Evil for Evil by Aline Templeton Page A

there’s some fencing needing attention. But take some time off – I don’t want to be a slave-driver.’
    He gave her his lopsided smile – lopsided, because one side of his face didn’t work very well any more – which always went to her heart.
    ‘You’re not!’ she protested. ‘Are you going in to lunch now?’
    The arrangement was there were packets of instant soup in the cupboard, cheese and ham in the fridge, and you took your own when it suited you, eating with whoever was there or taking it to your room, if you liked.
    Christie cherished days when she and Matt coincided at the kitchen table alone. She still knew little about him as a person; he was very reserved, but gradually she was piecing together the tiny scraps of information he let fall. They couldn’t discuss the art films he liked and she’d never seen, or her favourite pop videos, but they could agree they could barely even look at a poster for a war movie.
    Matt glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll probably take a break around twelve-thirty. I was up early today.’
    Christie nodded, then said casually, ‘Did Lissa go with Kerr?’
    ‘No. She’s found some crab apples – says she’s going to make jelly, but I wouldn’t depend on it for your “piece” at teatime.’
    She’d be in the kitchen, then. Christie smiled. ‘That’s very brave. If you don’t need me I might pop round the pub for half an hour.’
    ‘Fine, fine. See you later,’ Matt said absently, and went on towards the house. In the pen in the yard, his dog was waiting, padding from foot to foot and swinging its tail. He let it out and it pranced round him as he went inside.
    Feeling somehow deflated, Christie watched him go then walked down the farm road leading to Innellan.
     
    It was quarter past twelve when Andy Macdonald reached the pub. He was alone; the other guys were still doggedly eating the fry-up they hoped would make them ready for the next beer.
    He registered the surprising number of cars in the Smugglers’ car park without looking at them closely, but the police car drewhis attention. When was the last time he’d seen one here? Probably when he and his delinquent mates had taken the underwear off Mrs Chalmers’s washing line and draped her impressively large knickers and bras over the gravestones round the old church. In keen anticipation of another local drama, Andy went in and headed for the bar.
    ‘What’s going on, then, Georgia? Anyone exciting under arrest?’
    ‘Andy Macdonald! What are you doing here?’
    The sudden materialisation of Big Marge at his elbow threw him completely. ‘Er … boss! What … oh, I’m … I’m in a caravan with some mates, along there.’ He jerked his head, then noticed MacNee. ‘Hello, Tam. Well, er … this is a bit of a surprise.’
    He was babbling. Georgia, whose sympathetic expression suggested that given a chance she’d have warned him, put a pint in his hand. He took a steadying sip, then said, ‘A stag weekend, that’s all. What’s happening?’
    ‘Bones,’ MacNee said in suitably sepulchral tones. ‘Old bones. And watch what you say – we’ve the press breathing down our necks.’ He raised his tea mug in an ironic salute to Tony Drummond, who had edged closer.
    Fleming drew Macdonald into a corner and was briefing him in a low voice when Christie Jack came in. She looked round, and Macdonald said awkwardly, ‘Sorry, boss – someone looking for me.’
    He went over. ‘Good to see you – I wasn’t sure you’d make it. A Beck’s?’
    ‘Thanks.’ She was looking puzzled. ‘What on earth’s going on today, with all the police and stuff?’
    Macdonald was saying uncomfortably, ‘Well—’ just as MacNee hailed him.
    ‘Come on, Andy, introduce us to your friend.’
    Macdonald turned with obvious reluctance. ‘Christie Jack. This is DS Tam MacNee and DI Fleming.’
    Christie’s eyes flickered over their faces, then went to his. ‘How … how do you know them?’
    Macdonald winced.