by William Paul
She switched on the shower and adjusted the heat of the water. She stepped out of the shorts and was pulling the T-shirt over her head when the phone rang. Hopefully it would be Ian and they could begin the ritual process of making up. A little humility was a small price to pay for a weekend in Paris. Knowing the house was empty she went naked into the bedroom to answer the phone. A pleasantly cool draught wrapped itself round her as she sat on the edge of the bed. Downstairs she could just make out the sound of the radio playing.
‘Is that Inspector McBain?’
Moya recognized the deep male voice immediately. It wasn’t Ian. It was George Rusling, assistant chief constable, and the man almost everybody believed she was sleeping with to win her fast-track promotion. She wasn’t but she had no doubt he was willing, given half a chance. Rusling had decided he would help her career anyway, no strings attached. They had never spoken about it but he seemed to enjoy the rumours. A typical man, even if he was more likeable than most. He was a big pal of Ian’s too, both of them committee members of the most exclusive golf club in town.
‘Inspector McBain speaking.’
‘Moya, are you dressed yet?’
She rubbed her breasts and enjoyed imagining him breaking out in a cold sweat. If only he could see her now, that would knock him out of his stride.
‘Almost. Why?’
‘I know you’re not due on shift until the afternoon but if you were to get your pretty little behind in here fast you might learn something to your advantage.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, a murder case is about to be allocated to the most senior investigating officer available only there isn’t one available yet.’
‘A murder.’ She caught her breath and sat erect. ‘You’ll give it to me?’
‘It looks like a juicy one too. A lady-in-the-lake mystery.’
‘For me?’
‘First come, first served Moya. This is your early-morning call. Don’t let on I told you. Make the most of it.’
She put the phone down and forgot about the shower, rushing about the bedroom to find her clothes. She would have liked to progress through the ranks without Rusling’s patronage but she was a realist, tough-minded enough to believe she would have got there eventually without his help. But every police force had its favourites and she was an easy target for inbred prejudice and not-so-veiled insults. She mustn’t get paranoid, she told herself. An infiltrator in a man’s world had to be mentally strong. Rusling’s interest in her was coincidental, not crucial. Nobody got anywhere without being good at the job. She would beat the bastards off, and stay ahead of the game. Then she would be able to pick somebody from the lower ranks to patronize.
The trick was never to let them know about the turmoil of uncertainty going on inside, the fear of making a mistake no man would ever make, the fear of humiliation and ridicule. Never let them know about the lonely nights spent weeping into a pillow when she reverted to being the little girl the boys at school called Moaning Moya. By day, she never cried and she never let them see the doubts that persisted like a bad migraine.
Suicides were common in the Highlands, murders rare. It was early days. It might turn out to be a suicide so she shouldn’t get her hopes up. She had never been in charge of a murder inquiry before but now the seasonal combination of holidays, sickness, and suspension through drink-driving had given her the opening and the opportunity to make her name. Superintendent Mark Ryder, her immediate superior, had already made it clear he didn’t trust her on simple housebreakings, let alone murders. It was mutual distaste. They didn’t get on. Whenever she was near him she was gripped by a wicked desire to grab his testicles and watch his eyes water when she squeezed with all her strength.
She had complained to George. He had pulled rank and got her name put in the frame for this case. Nothing wrong with getting a little help from a friend, except that Ryder would resent it hugely. It was up to her to show she could hack it.
Her pulse raced with restrained excitement at the prospect of taking charge of a murder case. She was fully dressed and presentable within two minutes. A quick tidy of her hair and straightening of seams. At the back door in three.
She hesitated for a moment, realizing that she was wearing the clothes she had bought for her romantic French weekend. She dismissed the idea that Rusling had deliberately given her the case to keep her and Ian apart.
‘Sorry Ian,’ she said regretfully to herself. ‘Paris is off.’
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, 08.42
The hot towels over David Fyfe’s face sterilized the air he breathed in through his nostrils. He imagined it working like a strong drain cleaner, dissolving the accumulated debris inside his lungs, following the various u-bends to scour the veins and arteries through his heart, and flushing the synaptic junctions in his brain. Not a very scientific picture but a pleasing one that gave him the illusion of perfect health for a little while. It didn’t last, of course. Thirty seconds at most then he was able to relax and breathe easily. His skin swiftly learned to tolerate the towels, originally so hot that their touch was almost unbearable.
The monthly shave in Sergio’s basement barber’s parlour had become another of the small rituals Fyfe liked to spread through his waking hours. He had been passing the red and white pole attached to the railings for years, always glancing down through the window at customers sitting in the big old-fashioned dentist-style chair. Mostly they were getting their hair cut but every now and then he would see a towel-wrapped head and the flash of an open razor in the hand of the white-smocked barber.
The parlour was below ground in a cluttered terrace of Chinese and Indian restaurants and shops with fruit and vegetables taking up half the pavement. By day the smell of bananas and oranges was dominant. By night curry and sweet-and-sour took over. Sergio was the barber, a man with huge hands and a Desperate Dan chin. He had a concave nose and an old scar on one cheekbone. The first time Fyfe lay back in the chair all soaped up and Sergio came at him with the razor a mild panic attack made him flinch nervously.
‘Eet’s a okay, Meester Fyfe,’ said Sergio in an accent twenty years in Edinburgh had scarcely affected. ‘Zere are two zings in life ve must learn to trust abzolutely. One iz our wife when she says she loves us and ze uzzer is ze barber wiz ze razor in hees hand.’
Fyfe learned to trust absolutely, no longer twitching when the blade scraped his throat. For such a big man, Sergio had a very light touch. He would chat away as he worked, occasionally bursting into song to accompany the Pavarotti tape that played endlessly. He would offer homilies and parables with the punch-line often lost in the tangle of his impenetrable English.
‘Always remember Meester Fyfe, zat ze policeman’s bottom eez never ze fattest.’
That couldn’t be what he meant but it was how Fyfe interpreted it. The good thing about Sergio was that, because of the nature of his job, he never expected a reply.
Fyfe always allowed two days’ growth of beard in preparation for Sergio. It was his Calvinist upbringing. If he was going to pay to be shaved, he wanted to make it worth his while. Afterwards the skin of his face felt impossibly smooth, like polished wood. It was a lovely sensation. Twenty-four hours later the faintest edge of roughness would have returned. Time marches on, he always thought stoically.
Below the total white-out of the rapidly cooling towel Fyfe heard his portable phone warble. The sound conveyed no intimation of doom this time, he noted. This call was going to be a welcome one. He retrieved the phone from his pocket and held it to his ear, pressing the receive button.
‘David Fyfe.’
‘Davie my boy, how are you? Mark Ryder in Inverness here.’
Fyfe had to think to place Ryder. It came quickly. Superintendent in the Highlands, low handicap golfer, kids into skiing and hill-walking, wife into bridge. They had been together for two weeks on a fraud investigation induction course. Ryder had an eye for the women and he liked a drink. Sound man.
‘
Mark. Superintendent now isn’t it? What can I do for you?’
‘Buy me that drink you owe me.’
‘I’ll start saving up now.’
‘There is something else, naturally enough. You’re the chosen one from the crime squad to help out on difficult inquiries.’
‘Yeah. Got a difficult inquiry, have you?’
‘Not yet, but it might go that way. I’ve formally requested your help and I’ve already squared it with your boss. He passed on your personal number. Can you get up here pronto?’
Fyfe liked the idea of a trip north into the Highlands. The dogs would appreciate it too. All that empty space to explore. He liked the idea of the spontaneity, the sudden adventure. He lifted the warm towel from his face and grinned at Sergio. The phone crackled. Pavarotti hit a high note.
‘What’s the problem?’ Fyfe asked.
‘We have a potential murder at Loch Maree. Know where that is?’
‘I’ll look it up on the map.’
‘Wester Ross. Woman’s body found by a fishing party but she’s not the problem.’
‘What is then?’
‘Well, the powers-that-be have assigned a young female detective as officer in charge of the case and frankly I don’t think she’s up to it.’
‘Oh dear, that’s a bit politically incorrect, isn’t it Mark?’
‘Between you and me, Dave, she’s only there because an assistant chief who must remain nameless has been inside her knickers, that and an epidemic of flu and holidays shoving her to the front. I think she’ll make a hash of it. Nice legs but no brains, if you know what I mean.’
‘You’re not paranoid are you, Mark?’
‘I wasn’t till everybody started talking about me.’
‘So you want me to babysit this floozie with a badge?’
‘It has to be someone from outside, Dave. Office politics, you understand.’
‘I reckon I can handle her, legs and all.’
‘Good. Her name is Moya McBain. She’ll be based at the Lochside Hotel on Loch Maree. Where are you now?’
Fyfe looked at Sergio cleaning the razor in the sink. ‘I’m in bed with my Italian lover.’
Sergio looked at him in the mirror, fluttered his eyelashes and snapped the razor shut.
‘You should be so lucky,’ Ryder said. ‘Are you in Edinburgh?’
‘It’s a very romantic city.’
‘Then it will take you four or five hours to get there. I’ll tell her you’ll be there late afternoon.’
‘Have you told her how devastatingly good-looking I am?’
‘I’ll break it to her gently.’
‘And I’ll be gentle with her. I’m leaving now.’
Fyfe ended the call and decided he wouldn’t hand in his resignation that day. A short sojourn in the Highlands showing the ropes to an attractive and ambitious female detective sounded like his kind of job. Maybe she would sleep with him to advance herself. It would keep him out of the office too so no-one could annoy him. He had known it was going to be a good call before he answered it. He had known today was not going to be the day to hand in his resignation. He heaved himself out of the chair. His palms over both cheeks confirmed the smoothness of his face.
Sergio flicked his razor shut. ‘Ze bizness, Meester Fyfe,’ he said, admiring his handiwork. ‘You are once more a new man again.’
Fyfe flexed his jaw to get accustomed to the feel of the newly-mown skin. ‘Same old one, I’m afraid, Sergio,’ he replied.
Chapter Fifteen
Thursday, 09.47
Donald McIsaac, the local policeman at Gairloch for most of his adult life, could remember the last murder he had been involved in. He had just been installed in the police house, fresh from training college. He was newly married and the first child was on the way. He had still to wear the creases out of his uniform. His first official act was to attend a motor accident at Kerrysdale. Nobody hurt, not much damage. That was day one of his career. Day two was the murder.
The victim was a well-known local poacher, Sleekit Sam, found face down in a ditch with his hands tied behind him and the side of his head blown off. The vendetta between him and the gamekeeper on the estate was common knowledge. Geordie Sim was waiting in his gun room for McIsaac and the detective sent out from Inverness. When they arrived he was cleaning his shotgun, plunging the rod in and out of the barrel. They hesitated in the doorway but Geordie put down the gun and waved them in. They let him talk them through descriptions of the antlers and skulls that adorned the walls and when he had finished he held out his wrists for the handcuffs.
‘I was going to frighten Sam,’ he explained. ‘Tied him to a tree and took aim. Stupid bastard didn’t keep his head still.’
It was all settled between dawn and dusk. Geordie Sim went quietly, admitted everything, and was sentenced to life imprisonment. He served eight years and would have had his old job back except he couldn’t get his firearms licence renewed. He was given a job as an estate worker and handled guns anyway. Two years later he dropped dead from a heart attack just as he was sighting on a big old stag down near Applecross. It was 1966, McIsaac remembered. A Saturday. The day England won the World Cup. A sad day for everyone.
Now McIsaac had a snow-white beard, two weeks to go to retirement and maybe around the same length of time before his first grandchild was born. When fat Joe had phoned him early that morning with news of the lady in the loch his first thought had been how a murder at each extremity of his career would make it beautifully symmetrical.
He had called in reinforcements and gone out in one of the hotel boats to see the body for himself. From a distance she seemed to float on the water, white robes fluttering about her, larger than life through the lenses of the binoculars. No obvious candidate as perpetrator this time. No obvious signs of the victim’s identity. Too many strangers, too many second homes in the area. McIsaac peered at her from the boat. He didn’t go ashore. He had no idea who she might be or how she had ended up on the rock.
In the hotel he sympathized with a morose Robert Ross, who assured him it had to be murder. She couldn’t have battered herself to death and then swum out to the rock. McIsaac didn’t doubt it.
And he listened patiently to the excitable Englishman apologizing for thinking initially it was all a stunt, a ghostly Viking princess laid out on the rock especially to impress him. He had thought it was all part of the holiday package. The Belgian and the Greek wanted guarantees that no names would appear in the newspapers. They seemed to think it was a diplomatic incident of great magnitude, not the murder itself but the fact that they were associated with it. McIsaac deflected all inquiries expertly, saying he had no authority and they would have to wait for senior officers.
And here came the senior officer in charge, a shapely young woman in a short skirt with just a trace of hesitation in her voice to betray her nervousness. Nice body, nice legs. A couple of plain-clothes sergeants stood behind her grinning inanely and giving the unsettling impression that they knew exactly what McIsaac was thinking. The forensic team arrived in their van. A team of navy divers from the Kyle base drew up with all their equipment. More uniformed officers followed in a mini-bus. Dr Albert Eames, the pathologist, appeared, unfolding himself out of a low-slung MG sports car and stalking off into the hotel.
The small car park was almost full. So much dust had been stirred up by the arrivals it stung McIsaac’s eyes as he stood at the entrance explaining the situation to the delightfully long-legged DI McBain. This must be the modern way to investigate a murder, he was thinking. Last time it was just me and another man. I bet this lot don’t beat our record.
‘Thank you, Constable McIsaac,’ the young woman was saying. ‘Can I ask you to organize the boats. I want to get out to her and see for myself before we begin taking statements.’
Chapter Sixteen
Thursday, 11.51
Robert Ross waited in the first floor room they gave him to keep him apart. He sat at a table by the window with his hand
s pressed flat on the surface to stop them shaking when he wasn’t rolling cigarettes. Normally he could do one in twenty seconds but since that morning he had been struggling to beat five minutes. Even then the roll-up was so loose it generally burned away after a couple of puffs and he had to start making a new one all over again.
Fat Joe provided a plate of sandwiches which Ross didn’t want and a pot of coffee that left grains like thick mud in the bottom of the mug.
‘I don’t know if this scandal will be good or bad for business, Bobby,’ he said. ‘What do you think? The hotel will be in all the papers. Do you think I should buy some ads as well?’
Donald McIsaac got him more tobacco when he ran out and slipped him a hip flask of whisky to calm his nerves.
‘Won’t be long now,’ McIsaac told him. ‘The lassie’ll be back to hear your story then we can let you loose in the bar.’
Ross didn’t speak back to either of them. He drank coffee and smoked and watched the policemen in their white nylon overalls board the boats and head out into the loch. Parliament Rock was visible from the end of the jetty but not from the hotel window. From where he sat a jutting tree-covered headland screened it from view. The day was clear and still. The joins between land and water and land and sky were smudged. Colonies of midges stained the air at the edges of the loch. The sun passed its midday peak, dragging the shadow on the weathered stone pedestal of the sundial in the little ornamental garden round from west to east.
Ross could see himself from the night before, the centre of attraction as he told his compelling tales of Viking princesses and swimming stags. The rapt faces, the jaws hanging slackly. He had them all on toast. And from the bar he was suddenly being knocked off his feet as the boat bumped into Parliament Rock and the propeller was chewing into it and striking sparks.
‘I knew we would find her,’ the Englishman kept saying, apparently thinking it was all one big joke. ‘Our rendezvous here was ordained.’
