Powell had nonetheless become increasingly dependent on these fertile interludes, as he regarded them, and correspondingly resentful of the intervening droughts. The fact that he had not been called out for nearly a year had rendered the pervasive grayness of the London winter even more oppressive than usual. But eventually spring had burst forth with the eternal, if short-lived, promise of renewal, and it was with particular relish that Powell had been looking forward to his Speyside holiday. All the more so, since during the last few weeks before his departure, his wife, Marion, had not missed an opportunity to point out with relentless precision the various repairs and renovations needed around the house, not to mention the difficulty in making ends meet these days. Powell could not exactly be described as the do-it-yourself type and he was quite sensitive about his shortcomings in that area. Furthermore, he did not like to be reminded that entropy was increasing helter-skelter all around him, the existential implications of which were all too obvious.
Powell suspected that Marion, being a ruthless practitioner of domestic Thatcherism, barely tolerated his annual fishing holiday. The sole barometer by which she judged the matter was the number of salmon ultimately brought to table in relation to the capital expended to catch them—a dismal and mean equation that entirely missed the point, as far as he was concerned. And as a kind of penance for his alleged profligacy, he was expected to endure without complaint an annual family holiday at the seaside, an ordeal that he absolutely and abjectly dreaded. Lying idle on the beach at Bude while his two teenage sons, Peter and David, ardently pursued the local population of pubescent females was not exactly his idea of a jolly time.
Thus it was that as Powell pulled into the car park of the Salar Lodge Hotel, his spirits fluttered like a phoenix above the ashes of his worldly cares and responsibilities. But, as he was soon to discover, that particular species can be easily mistaken in the Highland mist for a heather-fattened grouse coasting low over a butt on the opening day of shooting season.
He was removing his bags from the boot of his car when he was hailed by a familiar voice. It was Nigel Whitely, the Salar Lodge's proprietor, hurrying over in the drizzle with an armful of logs. Well over six feet tall and thin as a stick, he resembled a graying heron. Looking a little older, Powell thought, but then aren't we all?
“It's good to see you, Nigel.”
“This is a surprise, Mr. Powell!” Whitely exclaimed with a soft burr. “We weren't expecting you until tomorrow.”
Powell smiled sheepishly. “I managed to sneak away early. I intended to call, but I'm afraid it completely slipped my mind. I hope it's not inconvenient.”
Whitely grinned. “No problem at all, Mr. Powell. Your room's ready for you. I'll toss this lot on the fire and be right back to lend a hand with your kit. Bob's away for a few days so I'm more or less on my own,” he added, as if by way of explanation.
Before Powell could protest, Whitely disappeared around the back of the hotel. A few moments later he returned and was relieving Powell of his fishing rod and bag. They exchanged pleasantries as Powell picked up his suitcase and followed his host into the hotel.
Powell, as always, was impressed by the care and attention to detail with which the Salar Lodge had been renovated and restored in period style by Nigel and his late wife, Margaret. Furnished with some good antiques and a modest collection of nineteenth-century Scottish oil paintings, the Salar Lodge was known as one of the finest of its kind in the Highlands. Powell was aware that the Whitelys had sunk their life savings into the project, but, in spite of a certain obvious romantic appeal, he had long suspected that the Salar Lodge was more a labor of love than a going concern. It could not have been easy for Nigel and his son, Bob, since Maggie's death, following a lingering illness, three years ago. But such was Whitely's dedication to his trade that, although Maggie was sorely missed by the hotel's regular patrons, none of the qualities of service and comfort that brought them back year after year had suffered in the least. Powell was hard pressed to think of a more fitting memorial.
After stowing his tackle in the drying room, Powell preceded Nigel into the front hall, past the main staircase on the right and the entrance to the lounge bar, through which could be seen a number of guests ensconced before the fire, enjoying a dram or two before dinner. Powell recognized a few of the regulars thus pleasantly preoccupied. At the end of the hall, situated in a small alcove beyond the dining room door on the left, and immediately to the left of the main entrance, was the front desk.
Hearing the commotion, the stout, middle-aged woman behind the counter looked up from her ledger. Her smooth face broke immediately into a smile. “Mr. Powell, it's grand to see you again! Has it really been a year?” Ruby MacGregor was the Salar Lodge's chief cook, housekeeper, mother hen, and sergeant major all rolled into one indispensable package.
“Ruby, you're a sight for sore eyes,” Powell said appraisingly. “Like a rare vintage, you seem to improve with the passage of time.”
“Get away with you now!” she admonished, blushing profusely.
Nigel hovered on the periphery, beaming.
Powell rummaged about in a jacket pocket. He handed her a small jar with an inscribed label affixed. “A small token of my undying devotion,” he said.
She frowned as if critically considering his offering. “Well, I suppose there might be a wee treat in store for you. But only if you behave yourself, mind.”
Powell winked. “Say no more, Ruby, say no more.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Oh, by the way, Nigel,” he remarked casually, “I saw Mr. Barrett's car at the Old Bridge. When did he arrive?”
“Shortly after lunch. But he wasn't here five minutes before he was out the door with his rod. You know Mr. Barrett.”
All too bloody well, Powell thought with a sinking feeling. He reached for a pen and signed the guest register with a flourish. “Has he had a fish yet?” He tried to affect a suitable air of nonchalance.
“Not as far as Ï know,” Whitely said brightly. “But then again,” he added on a more sobering note, “he's not back yet.”
Powell sighed and picked up his suitcase. “I'm going to get settled in. When Mr. Barrett returns, tell him I'll join him for a drink before dinner. And, Nigel—”
“Yes, Mr. Powell?”
“Wish me luck—” he smiled wanly “—I think I'm going to need it.” He then turned and bounded up the stairs.
“Right.” Whitely smiled, shaking his head. This obsession with fishing was quite beyond him. He failed to understand the attraction of the thing, when the same result could be obtained with a lot less bother by simply paying a visit to the fishmongers’. He supposed that one had to have a certain mental outlook to enjoy fishing, and deep down he suspected that the sport represented the fulfillment of some primal, slightly unsavory urge. Now curling, that was a different kettle of fish entirely. Still, anglers were his bread and butter, and he had to admit that he genuinely enjoyed the company of many of his regular guests, and that of Mr. Powell and Mr. Barrett in particular. Since their first meeting at the hotel several years ago, the two policemen had become fast Mends and keen rivals. Their annual competition for the first, most, and biggest salmon had become something of a tradition at the Salar Lodge, with Mr. Powell being hitherto cast in the role of the underdog. But perhaps, Whitely mused, this year would be different.
When Powell came down an hour later, the first thing he noticed, resplendent on the hall table, was a salmon, not overly large but as bright as the sterling tray on which it lay and still fresh with the purplish tinge of the sea. He sighed, drew a deep breath, and, steeling himself, entered the bar expecting the worst. He was not disappointed.
At a table near the fire, a large, bearded man with a subtle peculiarity of expression that eluded exact description leapt to his feet. “A bonny fish, wouldn't you agree, Erskine?” he roared heartily.
Powell joined him and sat down, resigned now to his fate. “Hullo, Alex. I see you got lucky.”
&n
bsp; Barrett clapped Powell on the back. “Luck had nothing to do with it, man. Now if you'll just sit back and relax, I'll describe to you in precise detail how it was that I managed to capture the canny beast.”
“Sniggled the poor tiddler while she was looking for her mama, I expect,” Powell muttered.
“Now, Erskine, no need to get testy. If you'll just buy me a drink, I promise that tomorrow I'll show you how to catch one, too, and we needn't say another word about it.”
“Great.”
Powell went up to the bar. “Greetings, George. How goes the battle?”
George Stuart, former gillie at Castle Glyn, tended bar at the Salar Lodge and helped out with odd jobs. “Couldna be better, Mr. Powell.” He was unable to suppress a toothless grin. “Mr. Barrett's a great one for the kiddin’, wouldn't you say, sir?”
Powell smiled sourly. “I would indeed, George, but he who laughs last, eh?”
The bartender leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Try a Munro Killer on a wee double. And use a floatin’ line now that the water is startin’ to warm up.”
Powell winked. “Much appreciated, George. Now then, the same again for Mr. Barrett, the usual for me, I think, and, oh, yes, a very large one for yourself.”
Stuart beamed. “My pleasure, Mr. Powell.”
Powell returned with the whiskies.
“Now that we've dispensed with the usual formalities, how the hell are you, Alex?”
As they sat together in the lounge bar of the Salar Lodge, Barrett and Powell would doubtless have appeared to an observer as conspicuous opposites in temperament who seemed, nonetheless, completely at ease in each other's company. The “large Scottish gentleman”— as he was referred to in hushed, rather reproving tones by the two sturdy ladies from Thirsk at the next table— lacked any vestige of the taciturn reserve normally attributed to his race as he held forth, gesticulating wildly to embellish some dogmatic assertion or other. His English companion, who appeared slightly older and almost excessively reserved by way of contrast, could be seen to interject only the occasional remark, the seemingly innocuous nature of which was often belied by the spirited reaction it evoked.
Later in the dining room over dessert, it occurred to Powell to mention something that had nearly slipped his mind. “I had an unexpected call last week from an old acquaintance of mine. Chap named Pinky Warburton.”
“Pinky?” Barrett snorted derisively.
“A schoolboy sobriquet derived from a rather remarkable rubicundity, if you must know. His proper name is Alphonse. His mother's French.”
“Oh, aye?” Barrett yawned, obviously not impressed with either the subject matter or Powell's alliterative prowess.
“His father and mine were old army chums. We used to spend a week each summer at their country place in Hampshire.”
“Country place, you say? Replete with chalk-stream trout and high pheasants, no doubt. Erskine, I'm truly impressed.”
Powell continued, ignoring what he had come to recognize in Barrett as a kind of reverse snobbery, “We'd managed to keep in touch over the years, but after his father died a few years ago Pinky more or less dropped out of circulation. Appearances to the contrary, it turned out that the family was actually quite hard up.”
“Ah, the modern plight of the landed classes,” Barrett observed pointedly.
‘That's not the worst of it. After Pinky's father had somehow managed to fritter away what little remained of the family fortune, his mother ran off with a Texas millionaire. It all proved to be too much for the old boy and he eventually shot himself. Pinky took it pretty hard, as you might expect.” Powell sipped his port impassively. “After death duties and the rest, he was basically left without a pot to piss in. In the end he had to sell the family holdings to settle his father's debts. Since then he's knocked about a bit, trying his hand at one thing or another, but, as I say, I hadn't heard from him for some time. Until last week.”
“A tragic tale, I'll grant you, but may I inquire as to the point of it all?”
“I'm getting to that,” Powell replied tersely. At times Barrett could be quite irritating. “Pinky seemed a bit down in the mouth. It wasn't anything he said, really, but I got the distinct impression that it would do him a world of good to get away for a while. To cut a long story short, I invited him up here to join us, so we'll be, ah, a threesome. I hope you don't mind, since he'll be arriving tomorrow.”
“Of course not,” Barrett said shortly, fixing Powell with a penetrating look. “As long as it's clearly understood that this is a fishing expedition and not some sort of soul-searching session.”
Powell flushed. “Don't be ridiculous, Alex. Pinky's all right. He simply needs a brief respite from the rat race—I know I bloody well do.” He yawned and consulted his watch. “Is that the time? I’d better turn in.”
“At nine-thirty?” Then Barrett grinned knowingly. “The early bird catches the worm, eh?” He drained his glass. “I think I'll do the same.”
“By the way, which beat did we draw?”
“Number three, which is where, as you will no doubt recall, I caught the sixteen-pounder last year.”
Powell sighed and raised his glass. “Op yours, Alex.”
CHAPTER 2
It rained heavily all night and when Powell came down to breakfast the next morning he encountered a general atmosphere of doom and gloom. Even Nigel seemed uncharacteristically somber. The river had risen almost two feet overnight and would probably be unfishable for at least a day, perhaps longer.
Powell located Barrett in the crowded dining room, presiding over a mountain of rashers and fried tomatoes. Amidst the clatter there was much animated discussion of weather and water conditions. Powell pulled up a chair. “It looks like I'll have bags of time to catch up on my Proust,” he remarked morosely, helping himself to a cup of coffee from Barrett's carafe.
Barrett crunched noisily on a piece of toast, scattering crumbs like spindrift. “You're too easily discouraged, Erskine. I, for my part, am not about to let a little inclemency ruin my sport. As a matter of fact, in anticipation of just such a development I've brought along some fluorescent flies, which the maker assures me will positively glow in the dark. Just the thing for the prevailing murky conditions.”
“You're a true fanatic, Alex. But I wish you luck.”
Barrett frowned. “Luck has nothing to do with it, man—in fishing, or in any of life's more trivial endeavors for that matter.”
“I'll try to remember that,” Powell replied dryly, reluctantly forgoing a more satisfying rejoinder. “By the way, did you happen to notice that Nigel is looking a little down in the mouth this morning?”
“I can't imagine why. Bar profits will no doubt soar with this lot hanging about all day.”
“You're also a cynic.”
“Hadn't you better get on with your breakfast? Time and tide, you know.”
Powell shook his head. “You carry on. I intend to stay warm and dry. Besides, I'd like to be here when Pinky arrives. He was to come up to Aviemore by train last night, so I'm expecting him before lunch.”
Barrett grunted neutrally.
After breakfast Barrett, clad in oilskins, departed for his beat, leaving Powell to peruse the local newspapers. It was later that morning when Powell learned that Charles Murray, the new owner of Castle Glyn Estate, had gone missing. Ruby had appeared in an agitated state in the sitting room where Powell had secluded himself, inquiring after Chief Inspector Barrett. Her referring to Barrett thus, struck Powell as a little odd at the time.
“I've just had a call from Miss Murray at Castle Glyn,” she explained breathlessly. “Her father, Mr. Murray, didna come home last night, and the poor lass is worried sick. I comforted her as best I could and promised to ask after him in the town.” She hesitated and then added, almost as an afterthought, “It seemed best to inform Mr. Barrett—in case something has happened.”
“Very wise, Ruby, but I'm sure there's nothing to worry abo
ut,” Powell replied soothingly.
Ruby, however, did not seem reassured. It occurred to him that something was not quite right. “Did Miss Murray have some reason to think that her father was here at the hotel?” he inquired against his better judgment.
Ruby turned a telltale shade of pink and stammered, “No—I mean—well, she thought he might have stopped by last night.”
“Oh, yes?”
She seemed to come to a decision. “Perhaps I shouldn't mention it, Mr. Powell, but I understand that Mr. Murray liked his whisky and, well…” She left the rest unsaid.
Powell sighed. It was beginning to sound all too familiar. “Ruby, would I be totally wide of the mark if I were to guess that this sort of thing has happened before?” he asked gently.
Ruby averted her eyes. “It's no’ the first time, apparently.”
Powell thought he detected a slight edge to her voice, and he was more than a little puzzled by her behavior, which was not in keeping with her usual equable and sensible nature. In spite of Murray's apparent penchant for drinking more than he should and spending the night where he shouldn't, perhaps, it seemed to him that she was overreacting to the situation. Maybe Murray had got himself into some sort of trouble on previous occasions. But what, he wondered, had any of it to do with Ruby?
Mentally shrugging, he said, “Well, I shouldn't be too concerned. I'm sure he'll turn up eventually. They usually do. In the meantime I'll deliver your message to Mr. Barrett. I could use the exercise.”
Ruby relaxed visibly, as if a burden had been lifted. “Thank you, Mr. Powell,” she said quietly.
“Don't mention it. It's the least I can do. Oh, if Mr. Warburton should arrive before I get back, look after him, would you?”
Malice in the Highlands Page 2
