldn't understand why someone would choose to saddle themselves with a man's name. Like Netty Munro, Dowling was English and posh, so Jane had decided it was just one of those eccentricities that the posh English are prone to, like shooting grouse and choosing to holiday in Scotland when they could clearly afford to go anywhere.

  'Henry and I go back years,' Munro had explained. 'We used to perform together in the early days. Henry was much more talented than I was.'

  Dowling had raised an eyebrow. 'But Netty was much more successful,' she said. 'So go figure.' She was a tall slender woman, with long black hair and pale skin. She might have been a hippy in her day, Jane thought. Certainly that was still how she was dressed tonight, in a long brightly coloured dress that reminded Jane of clips she'd seen on TV of 1960s fashions.

  'You just never sold out the way I did,' Munro countered. 'I chased the dollar, not even particularly successfully, while you held on to your integrity.'

  'If you say so, dear,' Dowling laughed. It was clear to Jane that the two women were fond of one another, for all their jibes. She wondered where Dowling lived. She'd arrived on foot, so presumably somewhere nearby. It seemed odd that she and Munro had ended up living in the same small Highland village.

  The weather had remained fine, and Munro had arranged for them to eat out on the decking at the rear of the house. As they'd sat down to eat, the sun had been low over Ben Wyvis, the Cromarty Firth dazzling gold in the low sunlight. The landscape over the firth was hazy, the patchwork of fields and trees pale in the early evening. As they sat eating, the sun's last crimson gradually disappeared behind the mountain, leaving the sky translucent in the gloaming. The whole scene was more beautiful than anything Jane had seen before.

  As the evening drew on, it remained warm enough to sit outside. They finished the meal with a rhubarb crumble made with fruit grown on the farm. This was food that Jane at least loosely understood, but there were still flavours she didn't recognise. Fresh ginger, Munro had suggested, and some other spices. After the dessert, she had produced a cheeseboard laden with what she said were all local cheeses. Some of the others sampled them, but Jane found the array intimidating and, already full, she was content simply to sip a cup of coffee. Even that, she realised, wasn't the instant stuff she'd drunk all her adult life, but something different – richer, sharper, leaving small granules in her mouth. She'd had enough of the wine not to worry too much and simply accepted the experiences that life was, for the moment at least, throwing in her direction.

  Elizabeth and Alicia had been unexpectedly quiet all evening. Jane had assumed that Elizabeth would use an occasion like this to demonstrate her superior understanding of this type of lifestyle, but she'd largely sat in silence, other than to respond to direct questions. Munro had clearly been doing her best to engage Alicia in conversation, but for the most part Alicia too had seemed content merely to participate passively in the exchanges between Munro and Dowling. She'd looked relaxed enough, Jane had thought. Unlike Elizabeth who, even in her silence, had managed to convey an air of resentment at having to be part of the dinner.

  As the sky slowly grew dark, Munro had risen and disappeared into the house, returning a few moments later carrying two guitar cases. Dowling shook her head. 'Oh, Christ, darling, you're not going to inflict that on your poor guests?'

  'They've got to earn their supper somehow,' Munro said. 'Anyway, I need the practice. You and I haven't played together for too long.'

  Dowling gave a mock sigh and then took one of the guitar cases. The two women moved their chairs back from the table, and removed the guitars from their cases. After a few moment
s spent tuning the instruments, Munro began to play.

  For Jane, the effect was magical, a culmination of everything she'd enjoyed during the evening. She didn't recognise the tune and had no idea whether or not Munro was a skilled player. The music began with a repetitive finger-picked figure but then Jane could feel the melody growing more complex, Munro's fingers moving with increasing rapidity across the fretboard.

  After a few moments, Dowling nodded, recognising the tune, and played, adding a further level of complexity. 'I'll do this in Henry's honour,' Munro said. 'One of her favourites.'

  Munro explained to Jane afterwards that the song was a traditional Scottish ballad which she sang as "Auchanachie Gordon and Lord Saltoun" though it was better known to contemporary folksingers as "Annachie Gordon" from a version recorded by an English singer called Nic Jones. Dowling had loved that version and always included it in her acoustic sets but had gradually reverted to the Scottish title and words. Jane hadn't really understood that, given that both Munro and Dowling were themselves English, but Jane decided it was just another of those eccentricities.

  The song itself she found utterly entrancing. She wasn't entirely able to follow it on that first hearing, but it was a sad tale about a young woman forced by her father to marry some nobleman rather than her true love. The story had ended badly, with the true love returning from a voyage to find the woman had died on the day of her marriage. Jane hadn't been sure whether that was really better or worse than if he'd arrived home to find her alive but married to someone rich and powerful. It sounded like a tragedy either way. There was something about the story that, oddly, resonated with Jane. Not that she'd ever been forced to marry a nobleman or was ever likely to be. But she knew about being forced into marriage with someone she hadn't even liked. She wondered if things might have been easier if she'd simply dropped dead on her wedding day. Mind you, she thought, the registrar would have been pretty pissed off.