by Gwen Moffat
‘I’ll tell you,’ he said quietly. ‘I got the feeling you could be the only one I can trust. I think there’s a sleeper in this village. You know what a sleeper is?’ She nodded. ‘So I’ve collected all their prints over the years. They don’t know, of course. But if it’s a local tried to burn my place down, and me in it and all my records, I got my comparisons, see?’
CHAPTER FIVE
One of the obvious moves of the wife-killer is to tell his neighbours that the wife left of her own accord, taking all her clothes. The knowledge of this had been bothering Miss Pink since Campbell first told her that Debbie had left the village, and it continued to worry her throughout the night. She did get to bed eventually, after she sent Campbell home. Then she was inclined to doubt that the cottage had been on fire, because when she asked him where he intended to sleep he said that he would go home. He gave no indication that his house was uninhabitable.
He had left, using the front door quite openly, with no anxious glance to see what might be waiting for him outside. Watching him walk past the nurse’s drive, illuminated by the last street light, his hands in his pockets, almost jaunty, she was struck by his change of mood. He appeared satisfied, as if he’d succeeded in his mission. To impress her, presumably, but in what respect? That he was a target for a killer, or cruelly treated by his wife?
She fell asleep quickly, only to wake an hour later convinced that Debbie had to be located. She went downstairs and sat over the dying fire with a cup of tea, considering whether she should go to the police or to Campbell’s cottage. But if the man were merely riding his imagination on a loose rein, she didn’t want some bumpkin of a policeman giving undue weight to her information. For all she knew, it could be the sympathetic hearing she gave his fantasies that was stimulating him to greater flights.
She didn’t get to sleep again until the dawn showed behind her curtains, and then she slept late. She came downstairs feeling gritty and disgruntled and took her time over breakfast. She knew that she was resentful, not because her day was disrupted, but because she was indecisive.
The sputter of an outboard motor alerted her and she looked out of the open door to see Blue Zulu chugging down the loch. There could be little wrong if he were going fishing and, better still, she was free to investigate the cottage, to eliminate all doubt without danger or the fear of ridicule.
She drove up the Lamentation Road, passing the track which she now knew led to the car park, looking for another which would give access to the cottage, but there was none. She turned and came back to take the dusty trail to the car park. This was a space in the trees with a drive taking off from the far corner and a notice saying: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO ACCESS. Within a hundred yards she came to a whitewashed cottage nestling under the escarpment, with a stone barn off to one side. There was no sign of fire.
She opened the gate and walked up a flagged path to the front door. She depressed the thumb latch, smiling as she remembered Campbell’s talk of fingerprints, but as she’d expected, the door was locked.
She moved to the window on the left. There was a sink below it with dishes on a draining board, a mop, liquid soap. She could distinguish a plastic-topped table and four chairs. She glimpsed shelves, tins of food, crockery, pans, a cooker, a refrigerator.
She crossed to the window on the other side of the door, but there was no question of seeing inside this room. The glass had a smoky bloom that rendered it opaque. The little she could see of the inner sill was thick with soot.
A door slammed. She turned and saw a police car parked behind her Renault and a man in uniform approaching. He came up the path favouring her with a smile that lit his eyes. This was no country bumpkin. He was fair, with blue eyes and a small moustache. He was a fraction overweight, like a rugby player a little past his prime, but his uniform fitted him well. He held out his hand.
‘Miss Pink, I believe. I’m Gordon Knox. You were looking for Campbell?’
‘For his wife actually.’ She returned the smile as she shook hands. She was greatly relieved; there were no more decisions to make—at least for the time being. Let Authority take over. In the person of this man it seemed capable enough.
‘Mrs Campbell went away yesterday,’ he told her. He glanced at the smoky window. ‘And that’s not going to bring her back neither.’
‘There’s been a fire?’ She drew it out.
‘Did you meet Campbell yet?’
‘Yes, we’ve had some conversation.’
‘And I believe you’ve been a magistrate, ma’am?’
‘I have.’ She pitied anyone who tried to hide their past in a Highland village.
‘So you’ll have come across situations like this before?’
‘I’m not sure that I know what the situation is, Mr Knox. There’s been a fire, his wife has left …’ She trailed off and he met her eyes without subterfuge.
‘Exactly. He set the fire.’
‘How can you be certain?’
‘You’re not surprised, ma’am. And you don’t need to be well acquainted with Mr Campbell to see he’s an exhibitionist. He set the fire to bring his wife back.’
‘I’d think it would only serve to drive her further away, particularly if she has the children with her.’
‘She has the children. I called the school and she picked them up yesterday and didn’t send them back this morning. She phoned the headmistress and told her she’s taking them to her mother in Pitlochry.’ He paused and regarded her with a mock seriousness which was suddenly illumined by his dazzling smile. ‘You talked to Campbell. If he didn’t tell you that he was involved with the Special Branch and that someone was gunning for him, it was only because he thought you were the Enemy.’
She nodded. ‘So you think he started a fire to demonstrate to his wife that his fantasies were in fact reality? That’s possible. A bitter quarrel could have been the cause of all this; it makes sense. Poor man. But how did you know? I didn’t expect him to tell you about the fire.’
‘He came to my house early this morning with a story about arsonists breaking in here yesterday afternoon.’
‘There’s no sign of a break-in.’
‘He said they went to the back door. Shall we see?’
They walked round the cottage. A neat vegetable plot was laid out between the house and rough ground at the base of the cliff. A dustbin stood by the back door, the wood of which was raw and splintered beside the keyhole.
‘He’s thorough,’ Knox said with grudging admiration. He depressed the thumb latch and the door gave slightly, then stopped solid. ‘He’s barred it with something, probably a piece of timber.’
Miss Pink removed the dustbin lid to reveal a garment which she lifted gingerly. It was a child’s jersey, clean but ragged and unravelled. In the bottom of the black plastic liner were a number of tins, burned and flattened. Knox regarded her with amusement.
‘She did turn up at the school,’ he reminded her. ‘In a taxi, and she telephoned the headmistress this morning. The man’s unbalanced, but he’s not a murderer.’
‘Are you being indiscreet, Mr Knox?’
‘This is the back of beyond, ma’am, and there aren’t any witnesses to our conversation. We don’t—in fact we can’t—do things by the book in Sgoradale.’
‘So why are you confiding in me?’
‘I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, just reassuring you a bit maybe. The reason Campbell came to me was because he wants this’—he gestured at the cottage—‘publicised. He doesn’t know where his wife is; well, if he guesses she’s gone to her mother’s he’s too intimidated by the family to follow her. What he wants is this incident to get in the papers and on television, so she’ll know about it, be sorry she left, and come back.’
‘That would be totally irrational,’ Miss Pink murmured, ‘and he’s not. It’s more like a cry for help: showing Debbie what she’s forced him to do: retaliating, like a man threatening suicide because he’s been rejected. What motive did he attribute to t
he arsonists?’
‘First he tried to convince me that someone had meant for him to die in the fire, and when I said that wasn’t possible because if the fire started in the lounge, as he said, then the arsonists knew he wasn’t in the house. So he said that he knew too much, that they were after his valuables. I got interested then. He’s always snooping; he talks about “watchers” and no wonder: he’s always watching people himself! I suggested he might have seen something he shouldn’t, and he knew what I meant all right.’
‘This has nothing to do with blackmail.’ Miss Pink was firm. ‘He hasn’t got the confidence for it. He’s pretending he holds files; he could have compiled some, but you may be sure they have no more relation to reality than the rest of his fantasy.’
Knox regarded the splintered door thoughtfully. ‘People could think he was keeping tabs on them.’
‘It’s a harmless game.’ Miss Pink was vehement. ‘A secret life that started probably when he was adolescent and never grew out of.’
‘His wife didn’t think it was a game.’
‘I don’t like to see families broken up: children without a father and so on.’
Colour rose under the fair skin. He had a nervous mannerism of sucking in his cheeks. He was doing it now. ‘Well, I’ve done all I mean to do here,’ he said. ‘I told him I’d have a look round, but I’ll point out there wasn’t much I could do without him here to let me in and see inside that lounge.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m a bit confused. I know he’s mad, but is he sane enough to know I’m humouring him? Is he stringing me along? What would he do if I told him to forget the arsonist story and find some other way of getting his wife back?’
‘Go along with the fantasy for the time being,’ Miss Pink advised. ‘If he pushes too hard, if he tries to embarrass you, you could make a casual mention of bringing in the CID. Of course, there shouldn’t be any witnesses.’
***
She drove to Feartag to deliver the items she’d bought in Inverness. Beatrice had good news; she had convinced the Millars that the best thing they could do for Alec was to send him away for a month. The waiting list for state institutions was long, but she had found a place for him in a private holiday home. When Miss Pink asked how the Millars could afford the cost, Beatrice became flustered and changed the subject. ‘So what’s your news?’ she asked. ‘Did you paint Inverness red?’
‘But you had all the excitement! Or haven’t you heard about the fire at Campbell’s cottage?’
She hadn’t and Miss Pink enlightened her with an account that included his visit to her cottage last night. Beatrice was appalled. ‘But weren’t you terrified? Knocking at your window like that, virtually forcing his way in!’
‘I was frightened, but had he been dangerous, the best way to deal with him was to let him talk. He’s harmless providing he’s treated correctly. Even Knox realises that.’
‘And now you’ve met Knox, do you see why that embarrassing trick was played on him? With the car?’
‘Not in the circumstances, although he could be unpopular with the local lads. He’s intelligent and well-mannered. Frankly I’m surprised. It’s usually the deadbeats in a police force who fetch up in remote villages.’
‘He’s well-mannered with ladies.’
‘It’s pleasant to be given a handle when one is addressed. I haven’t been called “ma’am” since I left Montana.’ Miss Pink was on the defensive. ‘Speaking of charmers,’ she began, and blushed but ploughed on, ‘I picked up Flora MacKenzie hitchhiking to Inverness.’
Beatrice sighed. ‘She does it in summer-time too, when there’s no knowing whom she might pick up. Suppose she encountered a motor-cycle gang? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I blame Coline; she’s wrapped up in her books. As for Ranald, he’s hopeless as a father; I always thought he married Coline less for her money than for the security of having someone to order his life. He’s like an old dog who’s found a family to take him in. He’s treated a bit like an old dog too.’ She paused and, with one of those tangential swings to which Miss Pink was becoming accustomed, she went on, ‘They can’t blame Hell’s Angels for the fire at Campbell’s cottage.’
‘Who—oh, yes; Ranald thought they were responsible for the thefts from cars in the summer. Do you think Campbell set fire to his own place?’
‘I’m afraid he’s capable of anything, but only as it relates to himself. He’s not a vandal; all his hostility is directed inwards. If only his doctor could persuade him to have therapy … but he’s unpredictable. He might well suspect a conspiracy. He would be right, of course.’
‘But only in order to help him.’
‘Can he see the difference?’
***
When Miss Pink returned to her cottage, the front door was wide open. From upstairs came the whine of a vacuum cleaner. Mary MacLeod, a large cheerful woman in her fifties, was doing her weekly chores. They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, Mary obviously expecting more and, not getting it, taking the initiative. ‘There was no fire, was there?’ Her eyes were sparkling. ‘I see the poliss followed you, but you all come back soon enough.’
Miss Pink was vague. ‘Can you have smoke without fire? Does Mr Campbell bother you?’
‘Never! He’s good entertainment. He’s clever too; I always tell him he should write a book, and off he goes—“Ah, Mary, I’ll write a book one day that’ll make your hair stand on end!” ’
‘What would he be writing about?’
Mary laughed gustily. ‘Depends on his mood. If he’s happy it’s the network: spies, sleepers, “a web of intrigue”, he says, and we make guesses who the controller is—like the spider at the middle of the web, see. But if someone’s annoyed him, then he drops hints about people in the village.’
‘Doesn’t that upset people?’
Mary shrugged. ‘ “If the cap fits, wear it.” But most people take it in good part. I mean, it’s all fun, isn’t it?’
She turned to her vacuum and Miss Pink retreated to the shore, where the birds were feeding on the ebb tide. She had been there only a few minutes when there was a crash of breaking china behind her. A cyclist swerved at an alarming angle and she winced as Hamish Knox fell heavily, scraping the tarmac. Above him in an upper window of the Post Office Alec Millar was poised, about to throw a large bowl.
‘No, Alec!’ Miss Pink shouted, starting to run.
There were people in the Post Office doorway, staring open-mouthed. The bowl emerged in a lazy curve and smashed beside Hamish, who rolled clear with his arms round his head.
Miss Pink reached him. Throwing a prudent glance upwards, she saw an empty window space and heard Rose Millar’s raised voice. She knelt beside Hamish who sat up, white and gasping, straightening one leg, then the other. Ranald MacKay emerged from the Post Office. Behind him Duncan Millar hovered in the doorway. Broken china was strewn across the roadway.
‘I’d better get out of here,’ Hamish muttered. ‘Look at my bike!’ He was obviously frightened.
‘Can you stand?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘What happened?’ Ranald blustered. ‘There was this crash and the boy knocked off his cycle—did someone throw something?’ He glared at the littered road.
Hamish was standing, trying to grin. ‘That’s the second time in two days—’ He glanced at the open window. At that moment it was slammed down by Rose, who avoided looking at the group below.
‘Let’s go home and get you cleaned up,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Ranald, move his bike to the side.’
‘I’ll bring it,’ Ranald said gallantly, but the front wheel was out of alignment and he had to hoist the machine on his shoulder.
‘Very well, me boy’—he was taking charge—‘I’ll go ahead and warn your mother, tell her to put the kettle on.’
‘She’s cleaning up at the lodge,’ Hamish told him. ‘I’m in luck,’ he said to Miss Pink. ‘She’d have a fit if she saw me like this.’ His smile was like his father’s. ‘She treats me as if I was six years old.’
/> ‘You’ve certainly been in the wars recently. What on earth did Alec throw at you?’
‘Alec?’ Ranald turned so sharply that Miss Pink had to dodge the bicycle. ‘Alec threw that china?’
‘It came from the room above the shop.’
‘It was Alec all right.’ Hamish was gloomy. ‘He’s after my blood.’
‘Ah!’ Ranald remembered. ‘You killed that wretched lap-dog. Couldn’t stand the thing meself: neurotic, yappy little runt. A good move, me boy.’
‘I didn’t do it deliberately,’ Hamish protested.
‘Of course not. The result’s the same for all that. Now where shall I put this bike?’
‘Anywhere; it doesn’t matter so long as Dad doesn’t run over it when he comes home. You going, sir? Thanks for helping.’
‘Sure you’re all right? You’ve got Miss Pink there to take care of you. ‘Morning to you, ma’am.’
He tipped the brim of his deerstalker and strode down the drive from the police house. Miss Pink opened the side door and they went in, the boy looking at his hands in consternation. Blood was encrusted with dirt and sand. He led the way to the kitchen.
‘Nurse Wallace—’ Miss Pink began.
‘Miss!’ Hamish was indignant. ‘I’m sixteen! I fell off my bike. I’m all right! Please, if you’d just run the water for me.’
She grunted. ‘I daresay you’re healthy enough to resist infection.’ She ran the water lukewarm and stood back, gritting her teeth when he cringed as he sluiced his hands.
He told her where to find the first-aid kit in the office. She bandaged his hands, but he said his knees were all right; he’d fallen on his hip. ‘The other one this time.’
She made a pot of tea and they sat at the kitchen table.
‘We nearly met three days ago,’ she said meaningly. ‘On the shore.’
‘I was keeping an eye on you—because you were with Campbell. He’s mad; he set fire to his own house.’
‘You don’t think I can take care of myself?’
‘My dad says you’re a magistrate, but I don’t think that makes a lot of difference. You know the law, but you can’t know how Campbell’s mind works. Can you tell me why he says he’s working for the Special Branch?’
