The DCI David Fyfe Mysteries

by William Paul

  In the seat by the window, a spasm of abstract terror seized Ross. The missing hours between the stories in the bar and the discovery in the loch were a total blank. He sucked at a roll-up. The tobacco was burned in a single inhalation. Its crackling sounded inordinately loud to him.

  At the rock he had shut off the petrol to the outboard motor to stop the racket. Then it wouldn’t start again. Six times the motor coughed and died. Eventually he got the oars out and they began to row away. Barrington was babbling hysterically. He had realized it was all very true. She wasn’t a dummy. She was very dead. It was not a joke for his benefit.

  The boat slewed to one side because Barrington wasn’t pulling hard enough on his oar. Ross shouted at him. His next stroke skimmed the surface and he overbalanced, landing on his back with his feet sticking up. Once he struggled back into a seated position, almost capsizing the boat, the woman and the rock vanished into the mist.

  By the time they reached the shore Barrington had subsided from rambling incoherence to disconcerting silence. Ross wished he had stayed in bed, left the woman for somebody else to find. He was remembering now, piecing together what had happened. It had not been a dream after all. It hadn’t happened inside his head but outside it. He began to see the funny side. ‘But apart from that, Mr Barrington, how have you enjoyed your holiday so far?’

  In the hotel only Raymond, the chef, and Miranda, the breakfast waitress, were awake. They didn’t believe him when he tried to explain. They looked at each other over a pot of scrambled eggs and shook their heads. Fat Joe appeared, scratching hard at the sides of his overhanging belly. He sneered and ostentatiously smelled Ross’s breath. Then Barrington came into the kitchen. ‘It’s all true,’ he said quietly.

  The customer is always right. Raymond wiped his hands on his apron and went to call the police.

  In the next thirty minutes the imperceptibly rising wind dispersed the mist, shooing it away like a teacher emptying the playground of children when the bell rings. Fat Joe got a pair of binoculars and waddled out to the end of the jetty with Raymond, Miranda and a group of curious, half-awake guests. ‘Fuck me sideways,’ he said, handing the binoculars on. ‘It is true. She’s lying there like last week’s washing. Any idea who she is?’

  Ross shook his head in reply and bit the inside of his lip. ‘She’s not a Viking princess, that’s for sure,’ Barrington said.

  Loch Maree was placid and calm in the early afternoon. The reflection of the mountainous north shore went as deeply down into the water as its rocky reality climbed into the sky above. The sound of an outboard approaching the jetty droned lazily across the water. At the end of the jetty the navy divers were relieving the boredom by swimming. From the first-floor window Ross watched as a boat berthed and the young woman detective who had asked him to wait in the room made her awkward way ashore. He had mentally prepared the statement he would give to the police. McIsaac came in to check on him.

  ‘You’ll be first Bob. She’ll want you down in the office.’

  Ross rose obediently and then sat down. McIsaac offered the hip flask again. Ross shook his head. He didn’t want to drink too much.

  He wanted to make sure they believed him when he told them his story. Verisimilitude was required. This time he was confident he could convince them his story was true.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thursday, 13.23

  Moya McBain was sure her skirt was too short. It was a mistake. It might have been sophisticated and glamorous on the chic streets of Paris, but in a rowing boat heading out to view a murder victim on a rock in the middle of a loch it was only inconvenient. Everyone had tried hard not to stare at her legs, a sure sign that she was showing too much, and she could imagine their condescending smiles behind her back. She resisted the temptation to adjust her skirt. There was just no space to do it demurely in the boat with her knees up to her chest.

  On the rock she had been unable to go down to inspect the neck bruising properly. Dr Eames was crouching over the body, his balding head below the hemline of her skirt. He had looked up and been momentarily flummoxed by the sight of her thigh at the end of his nose. He took off his glasses and cleaned them to hide his embarrassment as he stood up. He was a tall man, well over six feet, even with a pronounced stoop. She was glad she hadn’t worn anything low cut or his nose would have been pointing down her cleavage.

  ‘Looks like a single blow to the side of the head with a blunt instrument,’ he said. ‘Then strangulation, probably while she was unconscious. There is no sign of any blood or tissue under the fingernails so she didn’t fight back against her attacker. Of course that’s assuming there was only one. Somebody could have held her hands behind her back, but I doubt it.’

  ‘She didn’t fall then?’ Moya asked, aware of the ridiculousness of the question as it came out.

  ‘Not on this rock she didn’t,’ Eames said, replacing his glasses and looking round. ‘And she’s been dead a fair while too. Probably a day, maybe longer.’

  There was not enough space on the rock for everybody. Three boats were floating alongside it. Two were full of officers in regulation overalls waiting to be told where to search, and the other accommodated the forensic team with all their boxes and bags. It had already disembarked a photographer who was flashing away at the corpse.

  ‘She was killed elsewhere then and dumped out here,’ Moya said.

  ‘I would say so,’ Eames conceded, trying hard not to look at her legs but failing. ‘As clear a case of strangulation as you can get. Somehow I don’t think she was persuaded to come dancing out here. She was dead on arrival.’

  ‘Pretty strange.’

  ‘People do the strangest things.’

  ‘Pretty bizarre in fact.’

  Eames crouched down again and reached out to touch the slightly blood-crusted hair. ‘Woman in white. The lady of the lake. The headline writers will have a field-day on this one.’

  It was only then, standing on Parliament Rock in the middle of the loch, that she fully appreciated her luck. This was no ordinary murder, certainly not a domestic dispute with kitchen knives within convenient reach. This was very different. Her pulse raced with repressed excitement. A semi-naked female body dumped in an almost inaccessible location but one where it was certain to be discovered. A practical mind, if not an entirely rational one, had done this. If she could crack the case she would make her name once and for all. Sour-faced Superintendent Ryder, who wouldn’t have put her on the simplest housebreaking if he had his way, would have to say well done. Nobody would laugh behind her back then.

  ‘One other thing before you go,’ Eames said.

  He was crouching down again and was cradling the dead woman’s hand in his. With a pair of tweezers he carefully extracted a crumpled bit of paper from the fist. He used his free hand to snap open a clear plastic bag to take it.

  ‘What is it?’ Moya asked.

  ‘It was inserted after death. The fingers were already in a state of rigor mortis when it was pushed in.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  Eames peered closely. He adjusted his glasses and shook his head. ‘See if you can make it out.’

  Moya took the bag and had it logged and recorded as evidence. The paper was roughly four inches square. It had been torn off a pad or a notebook. Three edges were straight, the other ragged. The writing was a scrawl but easily legible. Laura, please forgive me, it said. It was signed Bobby.

  The tail of the final letter was cut short where the paper had been torn off at the bottom.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday, 15.35

  The short skirt was still a problem in the boat on the way back to the hotel. Moya tried to reimpose her authority, issuing instructions to the two squad detective sergeants, Charlie Simpson and Peter McCue, who had driven up in the same car with her from Inverness. She did it sitting in the bows, talking back over her shoulder so that she wasn’t showing too much leg. They were the kind who played stupid chauvinistic games, t
he kind who huddled in a locker room corner and laughed amongst themselves.

  But it didn’t matter. She had done all the routine scene of crime stuff. Everything was ticking over. She kept going over the investigation strategy in her head. Nothing missed. No gaps. Nothing left to chance. She would show them. Over and over again she read the message on the little bit of paper inside its protective plastic bag. It was obvious who Laura was. She had to find out about this Bobby. Simple really.

  No more short skirts, she promised herself, as she was helped ashore at the hotel jetty. She grabbed hold of McIsaac’s arm to steady herself. He had a kindly face, careworn and deeply creased behind the white beard. It was reminiscent of her father, long dead but not forgotten. She walked alongside him on the wooden slats of the jetty, careful not to get her heels stuck in the narrow spacings.

  ‘The bloody European threesome are kicking up a fuss, Ma’am,’ McIsaac said. ‘They’re worried they’re going to be caught up in some kind of sex scandal.’

  ‘What makes them think this is a sex scandal?’

  ‘A crime of passion, they’re saying. It has to be if there’s a woman involved. And they want away before the media circus begins.’

  ‘They can’t go yet.’

  ‘That’s what I told them. They don’t like it.’

  ‘Then they can lump it.’

  McIsaac was enjoying himself. ‘They tried to claim some kind of diplomatic immunity,’ he said. ‘Made out that because they were big cheeses from Brussels, but I told them they would have to wait anyway.’

  ‘Good,’ Moya confirmed. ‘Fishermen should know how to be patient. Are any of them called Robert?’

  ‘I don’t know Ma’am. I don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘Can you find out?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Moya stopped beside the sundial in the ornamental garden in front of the hotel and tried to work out what time it was from the position of the shadow on the weathered stone. The lower half of the pedestal was covered in a yellow-green moss.

  ‘It’s just after half past three, Ma’am,’ McIsaac told her.

  ‘Thanks. My daughter has run off with my watch.’

  ‘You should get the police on her.’

  McIsaac explained that he had requisitioned the hotel office for her to work from. He had got a copy of the voters’ roll from the sub-post office at Gairloch and a copy of the council tax register showing properties and their owners in the parish. ‘A good few hundred round the loch,’ he said. ‘People like to hide away in remote nooks and crannies up here.’

  Moya started to think through an investigation strategy. Every property would have to be visited, every owner contacted. They would begin with those on the south shore closest to Parliament Rock. The most urgent requirement was to get an identity for the victim. McCue was delegated to head south with a set of fingerprints. There was jewellery too; a ring with a cryptic inscription and a locket that had yet to be prised open. It was only a matter of time before they got a name.

  ‘Oh, before I forget. Superintendent Ryder phoned from Inverness to say that a Chief Inspector David Fyfe is heading north to help you.’

  ‘What?’ Moya tried not to let the news upset her. ‘Who?’

  ‘Fyfe his name is. Some big-shot detective from big-shot Edinburgh. Active liaison officer with Scottish Crime Squad, I think they call it. He’s quite famous actually. He’s been involved in a number of high profile cases.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I have heard of him. I didn’t think I would be meeting him here though.’

  ‘Maybe you’re just lucky that way.’

  That bastard Ryder was deliberately trying to humiliate her, Moya thought. He couldn’t just let her get on with it. The pity was that she had admired Fyfe’s photograph in the papers, followed his career with interest and envy. At one point she had even considered writing a letter to him but had decided that would be too naff. She had always wondered what he would be like to meet face to face. Now circumstances meant she would have to be cold and distant, rather than friendly and charming. She had no intention of handing over control of this case. It belonged to her. David bloody Fyfe wasn’t going to take it away from her.

  ‘Do I have a choice in this?’ she asked angrily.

  McIsaac shook his head, disclaiming responsibility. ‘As I understand it DCI Fyfe comes up to look over your shoulder. If the case goes well he takes the credit. If it doesn’t you take the blame.’

  A man came round the side of the hotel and along the path into the garden. He was unshaven, wearing a tweed jacket and a colourful woollen hat. Moya realized as he approached that the colours were fishing flies on the dark wool. The man lifted the hat from his head and twisted it between his hands. Moya wondered how he could do that without getting the hooks caught in his skin. McIsaac stepped protectively in front of her.

  ‘Here’s a Robert for you,’ McIsaac said. ‘Robert Ross, the ghillie who found the body. Looks like he can’t wait to be questioned.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Ross,’ Moya said in her best authoritative voice. ‘I’m just going inside. We’ll get round to you soon enough.’

  ‘No, no, your honour,’ Ross said, side-stepping McIsaac and dropping a few inches onto the lawn. ‘I need to tell you now.’

  ‘Everybody will get their chance.’

  ‘No point. No point.’

  ‘What do you mean, Bob?’ McIsaac asked.

  ‘I can tell you who the murderer is.’

  Moya did not know how to react to this unexpected announcement. His name was Robert. McIsaac had called him Bob. Others presumably would call him Bobby. Ross’s shadow fell parallel to the one thrown by the pedestal of the sundial. She did not smile. She did not frown. Her first thought was that it couldn’t be this easy. McIsaac spoke.

  ‘What do you mean, Bob?’ McIsaac asked again.

  ‘I know who the murderer is,’ he repeated.

  ‘Who?’ Moya asked impatiently.

  If the pause was for dramatic effect it worked very effectively. Moya was sure she saw the shadows creep round almost imperceptibly. Faces at the hotel windows stared down on them. The air around her fractured into a million flying insects.

  ‘It was me,’ Ross said proudly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thursday, 15.56

  David Fyfe did not hurry on his way north. He passed the time by fantasizing about what Moya McBain might look like. He had a good feeling, a premonition that they would hit it off. He was barely over the Forth Bridge before they were in bed together.

  He had a leisurely, greasy lunch at the Little Chef restaurant on the A9 south of Inverness and bought a map to plan his route the rest of the way to Loch Maree. As the roads got narrower and the terrain rougher he stopped frequently to appreciate the beauty of the Highland scenery and to let the two dogs run free. With any luck, the inquiry would be finished by the time he got there.

  Leaning on the parapet of a picturesque hump-backed bridge over a rocky riverbed in the middle of nowhere he phoned Sally to tell her where he was and what was happening. Earlier he had ignored two incoming calls, guessing that it might be somebody telling him to turn back. He had no intention of doing that, even though there was nothing on the radio about any murder. If it was a false alarm he would find out for himself in due course while enjoying a pleasant drive in the country.

  Fyfe saw the hotel from a long way out at the southern tip of the loch. It blinked in and out of sight on the undulating road as he was reeled in towards it and the heavily wooded islands that seemed to fill its back garden.

  As he drew up in the car park a weary-looking police constable at the entrance pocketed a hip flask he had been drinking from and eyed him suspiciously. Jill and Number Five tumbled out of the car and began sniffing around. A long, curving conservatory on the front of the hotel was full of plant pots and whicker armchairs but devoid of people. A cloud of midges hovered around the hanging lamp above the door. It burned uselessly in the late afternoon light.
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  ‘Evening, constable,’ Fyfe said. ‘Seen any dead bodies around by any chance?’

  ‘What do you know about that?’ McIsaac replied suspiciously.

  ‘Not a lot yet.’ Fyfe looked up at the pale sky and through a scatter of trees across to the rounded black bulk of Slioch. ‘Nice night for a murder hunt.’

  McIsaac’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you a reporter by any chance?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been accused of many things in my time but never with being a member of Her Majesty’s Press. Actually, it’s a whole lot worse than that.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘Get away,’ McIsaac mocked. ‘So am I.’

  Fyfe showed his identity card. ‘Your friendly Scottish Crime Squad representative. I’m looking for DI McBain. She around?’

  McIsaac had relaxed. He smiled as he stood aside. ‘Oh yes, sir. The office is beside the dining room through the back. DI McBain will be expecting you. You’re just a little late though.’

  ‘I am? It’s not even dark yet.’

  ‘We’ve got somebody for the killing. He’s making a full confession as we speak. Beat my record would you believe?’

  Fyfe took in the information and tried not to show surprise. He scratched at his twitching eyebrows. ‘You won’t be needing me then,’ he said. ‘I’ll just say hello and goodbye and go away again.’

  ‘DI McBain’s pretty pleased with herself.’

  ‘I’m pleased with her too. I get to go on a lovely drive in the Highlands and I don’t even have to work at the end of it. I’d like to shake that woman by the hand.’

  ‘On you go, sir. You’ll find everybody in the bar.’

  Fyfe called to his dogs. ‘I don’t suppose they object to animals since it’s a hunting/shooting/fishing hotel.’

  ‘No more than they object to people,’ McIsaac said, following on behind.

  The deserted reception area had a rack of tourist brochures and a glass display case full of tartan cloth and cashmere sweaters. One wall was entirely covered in six-inch square, glass-fronted boxes containing different salmon and trout flies. Fyfe was drawn to the sound of voices off to his left. Above a door was the sign, Ghillies’ Bar. The letters were burned into a rectangular piece of tree bark. He pushed the door open and found a small crowded room lined with stuffed fish and ten-foot rods. He thought one wall was a mural, then he realized it was a window looking out onto the still waters of the loch.