Miss Pink Investigates Part One

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘Have you had a good day?’

  ‘An easy day for her,’ Maynard responded. ‘We didn’t put the rope on until we were coming off the third pinnacle. What did you do?’

  It was the ritual question. They were only interested in their beer at this moment.

  ‘I found Terry Cooke’s body.’

  Maynard looked moderately startled. ‘Found Terry’s what?’

  Madge regarded her warily.

  ‘Body,’ Miss Pink repeated. ‘She’s dead.’

  Maynard stared at her, then turned to Hamlyn. ‘Is that true?’ The hotelier nodded mutely.

  ‘How did she die?’ Madge asked.

  ‘We don’t know.’ Miss Pink reflected that by now it was likely that a number of people knew, not to mention the one person who had known all along.

  ‘She was murdered,’ Maynard said coldly.

  ‘How do you know that?’ She felt a frisson of excitement as one person came out in the open.

  ‘Because only that could explain your peculiar—and discourteous—method of breaking the news. It’s ghastly, but you made no effort to cushion the shock, because you want our reactions. And that presupposes not merely—God, “merely”!—murder, but that there is some doubt or—’ he regarded her keenly, ‘—or a lot of doubt, as to who killed her.’

  Madge was frowning. She looked tired. ‘Do you have any more details?’ she asked.

  Miss Pink told them how the body had been found.

  ‘Why a survival bag?’

  Hamlyn and Miss Pink were silent.

  Maynard said flatly, ‘Because he had to carry her from Largo. If the body wasn’t wrapped it would leave traces on his clothing, or on the pack frame that he must have used to carry her. Also it’s possible that he thought that plastic doesn’t take fingerprints.’ He grinned at Miss Pink unpleasantly.

  ‘Does it?’ Madge asked her.

  ‘Yes, but he could have worn gloves.’

  ‘It means a climber,’ the guide postulated. ‘A survival bag and a pack frame. Was there a frame near the body?’

  ‘I didn’t see one, but then it could have been covered by rubbish. The reason the body wasn’t, was that it slid off the plastic, presumably.’

  ‘Why are you so certain about the frame?’ Hamlyn asked.

  Madge regarded him with good-natured contempt. ‘A fireman’s lift? All that way?’ She turned to the others. ‘But only a climber would think of a pack frame. There wouldn’t be any traces. . . . But he’s lost his survival bag. It’s simple, isn’t it? Whoever can’t produce a bag—’

  ‘It’s not so simple as that,’ Miss Pink demurred. ‘A person who has no bag today could say he never had one.’

  ‘Unless someone knew he had one,’ Maynard pointed out. ‘But then he would have come prepared with two bags.’

  ‘“Would have come”,’ Miss Pink repeated, ‘to the island? You think it was premeditated?’ There was a dead silence. Her eyes became abstracted, then sharpened. ‘And working on the lines of personal equipment is no help at all,’ she went on, ‘there’s all the gear in the Rescue Post.’ Mountain Rescue equipment was stored in a stable at the back of the house.

  ‘You’d better see if anything’s missing,’ Maynard told Hamlyn. ‘What’s your security like?’

  The other glowered, but seeing Miss Pink’s eyes on him, muttered unhappily, ‘The stable’s kept locked, but the key hangs in the passage inside the back door—with a tag marked Mountain Rescue Post. We don’t lock the back door until we go to bed.’

  ‘So it could have been anyone,’ Madge said.

  ‘Hardly anyone,’ Maynard corrected. ‘Survival bags are kept folded. Only a climber would know that they were big enough to get a body inside; only a climber would know that they were bags. It’s assuming too much to imagine a non-climbing tripper “borrowing” the key and taking just a plastic bag out of all the valuable gear lying around in that stable—against the time when he’s going to need it.’ He looked at Hamlyn. ‘You’d better go and take an inventory.’

  ‘It wouldn’t prove anything. The pack frame will have been put back, and I’m not particular about listing the numbers of small items like plastic bags.’

  ‘You’d make a good quarter-master,’ Maynard said acidly.

  *

  Detective Chief Inspector Merrick was tall and thin with hair which, having receded in a wide central swathe, made his face appear longer than it was. An impression of astuteness wasn’t contradicted by his other features; he was all angles: chin, nose and pointed ears, and he shone with a kind of bony cleanliness.

  His sergeant—a man called Ivory—was equally tall, but broad. Miss Pink always had the feeling that policemen’s wives knew little about diet; the only thin ones were those who would be thin in any circumstances—like Merrick. Another thought came to her as Merrick introduced Ivory; weight and fat were usually correlated with geniality but it was seldom that one met genial detectives. Despite his double chin, Ivory had sharp eyes and a narrow mouth. He hailed from Glasgow and looked like a successful ironmaster. She thought he would be good with professional criminals. Merrick looked as if he’d be good anywhere.

  It was now nine o’clock. It had been a strange evening for the residents of Glen Shira House. By way of the bush telegraph they’d been made aware of the movements of the police, but not of the details, and they’d tried to fill the gaps in their knowledge by speculation. During the afternoon the boats belonging to the settlement, directed by Captain Hunt, had taken policemen to Scarf Geo, and there were strange people along the top of the cliffs. There was a uniformed man on duty outside Largo and men in plain clothes coming and going. There was a rumour that fingerprints were being taken. After dinner the police asked to see Miss Pink.

  They were in the writing room. From the beginning it was clear that she was the one person who could be eliminated as a suspect, and that Merrick was going to take full advantage of her position and her knowledge. She’d been three days in the glen, had made contact with everyone except old MacNeill, and now she told them what she’d learned. It was a strange recital for, with hindsight, almost everything that had happened possessed significance and it was difficult for her not to be side-tracked by her own revelations.

  Ivory took notes but not many; she realised that since these were scanty there was indeed a good brain under Merrick’s high skull. Her formal statement—relating to the finding of the body—was all that was taken down carefully, but it seemed sparse. It was astonishing how concise one could be about death. Merrick asked more questions about the living people. She had a sudden impression, perhaps erroneous, that despite the wild setting they thought this was a stereotyped crime.

  Merrick, sitting at the writing table, regarded the notebook in front of him and read aloud: ‘Watkins, Irwin, Hamlyn, Lindsay, Maynard.’ He looked up. ‘Are we right in assuming that a woman couldn’t have carried the body? Climbers must be very strong. Is it not possible? What did she weigh? Eight and a half, nine stone?’

  ‘Nearer nine,’ Miss Pink ventured. ‘That’s—one hundred and twenty six pounds. A woman accustomed to carrying heavy loads could do it, but it’s over a mile from Largo to Scarf Geo, and we’d all know if there were a woman as strong as that around . . . surely?’ There was a pause during which the build of the women in the glen passed before her mind’s eye. She continued without expression, ‘Also I’m sure she’d need assistance to get the body on the frame, and to hoist the frame on her back. . . .’

  By now it was generally accepted that, in view of the plastic bag which would make the load incredibly slippery—as Madge had suggested—a pack frame must have been used as well. Ivory had checked the rescue equipment with Hamlyn but no frames were missing. That was not conclusive; it could have been taken and returned. Hamlyn couldn’t be sure about the survival bags.

  ‘So,’ Merrick continued, reverting to his list, ‘the body was probably too heavy for a woman to carry. That leaves us with these men.’

 
‘Only those five?’

  He looked at her keenly. ‘These to interview, ma’am. There are three more: Hunt and the MacNeills. We’ve had preliminary talks with them.’

  ‘They’re the crofters.’

  ‘The more important people had to wait until I arrived.’ It was said dryly. So it was the preliminaries which lesser ranks had been engaged on during the afternoon and early evening. It was dark now and high tide. The body was protected by a plastic tent and was being watched over by two men on top of the cliffs. Since the geo could only be approached by sea, and oars and outboards had been removed from the boats, there was no need to place a guard right on that awful tip. In any event, said Merrick, it was most unlikely that the killer would approach the body at this stage, when it had been photographed and the plastic bag treated for prints, but one had to observe the letter of the law.

  The body had been examined by a doctor. There were bruises on the throat which suggested strangulation, and it was almost certain that the other injuries had been caused after death, from the effects of the fall. Nothing was certain of course; they would have to wait for the pathologist’s report. However, there were indications. The body was fully clothed: in a pink halter top under a black jumper, and the jeans were fastened. It was not, on the face of it, a picture of rape. A search in the rubbish had revealed the bedding roll and a coat in addition to the shoulder bag. Even the flip-flops, the lilac dress and the contents of the plastic carriers (and the carriers) were found. Irwin had been ferried out to find and identify these effects. They had found no pack frame in the geo.

  ‘You’ve told us about these five men,’ Merrick was saying, ‘as they appear to you. We’ll go over them briefly to see if I’ve read you correctly, and then I think we’ll call it a night. Let’s start with Watkins. Stop me if you disagree. He’s forty-ish, powerful, running to fat; lazy, bad-mannered, and a bad guide. What is it, ma’am?’

  ‘Perhaps not bad technically, not a bad climber, just clumsy; it’s his relations with his clients that are unethical.’

  ‘Can you elaborate?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘It’s difficult to find an analogy. The point is that the activity is potentially dangerous—and emotional relationships destroy objectivity. So in this context such relationships are irresponsible. In putting his clients at risk he is a bad guide.’

  ‘You see why we need you. To continue: Watkins drinks heavily, he used violence on Terry Cooke and appears to have emptied her purse—of less than a pound, and he’s earning something like ten pounds a day excluding expenses.’ Merrick and Ivory exchanged looks. ‘We see a lot of violence and a lot more petty thieving. I don’t like a man who knocks women about and then steals a few coppers from her. It’s not fitting in this environment.’ Miss Pink’s mouth twitched. He went on, ‘The relationship between him and each of his current clients is also odd. Dear me, what a peculiar triangle for the Cuillin. What else was there?’

  Ivory pretended to look at his notes. ‘An inveterate liar.’

  ‘Was that my word—inveterate?’ Miss Pink was ingenuous. ‘That conversation I had with him this afternoon was bizarre; he appeared to assume that the killer was a man, then followed me rather too closely when I pointed out I had not mentioned the killer’s sex, and so jumped to the conclusion it was a woman. Was that stupidity or—’

  She stopped. Merrick said, ‘Or a clever man pretending to be stupid. I don’t know; I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Low cunning,’ Miss Pink said thoughtfully. ‘Then there was his suggestion that Betty Lindsay was a Lesbian and so she could be the killer, but when I said that I’d thought that Betty was attracted to him, either vanity or prudence got the better of him, and he went off on that tack, but maintaining that the attachment was neurotic on Betty’s part. I got a strong impression that he was building fantasies as he went along. He would start with a lie or an innuendo and then got carried away. Definitely not a clever man, I would say.’

  ‘Unless diabolically clever, ma’am.’

  ‘Not George Watkins. Just self-centred, I imagine. If he has any feeling for anyone, it’s for himself. I can’t see him taking the trouble to go across to Largo.’

  ‘Perhaps she went to him,’ Ivory said, and the others looked at him, Miss Pink thinking that he could be right; so many victims had a compulsive need for their predator.

  Merrick was following his own line of thought. ‘Hardly rape,’ he mused, ‘unless he dressed her afterwards. Unusual though. But then it’s unusual to remove the body; you’d expect him to leave it lying, but perhaps he thought it would be covered by rubbish and not found, at least till he’d got away. But no one has left the glen since last evening, excluding Maynard, who did, but came back. What puzzles you, ma’am?’

  ‘I’m wondering why you’ve not mentioned young MacNeill.’

  ‘Haven’t we? You think he’s a strong suspect?’

  ‘I thought you would think so.’

  ‘You think we always follow the obvious lines. True enough. We’ve spent quite a while with young Willie. I haven’t seen him myself, mind, but I’ve read his statement and talked to the officers who saw him. There doesn’t seem to be any discrepancy with what he told you in the kitchen. Not a very articulate lad, particularly by the time our people reached him, but shock could account for some of his behaviour. We have his reactions on finding the body from you. He could have been acting, like Watkins. Low cunning is sometimes sufficient to carry through an act. If they have the nerve to stick to a story, it can be very difficult to break them down. There’s that tale about him going to Largo and hearing the girl washing dishes in the company of a man. If it’s true, who’s the fellow? If it’s not true, why tell us?’ He looked at his sergeant.

  ‘Because someone saw him over there,’ Ivory said patiently.

  ‘Then why doesn’t he identify the fellow? He’s a suspect too.’

  ‘He only heard the man mumbling,’ Miss Pink said. ‘I agree with you, Mr Merrick; the story must be true because there’s no reason why he should make it up. If anything, it incriminates him. After all, his father almost certainly knew the lad was out, but his story will agree with the son’s.’

  ‘He doesn’t say he heard Willie come in. He says he was fast asleep and heard nothing.’

  ‘Confidence,’ she hazarded. ‘He knows his son didn’t do it and doesn’t need alibis.’

  ‘But that business of dumping the rubbish on top of the body,’ Merrick continued. ‘It’s suspicious—although all the locals, and the people staying here, knew he’d be tipping sooner or later. If he wasn’t the killer, he was certainly being used as an unwitting accessory.’

  ‘It could have had significance,’ she murmured.

  ‘How’s that, ma’am?’

  ‘Hatred. Like multiple stab wounds after death. To put the body on a tip might have been choice, not expediency.’

  He thought about that for a while then leaned forward with his elbows on the table. Miss Pink was in an easy chair on the other side. ‘If it wasn’t rape, did sex have any bearing on the murder?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so. You never saw her.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘She was the kind of girl people turn round and look at in the street, even if she’s wearing the dullest clothes. She would excite passion in any man, and many women. Either love or hate but never indifference.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘It wasn’t only her appearance but the things she said. She seemed unaware of the nature of the reactions she roused in people; she was rather stupid, you know: a very dangerous combination. One sees so many pretty girls in the courts who are not really delinquents, just innocent animals. Unfortunately they’re usually found by weak or wicked people and get into trouble before they have time to find the kind of people who might see to it that they come to no harm. But of course, they can’t tell the difference.’

  Merrick’s eyes were grim but he didn’t follow that line. ‘Who’s next?’ he asked, looki
ng at his list. ‘Irwin. In his twenties, a good guide but doesn’t possess formal qualifications, which puts him on the wrong side of our host, who is old-fashioned. You say Irwin was fond of the girl, took her in when Watkins threw her out. . . .’ He nodded to himself. ‘We don’t know much about Irwin really, do we? Except that on the night of the murder he was allegedly sleeping in a tent on his own not many miles away.’

  ‘But he’d have no reason to—’

  There was a knock at the door and Gordon Hamlyn entered with a tea tray. ‘I guessed you’d be needing this,’ he said with a self-congratulatory air. He placed the tray on the table, nodded at Merrick and, without invitation, started to set out the cups.

  ‘I understand you climb, sir?’ Merrick said, and Miss Pink remembered that Hamlyn was on his list.

  ‘I can still lead a Severe competently. Do you climb?’

  ‘No.’ The inspector looked at Miss Pink.

  ‘A Severe is quite hard,’ she explained. ‘The colonel is a well-known mountaineer.’

  ‘So you’ll know all about equipment,’ Merrick mused as the other started to pour out the tea. He gave Miss Pink a small smile. ‘I’d appreciate a second opinion on some of these points, sir. Now, this business of the disposal: we don’t often come across cases where bodies are carried so far—manually, but climbers must be used to the weight of a body?’

  ‘There’s a confusion here between climbers and rescuers.’ Hamlyn had handed round tea and biscuits, and now he settled himself in a chair. ‘Climbers are familiar with the weight of other climbers when there’s a slip or a fall, but you have to remember that the fallen man is then alive and conscious and capable of helping himself. Of course, I’m speaking of the normal run of events, you understand, not a serious or fatal fall. All climbers are familiar with the weight of a second on the rope—but that is not in the same category as the full weight of a body. That is, if you’ll forgive the pun, a dead weight.’ He leaned back and regarded Merrick with satisfaction.

  ‘Carried many?’ the latter asked with an air of childish curiosity.