Chapter 4.06
With everyone squeezed into the kitchen it seemed much smaller than last time.
Abercrombie and Roberta sat at opposite ends of the table, while Lund and Barrett loomed. Owen winced – half bent over the work surface, rubbing at his back. And Tufty made a round of teas for everyone.
Roberta tapped a fingertip on the tabletop. ‘Before we drag you back to the station, you want to tell us why you did it?’
‘Did what?’ Abercrombie gazed out the window, into the darkness, avoiding her gaze. He was a bit . . . lopsided in his seat, smeared with green stains; a welt on one cheek and bits of grass sticking out of his hair. They’d shifted his handcuffs around to the front.
Well, it made things cosier.
‘She was twenty-one, Frank. Whole life ahead of her.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘Megan’s mum and dad’ve been worried sick, but now? Can you imagine what they’re going through?’
His head drooped. He dragged in a ragged breath. And cried.
And cried.
And cried.
Tufty plonked a mug in front of Roberta, then placed one in front of Abercrombie, before handing out the others.
Her tea was lovely and hot, but not a wisp of steam rose from Abercrombie’s. Looked disturbingly milky too – so pale it was almost white. Because a scalding-hot beverage could be a formidable weapon in the wrong hands. And while the wee loon might be daft, he wasn’t stupid.
Made a nice cuppa too.
Roberta took a sip, keeping her voice all calm and casual. ‘Did she call you back? Lady Fordyce?’
The tears snivelled and sniffed to a stop.
A bland smile. ‘Can’t be easy, after all these years, Frank. Giving everything. Fixing their messes.’
‘Oh, you don’t know the half of it.’ Scrubbing at his eyes – not easy in cuffs, but he managed.
‘Messes like Megan Lockheart?’
Silence.
Everyone stared at him. Even Harmsworth.
Abercrombie gave a sour wee laugh. ‘It was so stupid. He never wears protection. And I tried, OK? I tried.’ More of those serrated breaths.
‘But she wouldn’t have an abortion. Wouldn’t even think about it.
And I told her, I told her: “He always does this. He doesn’t love you.
Because the only person Norman Bloody Fordyce loves is Norman Bloody Fordyce.
”’ The tears welled up again. ‘And we got into this big argument, and she just went . . . crazy. Kept screaming about how I’m not allowed to kill her baby, and Sir Norman loves her, and he’s going to leave Lady Fordyce, and they’ll live on his yacht, sailing round the Mediterranean.
’ That laugh got sourer. ‘So bloody na?ve . . .’ Abercrombie wiped the tears away, but more took their place.
‘And I told her. I told her, “Megan: he’s already moved on. He’s sniffing round Billie Nesbit now!
”’ The campaign manager’s voice jumped half an octave: ‘“No, he loves me. He doesn’t love Billie. You’re a liar!
”’ Then a shudder. ‘And she’s hitting and hitting me, and I’m trying to make her stop and . . .’
Wrinkles deepened across Abercrombie’s brow.
His mouth fell open as he curled in on himself.
Pink surged through his face, darkening.
Eyes bugging.
Tears streaming.
No one moved.
Didn’t even drink their tea.
Then Abercrombie’s voice whispered out, small and scared. ‘It was an accident. She slipped and fell and hit her head. And I . . . panicked.’ A tortured breath. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’
A hush settled over the kitchen, like a thick, suffocating blanket.
And then Roberta leaned forward, reaching across the table to put a gentle, reassuring hand on Frank’s arm. ‘What a load of utter bollocks.’
He flinched back.
‘You hacked her fingers off, Frank, and battered all her teeth out. With. A. Hammer.’ Getting louder.
‘Stripped her naked, drove her out to the middle of nowhere, and dumped her body in a sodding wheelie bin! If you hadn’t cocked-up and missed one of Megan’s wisdom teeth, we’d never have ID’d her.
She’d be left to rot in a mortuary drawer for decades. ’
Abercrombie’s eyes darted left and right, muscles tensing . . .
‘Don’t.’ Lund slapped a hand down on his shoulder. ‘It won’t end well.’
His body drooped again.
Roberta sat back in her chair and scowled at the nasty wee shite.
‘Megan didn’t “fall and hit her head”, cos if she had we’d’ve found it in the post mortem.
Cracked skull. Blood staining in the cranium.
But there was none of that.’ She curled her lip.
‘So what did you do: poison? Or maybe you just stabbed her? Cos you like knives, don’t you, Franky? ’
No reply.
‘And cos you got away with it once, why no’ kill Billie Nesbit too? There she is, banging your boss’s husband; it’ll all go south anyway, right? Might as well nip it in the bud, before someone finds out.’
Abercrombie pulled his chin in, staring at her. ‘But—’
‘And this time you wouldn’t even have to hide the body: could just blame it on those slack-jawed knuckle-dragging pricks from the Anglo-Saxon Defence Group.
Two birds with one stone! Tie up a loose end and get yourself a bump in the polls.
’ Because why should Graeme Anderson have all the fun?
‘That’s why you were in there like a ferret when Billie was stabbed, trying to pull the knife out to “save her”.
Aye, making sure you had a nice wee alibi for why your fingerprints and DNA were all over the weapon, and the victim’s blood on your hands. ’
‘What? No. No.’ He shook his head. ‘I never . . . No. I didn’t!’
‘Course no’.’ Roberta snapped her fingers, then pointed at the murdering bastard. ‘Get him out of my sight.’
Lund hauled him out of his chair. ‘On your feet.’
As the only on-duty officer not currently crippled, Barrett did the honours. ‘Francis Abercrombie: I am arresting you under Section One of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016, for the murder of Megan Lockheart and the attempted murder of Billie Nesbit.’
‘Get your hands off me!’ Struggling, and getting nowhere.
‘The reason for your arrest is—’
‘I demand to speak to my lawyer! You can’t do this to me! I know important people! THIS ISN’T FAIR!’
Yes it bloody well was.