Miss Pink Investigates series Box Set Part Two

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘Why couldn’t she risk being seen?’ Rupert asked.

  ‘One hundred thousand pounds.’ Miss Pink was a trifle smug.

  ‘What’s that supposed ter mean?’

  ‘The value of your estate.’

  ‘Possibly. No one’s selling it. And I’m not dead yet.’

  ‘You nearly were.’

  ‘Ah. Who put that branch on the granary steps?’

  ‘Norman I would think: at Iris’s bidding.’

  ‘But then the estate would go to Rachel—and she’d never sell.’

  ‘Suppose she committed suicide, or had an accident on the cliffs?’

  They gaped at her.

  ‘Norman!’ Doreen hissed. ‘He’d have done that?’

  ‘How many husbands have killed their wives for money? He’s had a hand in two murders already, and an attempt on Roderick. When he confesses, or rather when he elaborates what he said on the cliffs, he’s going to state a motive. Did you never think that he married Rachel for her money?’ Doreen nodded assent. ‘And when they came to Abersaint, Iris left the hotel and went to Riffli. She was a very managing woman and Norman relied on her completely. In any conversation with the two of them he turned to her, literally, when he was at a loss. He was dominated by her, and she wanted that money. The nuclear power campaign would have given her the idea. Another site had been chosen but she would bank on the Energy Authority coming back. This site would be kept in mind for the future. Then Norman would sell and the couple would disappear. Perhaps,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘Norman would really disappear, leaving Iris with a fortune.’

  ‘She’d kill him too?’ Rupert gasped.

  ‘Look at her record.’

  ‘Where does Sandra come in?’ Roderick asked. ‘How did her presence here threaten Iris?’

  Miss Pink nodded slowly. ‘Was there something in Iris’s past that would make Sandra speculate as to what the woman was doing down here working as a housekeeper to a man who was very rich?’ She didn’t add “and very old”.

  The telephone rang. Doreen got up and answered it.

  ‘It’s Pryce,’ she said to Miss Pink. ‘He wants to speak to you.’

  Miss Pink crossed the room and took the receiver. The conversation was enigmatic. She said “yes” several times then asked: ‘Did Iris MacNally have a record? . . . I see. Thank you for ringing. Yes, I’ll be there later.’

  She sat down again.

  ‘He’s confessed. It was the money. They’re working on a statement. Iris has no record under that name, it seems, but the body’s been recovered and, of course, there’ll be the fingerprints. Norman says Sandra was killed because she knew Iris. Pryce isn’t satisfied with that but he’s not worried. He wants to get those fingerprints. He said he’d ring again. Where’s Carter?’

  No one knew.

  ‘I don’t want to see him again,’ Doreen said. ‘He started all this with his wretched book.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Miss Pink was firm. ‘The plot was there already. If Sandra hadn’t arrived in Abersaint, Roderick was in line to be murdered, and then Rachel.’

  ‘There were victims though.’ Roderick was morose. ‘Sandra and Jakey.’

  ‘We could spare one of those,’ Rupert said darkly.

  ‘But not the other.’ Miss Pink stood up. ‘I have to find Carter.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  She found him sooner than she expected. He was sitting on a bench on the quay, staring across the basin that was filling with the tide. Lights were on in the cottages and the bats were out. It was a lovely night. She crossed the quay and sat down beside him.

  ‘I was waiting for you,’ he said. He sounded inordinately tired.

  She listened to the water lapping against the moored boats.

  ‘Will you take a message to Mrs Kemp?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ask her to forgive me.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Mr Carter. May I offer you my sympathy?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. I was, as you said, blind. She was very dear to me. I hoped. . . . Do you know why she was killed?’

  She told him about the plot to gain possession of Riffli. He was silent for a while and then he said: ‘I’ve known a lot of criminals: ones who were caught, and the others who got away with it. You’d say they’ve got no morals but they all have some touch of humanity: good family men, fair employers—sometimes ruthless, but none without some kind of code. But of all the people I’ve known I’ve never met anyone truly evil. Except her.’

  She turned on him. ‘If you knew her, why didn’t you say so? Why go after Rachel?’

  ‘I didn’t know she was here. I never saw her. But I’ve seen the body. Her name was Eileen Jotti.’

  Someone was sculling across the water: a dark shape slipping through the reflections.

  ‘She was married to a Moroccan,’ he went on, ‘now doing time for the only gang murder, the only murder they could pin on him: a very nasty one. He got fifteen years. Some of his gang were sent down with him, not all of them by any means. The rest of them will be looking for Eileen—your Iris MacNally. She shopped them.’

  ‘Why?’ Miss Pink asked. ‘She didn’t get anything out of it, judging by appearances.’

  ‘She stayed on the outside; that would have been the reward for shopping them. And then Jotti was a big man in London; he had a lot of irons in the fire. Porn shops and strip clubs were only the legal side; he was an importer—of heroin. He had links all over Europe. He wouldn’t have been caught, except for Eileen. She’d have meant to take over the business but Jotti didn’t trust her. He made other arrangements and Eileen was squeezed out. One moment she was the boss’s wife, the next: nothing, and there was a contract out for her. Jotti knew who shopped him all right. So she came here, on the run. She’d have been to other places first, never staying long in one place, always looking for an opening. But at her time of life she’d be tired of running—and the stakes were high here. In South America she could set herself up in the brothel business with a hundred thousand. She was a madame when she met Jotti. I’ve seen Sandra in some of Jotti’s clubs. She’d been a stripper.’

  ‘And Sandra would have talked about her when she went back to London. No wonder. . . .’

  ‘If only she’d rung me—but I was abroad. In any case, she didn’t know. Eileen Jotti got to her and she never had a hint of the danger.’

  Softly across the water came the strains of music.

  ‘He likes Haydn,’ Carter murmured. ‘I’ve been in the churchyard. His kitten was there. It came to me.’

  He stood up. ‘Now I’m going to headquarters and see what I can do for Thorne. An unlikeable chap, but he’s done nothing wrong—here.’

  Miss Pink stood beside him. ‘I hope all goes well with you, Mr Carter.’

  He raised his hand in salute and walked away to the cars. Along the quay there were lights in the big police trailer. She drove to her cottage and, entering the living room, slumped in a chair, feeling tired and sad.

  There was a knock at the window and Samuel’s moon-face showed on the other side of the glass.

  ‘Come on over,’ he said as she opened it. ‘Rachel told me to fetch you. We heard your car.’

  ‘What does she want to talk about?’ she asked as they went along the terrace.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He was evasive. ‘You’ve been a long time with the others.’

  She stopped on the other side of the stile.

  ‘We were working it out. Pryce rang to say that Norman’s confessed. There was a plot to sell the estate.’

  ‘Yes.’ He wasn’t surprised. ‘We’ve been talking about that.’

  They threaded their way through the tombstones, the grass dewy against their legs. Caithness was waiting on the wall, silhouetted against the light.

  ‘He won’t go beyond the patio now,’ Samuel said. ‘He’s got a thing about gulls.’

  ‘He did. Carter was in the graveyard earlier and Caithness went to him.’

  ‘That’s nice
. Carter ought to have a cat.’

  They descended a short ladder to the patio. Rachel came to the french window. From behind her came the strains of a Haydn concerto.

  ‘Good,’ she said calmly, ‘I’m glad you came.’

  ‘I have a message for you from Mr Carter. He asks your forgiveness.’

  ‘Oh, poor man.’

  Samuel turned off the music and they sat down. Rachel looked broodingly at Miss Pink.

  ‘It was because of the money, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. He’s confessed.’

  ‘It had to be. I’m afraid he married me under false pretences. He thought I was very rich, you see.’

  ‘He couldn’t have been so badly off himself: managing a hotel.’

  ‘He was the barman.’

  Samuel avoided Miss Pink’s eye.

  ‘I told people he was the manager,’ Rachel went on. ‘He’d have been embarrassed otherwise. It was a shock to him when he arrived at Riffli; he’d expected a grand mansion with staff, and Grandad running a Rolls. I—hadn’t given him the details. He knew what the land was worth, of course, and that it would come to me, but he didn’t understand how I felt about it until he met Grandad and saw how things were. He realised there wasn’t a hope of selling. We had rows about it. About other things too. People didn’t know the half of it.’ She looked at Samuel.

  ‘I’m sure Miss Pink understands,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to go over it again; you’re only hurting yourself.’

  Rachel picked at the cover of her chair.

  ‘You all thought I was going barmy.’

  ‘No, we didn’t—’

  ‘I thought so myself.’ She passed a hand over her forehead, then looked fiercely at Miss Pink. ‘Sam’s right; you don’t want to hear it all. I’ll tell you quick—’ her voice was hard, ‘—we quarrelled, I’d have a drink; he said I was turning into an alcoholic, but he started dropping hints—about Sandra. Then he’d say I was possessive, demanding. He’d come to bed in the small hours and tell me he’d been out walking, but he’d smile when he said it. . . . I went on tranquillisers. It was a kind of downwards spiral, you know? I couldn’t get hold of anything.’

  ‘I know.’ Miss Pink was placid. ‘It’s not a unique situation. I’ve seen it before.’

  ‘You have!’

  ‘She wasn’t that bad,’ Samuel put in. ‘It was Norman who said she was.’

  ‘I puzzled that out,’ Miss Pink said. ‘People were saying “Norman tells me” or “Norman says”. The worst parts always seemed to emanate from Norman. Wasn’t it he told you that some prehistoric peoples practised cannibalism?’

  ‘Yes. He found it in one of Grandad’s books and showed it to me. He kept on about it; he found it fascinating.’

  ‘That’s why I couldn’t find a relevant book on your shelves.’

  ‘It was a campaign to make her morbid.’ Samuel was furious. ‘And we all fell for it. I’m sorry, love; you don’t want to go on with this, do you?’

  ‘You can’t believe what a relief it is to get everything clear. And to think that I used to turn to Iris!’

  ‘She was far the worst of the two,’ Miss Pink said.

  ‘I know. He was just weak and greedy. And she was so kind that night—’ her voice dropped, ‘—she put me to bed, and then she covered herself with those awful things—’

  ‘Look—’ Samuel began.

  ‘All right.’ She resumed her hard tone. ‘So I thought I was barmy and I ran away and hid in the cavern—I’m glad you didn’t believe me when I said there were no ledges inside—I was going mad there on my own. But when you told me Jakey was dead, I knew it hadn’t been an hallucination: seeing his body in the freezer, so neither was the other thing: Iris being burned. It was a trick. And Iris was involved. I wasn’t staying in that cavern any longer when I knew I was sane—and I wanted to get Iris.’

  ‘Why did you send Avril to cover the tracks by the river?’

  ‘I thought Norman killed Sandra but if they were working it between them, then I was certain Iris was the dominant one. I knew her, you see.’

  The telephone rang. Samuel answered it.

  ‘Pryce wants to speak to you, Miss Pink.’

  She took the receiver.

  Pryce said: ‘I thought you’d be there when I couldn’t get you at your place. We’re getting a clear picture now.’ His voice droned on, telling her nothing new. ‘Kemp’s intent on saving his own skin,’ he ended.

  ‘Have you seen Carter?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m going to see him now. I understand he has something to tell me about Eileen Jotti.’ He waited for her reaction. ‘Jotti. Remember him: the gang boss in London?’

  ‘Carter told me.’

  ‘Oh.’ He was disappointed, then he revived with a dry chuckle. ‘Kemp’s raving again.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was questioning him about her fall. Know what he said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Said she was being followed down the gully by a lot of men in skins! Walking upright, he said. On that ground! It won’t wash, of course; they all try it on at the end, like Haigh saying he drank his victims’ blood. He’s going to try to plead insanity. Insanity my—Excuse me, ma’am. But he’ll stand trial. He’s as sane as you or me.’

  ‘Marvellous: the things they get up to.’

  She replaced the receiver carefully, sat down and gave them the gist of the information.

  ‘What was that last bit about?’ Samuel asked: ‘The things they get up to?’

  ‘Pryce reckons Norman’s going for a plea of insanity. He maintains Iris was followed down the funnel by men in skins walking upright.’

  Samuel got up and stalked round the room. He stopped on the hearth rug and stared at them.

  ‘Is he mad after all? I mean, no sane person would think men in skins would cop a plea of insanity. It’s so puerile!’

  Rachel smiled. ‘I’m so glad there’s no capital punishment because it’s funny—isn’t it, Miss Pink?’ Her eyes clouded. ‘Miss Pink—you do think it’s funny?’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘No. You tell me what you saw. Please.’

  Samuel looked from one to the other.

  ‘What is this? You said the cattle were chasing Iris!’

  Miss Pink said, watching Rachel intently: ‘I heard running feet and I saw a line of figures spread out like a sweep search, and when she struck the fence they stopped and waited. When she climbed over the stile and started down the funnel they advanced again, walking.’

  ‘Then what?’ The girl’s eyes were shadowed.

  ‘They walked down the funnel like people walking down a gentle slope.’

  ‘Did they bunch at the stile?’

  ‘No,’ Miss Pink said. ‘They stayed spaced out.’

  Samuel turned to Rachel. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Exactly the same.’

  ‘What, people? How did they cross the fence?’ They didn’t help him. He stared at them, dumbfounded, then relaxed, became heartily masculine: a man humouring womenfolk.

  ‘You both saw a line of men: a sweep search, like a rescue team, right?’ They nodded. ‘So they came to the fence and at that moment you were probably both watching Iris—’

  ‘Well, I looked at Iris,’ Miss Pink admitted.

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘And when you looked back the chaps were going down the funnel. But you can get over a fence easily if you’re a young fit man: you put one hand on the fence post and vault over. And we all think the funnel is impassably steep, but very nimble climbers could get down there upright, couldn’t they? It’s not impossible. Well, couldn’t they?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Miss Pink conceded.

  ‘And then the fog rolled away,’ Rachel said, ‘and there was no one in the funnel except Norman. I’m glad you saw them, Miss Pink.’

  ‘It was the rescue team,’ Samuel insisted. ‘It’ll all be explained tomorrow.’

  DIE LIKE A DOG

 
; Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 1

  Sunlight filtered through young oak leaves and the foxglove bells to lie for one moment, dappled and immobile, along the blue barrels of a gun.

  The barrels moved fractionally and the sunlight flashed.

  ‘He’s seen that,’ Dewi whispered. ‘Get him now!’

  Bart fired, paused, and fired again. The bodies of the crows fell in the bracken. One fluttered. Dewi slipped out of cover and wrung its neck. The boys looked down at the corpses and smiled, then raised their eyes to the nest.

  ‘Joss is going to love you,’ Dewi said. ‘This old pair has lived on fledglings. Shall us knock down that nest?’

  ‘You’d better. Otherwise another pair may come and use it.’

  Dewi climbed the tree like a cat. He stopped below the nest and looked back.

  ‘It’s hairy out to the side. The branches is too thin for me weight.’

  ‘Pull it down,’ Bart called, grinning, and moved away.

  ‘And up yours! There’s three seasons’ shit and fleas in this nest, man.’

  ‘You’ll have to come down for a stick.’

  ‘To hell with that.’

  Dewi inched sideways with caution and peered over the edge of the nest.

  ‘Four eggs. Shall us have an om’lette?’

  ‘Get your skates on, man!’

  The oaks in the hanging wood were very old. The boy crept a little higher, then leaned sideways and nudged the nest with his foot. Dry twigs fell away and a little dust hung in the golden air. He coughed, balanced himself carefully and levered with his toe. The nest teetered. He gave it a good kick. There was a loud crack, a cry—and nest, branch and boy came hurtling to the ground.

  The thud was shocking. Bart crept over, his eyes and mouth wide, the shot gun loose in one hand. Dewi sat up, gasping for breath, shaking, very white. Bart stared, speechless. Their eyes locked and the shock seeped away to be replaced by incredulous glee. Bart giggled, and reaction came with a crescendo of hysteria until Dewi was rolling on his belly shrieking: ‘Stop! Christ, stop! It hurts.’