Henry managed a smile. ‘The days have gone by when the bearer of bad news was put to death,’ he said.
‘That’s all you know,’ the Sergeant said bitterly. But Henry jollied and coaxed and soothed him and he was preparing to take his leave in a slightly less hostile mood when the door was opened by Beth. Her usually calm young face bore the look of one who has taken just so much and will not take any more.
‘Did you know,’ she began, ‘that a whole hutch of ferrets has appeared, down by the gate. And if you think I’m having anything to do with the evil-looking little devils, you’re on the wrong track. This note was with them.’
I took the note and read it aloud.
Mr Cunningham you bastert,
I got to go away for a bit and it’s your faut. So you can mynd my foumarts until I get back.
Yours respeckfully, Angus Brown.
For a day or two I cringed at each ring of the doorbell, expecting at any moment an influx of furious police officers, but it never came. It was as though the police, huffy at my interference and at my dilatoriness in passing on my information, had made up their minds that they could manage without my help, so there!
I was happy enough to forget the whole blasted business. I had done my wellmeaning best in difficult circumstances, had probably spoiled the Sergeant’s chances of promotion and had got my fingers justly rapped. From now on, I would be a convenient target of blame for every calamity or hiccup in the investigation. I preferred not to think about any of it. We seemed to be entering another period during which nothing would happen to disturb the placid routine of our days.
My mind, if nobody else’s, was eased by a phone-call from Gus Brown. It came from a public phone at some distance, to judge from the coins which I heard drop. The gist of the call was mainly abusive, but he did enquire anxiously after his ferrets. He probably knew that I would never willingly destroy any animal except those which were a nuisance to man, or for food, but he caught me at the wrong moment and said the wrong things. My shoulder was paining me and I was ever more sure that Gus had been my assailant. I told him that I had drowned his blasted ferrets in a bucket and that, given half a chance, I would do the same for him. And I hung up, feeling better.
In fact, I rather enjoyed having the ferrets around. Beth at first refused to go near them, so Henry and I took over their keeping. We would have liked to have worked them, but the few rabbits still on the ground were breeding already so that the season for ferreting was over. We fed them on the dried mince which went into the dogs’ diets and they thrived.
When Beth realised that well-kept ferrets were very tame with man (and that they have no smell if prevented from carrying surplus food into their sleeping quarters) she fell for their kittenish charm and took over their management. The old hob was a particularly friendly creature and enjoyed riding around on her shoulder. He travelled many miles in that way, because it is no bad thing to accustom young gundogs to the presence of ferrets.
I had written out an account of Gus’s phone-call and posted it to Sergeant Ewell for onward transmission. This brought no immediate reaction and I wondered whether the police had written it off as a fabrication on my part. This seemed unlikely. They would surely realise that any such invention would prove damning if Gus were to turn out to have been dead all along. It occurred to me that I was probably suspected already of having done away with him. The implications of that thought became too complex for my comfort and I pushed it to the back of my mind.
But a few days later, Sergeant Ewell turned up again. The day was bright and the countryside trying to fool mankind with signs that spring was on the way towards becoming summer. My shoulder was on the mend. I could still not tolerate the kick of a shotgun but I could use the dummy launcher in a peculiar, back-handed way, so I had been allowed by my nannies – as I called them, to their great annoyance – to take a quartet of year-old dogs to The Moss for some advanced lessons. Wildflowers were rife, a thrush was singing and I was for the moment unaware of my shoulder. I felt almost euphoric – until I saw the Sergeant picking his way across the rough ground.
I was in the middle of one of my most testing series of exercises – to sit the dogs, walk on out of sight, fire several dummies into cover, whistle up the dogs and direct each of them on to one of the dummies while the others sat tight. It was not an occasion for distractions; young dogs are impetuous and one breach of discipline could set training back a week. I held up a hand in the gesture with which he would have stopped the traffic and he waited patiently, a black sentinel beside a stunted pine, until the dummies were gathered in.
We met near the small pond, beside a tree which had been felled by the winds of winter. I sat the dogs and seated myself on the trunk. The Sergeant preferred to stand. His manner was aloof and mildly censorious as though I were an erring child, not yet forgiven.
‘I passed your letter on up the line,’ he said.
‘But you don’t believe me?’
‘Oh, I think I believe you,’ he said. ‘But then, I start from the assumption that you may be misguided but are telling the truth. I can’t speak for my superiors. However, it seems that Gus Brown’s ramshackle old van has been seen near Edinburgh, driven by a man answering his description. The number-plates had been changed and by the time the penny dropped the van was gone. Your letter said only that the call had come from a call-box at “some distance”. Could it have been from Edinburgh?’
‘It could,’ I said. ‘Or from almost anywhere else.’
He frowned austerely. Obviously, in his view I wasn’t trying. ‘Do you remember the tones when the coins dropped?’
‘Not with any certainty. And if I did it wouldn’t help you, because I’ve only a vague idea of the interval of time before the pips went and he had to put some more money in.’
He satisfied himself that I was not holding back any vital fragments of information and then gave a sigh. ‘We think that he may be living rough in the back of his van, somewhere in the Central Belt, and taking casual farm or keepering work. He must have more on his conscience than a little poaching.’
‘Like putting a knife into me?’ I suggested.
‘M’hm, perhaps. If we could only put our hands on the man! You should never have taken it on yourself to question him.’
The feelings of guilt had faded and I was beginning to be irritated. ‘There’s a limit to how often I can say I’m sorry. What more do you want? I passed on the description Gus gave me.’
‘Aye. Both words of it. And was he telling the truth? You of all people should have thought to ask about the mannie’s dog.’
We were sheltered from the breeze and I was too warm in the sun. I took off my coat and spread it over the treetrunk. ‘Sit down and relax for a moment,’ I said. ‘Or else go away. I made a guess as to what I should do and I guessed wrong. They can hardly blame you for my stupidity.’
He looked suspiciously at the lining of my coat to be sure that it was clean and then seated himself carefully. ‘Aye they can,’ he said. ‘It was on my recommendation that the springer bitch was let go.’
‘If she’d been kept in hiding or put down, you’d never have known that Gus Brown knew anything at all,’ I pointed out.
‘Try telling that to the super,’ he said bitterly. ‘And here’s one inspector due to retire and another’s applied for transfer to the Serious Crime Squad. When those places are filled, there’ll be no more vacancies for years.’
I headed him back towards the main topic before he could become too caught up with his own troubles. ‘Surely they can find the “other man” among his business contacts?’
He was in no mood for looking on bright sides. ‘They’re sure it’s nobody that he met officially. They’re looking hard at the staff of all the banks, because the money disappeared too smoothly for him to have managed it without help, but there’s thousands of them. Just thousands, some of them the kind of men who play golf with the Scottish Secretary. And never a sign of that girl who called herself
Miss McGillivray, although they’ve looked and looked.’
‘Difficult,’ I said with as much sympathy as I could put into my voice.
‘Aye.’ He threw a pebble into the small pond and watched the ripples dancing in the sunlight. ‘I’m on your side, mind. But there are those who’re beginning to wonder about you.’
‘They can wonder all they want,’ I said. ‘I’ve told nothing but the truth.’
‘So I hope.’ He hummed a dirgelike tune and threw another pebble. ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he said suddenly. ‘Gus Brown’s alibi doesn’t stand up. He spent part of that night in a cell sure enough, but he wasn’t picked up until an hour after the attack on you. He had fresh marks of violence on his face.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘From my point of view, I mean.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. He was in a brawl when he was arrested. But say that he was your attacker and look at it from the Chief Inspector’s viewpoint. Gus Brown attacks you because of the wee dog. Next thing, you’ve fetched her out of the country. Then you have a wee word with Gus and he vanishes. And we’ve nobody’s word but yours to explain what’s going on. And you don’t give us an explanation that explains anything.’
‘Because I don’t have one. Somebody has to know something.’ I cast around in my mind. ‘What about the landlady at the pub?’ I said. ‘The one who takes Gus’s messages. Doesn’t she know anything?’
He shrugged. ‘She didn’t listen to the few calls that he got, or so she said. She remembered you leaving a message for him. And once, she says, a mannie phoned and caught Gus in the bar. She heard him say “But who the hell are you?” and then “How can I be sure I get paid?” That was all and she can’t even be sure which day it was. It could have been anything. Any damned thing.’
We sat in silence, trying to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the sights and sounds and smells of a new spring, but his depression had infected me.
‘I could bide here all day,’ he said suddenly, ‘rather than go back to the station. But needs must. Before I go, though, could I see you give one of the dogs a blind retrieve again? Damn’t, that was a sight to see!’
Chapter Nine
The case had died out of the newspapers. We got on with our lives. Aurora presented us with eight fresh pups to worry about. Five young dogs reached the age for advanced training, ready to be sold for the next shooting season. I recovered my mobility and spent long hours in the fresh air, training variously aged classes or helping Beth and Isobel with the constant workload.
When I thought about the case at all, I decided that it had been relegated to the files of unsolved murders, never forgotten but never acted on unless some fresh facts should offer themselves.
I was wrong. The police came again, without warning and this time in strength – three of them in two cars, the first swinging in through the gates so sharply that Henry, who had walked over for his morning beer and a stint of work, had to jump aside. Sergeant Ewell, following more decorously in his panda car, made an apologetic face at him.
I was on my way back from the kennels to the house. Chief Inspector Ainslie emerged from the leading car and waited for me at the front door. ‘A word in private,’ he said sternly. ‘I have some questions to ask you. You may have a solicitor present if you wish.’
My mouth dried immediately. This sounded serious. The Chief Inspector’s manner had changed from that of a polite if curt civil servant to that of a headmaster about to deal severely with an erring pupil or the Colonel when I had once overstayed my leave. However often I assured myself that policemen are my friends, there was always a certain awe of those entrusted with the power of the law.
The few solicitors of my acquaintance flicked through my mind but there was not one whom I would willingly employ to do more than convey a house or draft a will. Except perhaps Mr Rodgers in distant Glasgow, and he would probably turn me away because of the possible conflict of interests.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said. I nearly added that I had nothing to hide before I remembered that for once in my life it would have been untrue. ‘I’d like Mr Kitts to be present. I trust his advice.’
Henry, puffing slightly, had arrived in time to hear my last words. He nodded briefly.
‘Very well,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Shall we go inside or would you rather come to the nearest station?’ Without waiting for an answer, he beckoned to the uniformed constable who was sitting to attention in the driving seat.
I led the way into the sitting room and annexed the two most comfortable chairs for myself and Henry, leaving the officers to stand or to find seats as they wished. Two could play at being uncompromising. The constable produced a notebook and took a chair beside the window. His two superiors sat on the settee, as far apart as space permitted.
The Chief Inspector produced a sheet of paper and studied it, either to refresh his memory or to gain time to formulate his first question. ‘I have looked back over your earlier statements,’ he said at last. ‘Do you wish to modify any of them?’
‘Certainly not,’ I said irritably. ‘I’ve told you nothing but the absolute, literal truth.’ With a few minor reservations, I added to myself.
‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘Think about it.’
I could feel, literally, the hackles rising on the back of my neck. ‘I don’t need to think about it,’ I said.
‘You should. We now have a witness whose statement contradicts almost every word you have said.’
‘He’s lying,’ I snapped.
The Chief Inspector half smiled. He had heard that argument before. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps not. You’re a shooting man?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And a wildfowler?’
‘I’ve already said so,’ I pointed out. ‘I was wildfowling when we found the body.’
‘Do you still claim that you never met Mr Falconer while he was alive?’
‘To the best of my knowledge,’ I said.
The Chief Inspector paused like a terrier preparing to pounce on a rat. ‘Fresh information suggests that you are one of the men we’ve been looking for all this time. The shooting companion.’
The suggestion was so unexpected that it took me several seconds to become angry. I felt myself about to explode, but Henry spoke first. ‘Take it easy, John,’ he said. ‘We know that somebody’s lying his head off, but the Chief Inspector has no way of knowing it as surely as we do. He has to follow up whatever statements he’s given. Let’s consider it calmly. I understood, Chief Inspector, that in view of the very smooth disappearance of the money you were searching for a confederate among the banking fraternity.’
‘We were and we still are, but without success – not surprisingly, when you consider that virtually all the information that we had to go on, the three conflicting descriptions, the sixteen-bore shotgun and so on and so forth, all reached us through Mr Cunningham – the man who found the body and spirited away the dog.’
He made the last few words sound ominous. I was about to object that both actions had been perfectly innocent but I saw that, behind Henry’s worn-out face, his keen brain was sifting the facts and inferences. I still had a lurking sense of guilt. Whatever I said would be wrong and possibly dangerous. I decided to hang fire.
‘You said “one of the men”,’ Henry pointed out.
The Chief Inspector hesitated and then decided to put some more cards on the table. ‘So far, we’ve been unable to find anybody in the banking fraternity who fits the pattern of the shooting companion. We were already becoming convinced that the late Mr Falconer may have had more than one associate. One expert who helped with the financial side and is now lying very low. And a friend who went shooting with him and who may or may not have been implicated in the fraud. Because that friend has not come forward, it’s reasonable to suppose that he must have something on his conscience. One theory is that he killed Mr Falconer as a means towards getting away with some or all of the money.’
I found it i
mpossible to believe that this was being said but Henry took it calmly and weighed his words. ‘If you consider for a moment,’ he said, ‘I think you’ll see that Mr Cunningham can hardly have been the shooting friend. For one thing, he is almost never outside the ken of his partners and myself.’
‘You’d swear to that?’
The folds of Henry’s face registered a sort of grim amusement. ‘If you’re hinting that we can only support Mr Cunningham by implicating ourselves, save your breath. Yes, we would swear to it.’
‘He can hardly be in your sight all the time,’ the Chief Inspector said.
‘Of course not. But his activities are an open book to us. He is here for most of every day. When he goes out, he is taking dogs to train on The Moss and brings them back within an hour or two. Or else he takes the car to fetch supplies or to deliver a dog and returns on schedule and with the errand accomplished. There is simply no margin for a secret life. But perhaps you’re working round to the suggestion that an alibi given by his partners and his senior partner’s husband is of little worth; that, in fact, we are acting as his willing accomplices for a share in the stolen money? A court wouldn’t readily believe in such a wholesale conspiracy among respectable business people.’
‘The suggestion was yours,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘not mine.’ He glanced towards the constable’s moving pen.
‘You had already made the implication,’ Henry said patiently. ‘Let’s look at it from another angle. You are discounting the whole of Mr Cunningham’s evidence on the word of one other man and a few vague deductions. But if Mr Cunningham was regularly lying to you, he would not have been so foolish as to give you three descriptions which could have been of three totally different men. Angus Brown, on the other hand—’
‘I never mentioned that name,’ the Chief Inspector said sharply.
‘You didn’t have to. Obviously, you’ve picked up Gus Brown, the one man we know of who has a strong motive to focus your attention on somebody else, rather than to admit that he made the attack on Mr Cunningham – which could land him on a charge of attempted murder.’
Whose Dog Are You? (Three Oaks Book 2) Page 12
