Malice in the Highlands

by Graham Thomas

  Powell caught Barrett's eye.

  After noisily sucking and drawing for some time, Campbell eventually seemed satisfied and resumed his lecture. “Now in this particular instance I naturally assumed that I was dealing with a man who had drowned. I was looking, therefore, for the characteristic findings that, in aggregate, are suggestive of death by drowning. These include emphysema aquosum, that is the hyperdistention of the pulmonary alveoli; the occurrence of a foam cap around the mouth and nostrils; the presence of water in the stomach; and, lastly, given the prevailing water temperatures, cutis anserina, more commonly referred to as ‘gooseflesh.’ I don't mind telling you, gentlemen, that I was more than a little surprised to find, with the exception of a small quantity of water in the stomach, that the usual indications of drowning were entirely absent.”

  Barrett was incredulous. “Are you suggesting that Murray didn't drown?”

  Campbell nodded. “That is my opinion based on the information available to me.”

  Barrett scrutinized him intently. “Are you certain?”

  “Mr. Barrett—” he sighed ponderously, affecting an air of infinite patience “—a determination of death by drowning is basically a process of elimination. The signs that I've mentioned vary considerably in their frequency of occurrence and utility; the presence or absence of any one of them cannot be considered, in and of itself, conclusive. In the end, one must rely upon the weight of the evidence.”

  Barrett ground his teeth. “What exactly are you saying, Dr. Campbell?”

  “Simply that there are additional features in this case supporting a conclusion that the victim was already dead when his body found its way into the river.”

  Barrett was on the verge of asking, “Such as?” but decided on a different tack. “I understand that the victim had been rather badly knocked about,” he observed casually.

  “Quite so,” Campbell mused. “I have some photographs here somewhere, taken in situ” He rummaged noisily amongst the cluttered mass of papers on his desk. “Ah, yes, here they are, if you care to have a look at them.”

  He handed Barrett six color photographs depicting different aspects of a corpse, including close-ups of the head and face, lying on a cobble beach. Barrett examined them in turn and then passed them to Powell.

  It was not a pretty sight. The victim's face was swollen and discolored and bore numerous yellowish abrasions. On the back of the head and neck there was an angry-looking contusion. Framed with garish incongruity in the last photograph, dangling like some bizarre punk embellishment from the corner of the corpse's right eye, was an orange-and-black salmon fly.

  “Nice touch, that,” Campbell remarked breezily as Powell pondered the photograph.

  It struck Powell that Charles Murray must have been an imposing figure in life. Closely cropped gray hair accentuated a broad forehead and jutting jaw, and even in death his expression seemed slightly defiant. Powell returned the photographs to Barrett.

  “My attention is drawn particularly to the bruise on the back of the head,” Barrett said presently. “Would I be correct in assuming that it would take a blow of considerable force to effect such an injury?”

  Campbell seemed mildly surprised at such a display of perceptíveness in one of his students. “Quite correct, Chief Inspector. A blunt force trauma sufficient certainly to cause concussion, but not enough to kill the victim outright. There was a small subdural hemorrhage but nothing of any significance,” he added, declining to elaborate.

  Barrett parried with an outflanking maneuver. “Do you have any idea how and when these various injuries might have been inflicted?”

  Check, thought Powell.

  Campbell held up one of the photographs. “The numerous minor abrasions you can see on the face—here, for example—were sustained after the fact, probably as a result of the body bumping along the riverbed during the course of its downstream passage. However, the injury to the back of the head occurred prior to death, as there was ample evidence of a vital reaction.”

  “Are you able to fix the time of death?”

  Campbell shrugged. “By the time I arrived on the scene, rigidity had set in to all the major muscle groups. That normally occurs within eight hours following death. However, the body was immersed in cold water, which retards the process. My best guess would be at least twelve hours prior to my initial examination.”

  “You first examined the body at approximately noon yesterday?”

  Campbell nodded.

  “That would put the time of death sometime before midnight on Monday?”

  “Correct.”

  “Getting back to the cause of death, if Murray didn't drown and the head injury didn't do it, what in heaven's name did kill him?”

  Powell smiled inwardly. Mate.

  Campbell cleared his throat. “Ah, now we've come to the crux of the problem. Unfortunately, it is not possible to provide a definitive answer to your question.”

  Powell hastily revised his forecast to a stalemate.

  “I can, however, hazard an educated guess,” Campbell continued.

  “Please do,” Barrett said evenly.

  It was obvious to Powell that Barrett was only barely able to restrain himself from pummeling the good doctor.

  “Analysis of the blood indicates that the deceased was intoxicated at the time of his death. Drunk as a lord, in fact, or perhaps I should say ‘laird.’ Ha ha.” In the conspicuous absence of any response from his audience, he continued quickly, “Let us assume that Murray had been out for a stroll along the river. It is not inconceivable, considering his state of intoxication, that he slipped and fell, striking his head on a rock. Given the combination of factors—a blow to the head that would normally be considered nonlethal, excessive alcohol consumption, and hypothermia—death could well have been the result.”

  “And when the river rose, the body was carried away?” Barrett ventured doubtfully.

  “That would be consistent with the evidence, Chief Inspector.” Campbell glanced at his watch. “I will, naturally, be submitting a full report in due course. Now, er, gentlemen, if there's nothing else … ?”

  Barrett refused to be put off so easily. “I want to be certain that I've got this right. Are you telling me that you don't actually know the cause of death?”

  Campbell clearly was beginning to get annoyed. “Let me try to put it another way, Chief Inspector. I cannot identify a single lethal event; rather I believe it was a combination of factors that ultimately led to the victim's death. If you insist on pinning me down, I would say that the most plausible hypothesis is diffuse axonal injury caused by a blow to the head, aggravated, as I've said, by alcohol and hypothermia. However, it's not something you can see under a microscope.’

  Barrett grunted. “Well, I suppose if that's the best you can do … but tell me, could the head injury have been inflicted in some other fashion, by a blunt instrument, say?”

  “Anything's possible,” Campbell replied shortly. He had begun to fidget.

  Barrett persisted. “What about suicide?”

  “By hitting himself on the back of the head? A bit difficult, I should think.”

  Barrett turned abruptly to Powell. “Chief Superintendent?”

  Powell rather prided himself on his working knowledge of forensic pathology, and something was bothering him. “There is one thing, Dr. Campbell. I can't help wondering if there isn't a way to determine more definitively whether or not Murray was alive when he went into the river. It may prove to be an important point.”

  Campbell looked at Powell, as if weighing his options. “One could conduct a diatom study, I suppose,” he admitted grudgingly. Anticipating the next question, he continued rapidly, as if to get the ordeal over with, “All natural bodies of water are inhabited by diatoms, a variety of microscopic algae. When water is aspirated into the lungs of a drowning person, the wee beasties are absorbed into the bloodstream and carried to various parts of the body—the long bones of the legs, for instance— wherei
n they are deposited. Their presence can be detected by means of a special test. Although not infallible, it is the most reliable indication of death by drowning available.”

  “Am I to understand, Dr. Campbell, that you failed to perform this particular test?” Barrett asked acidly, with obvious implication.

  Campbell glared at him. “The test is not performed routinely, Chief Inspector, and as I was given no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary about the case, I did not consider consulting a forensic specialist.”

  A perfectly logical explanation, thought Powell, but Barrett had obviously struck a nerve.

  “Well, then,” Barrett said, “we'd better have our people in Inverness do a thorough job of it.” He caught Powell's eye. “After all, we don't want to leave any loose ends dangling, do we? I'll arrange to have the body collected tomorrow.”

  “As you wish,” Campbell said in a clipped voice. “Now, you really must excuse me, I do have another appointment.”

  Thus dismissed, Powell and Barrett rose to leave. “There is just one more thing,” Barrett said. “Did you know Mr. Murray—on a personal basis, I mean?”

  Campbell sniffed. “Never met the man. Bit of a recluse, I understand. Didn't golf. Not the sort of chap you'd expect at Castle Glyn.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Campbell leapt to his feet as if a superior officer had just entered the room. “I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I really must bid you a good morning.”

  After they had let themselves out, Powell observed dryly, “A bit class conscious for a Scot, don't you think?”

  “Pompous arse,” Barrett muttered as he slammed the garden gate behind him.

  PC Shand was waiting at the curb, five minutes early.

  “Well, Erskine, what do you think?” Barrett asked as they approached the police car.

  “I think we should repair to Solway's for a cup of tea to lubricate the little gray cells.”

  “Right.”

  As they drove off for Kinlochy, Dr. Campbell ducked out the back door with his golf bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Quite honestly, Alex,” Powell said, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin, “I don't know why Fm sitting here with you, discussing a subject that does not concern me in the least. I could be fishing, you know.”

  “You're not serious! You're just afraid you'll miss out on something. Besides, I've known for years that you don't really come here for the fishing. That's patently obvious from your performance.”

  “Don't push your luck,” Powell warned.

  “Look at it this way, Erskine. Fm presenting you with an opportunity to fulfil your wildest fantasy: Mild-mannered English policeman holidaying in sleepy Spey-side town stumbles on mysterious death of eccentric foreign millionaire—you get the idea.”

  “I can assure you, Alex, that my wildest fantasies do not include eccentric foreign millionaires. At least not the type you're referring to. But I must confess to being a bit puzzled about your willingness to share the glory.”

  Barrett sighed deeply. “Because I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that there is more to this business than meets the eye, and I feel that you could perhaps assist with some of the more, em, delicate preliminary inquiries. In an unofficial capacity, of course.”

  Powell shook his head in disbelief. “I think you're actually serious. Do you have any idea what would happen if your brass found out that you've asked an outsider to meddle in the case, and a Sassenach, at that? Be realistic, Alex. I have no official status here. For old times’ sake I am prepared to offer an opinion if pressed, but I can't promise more than that. Besides, you seem to be forgetting that I'm on holiday.”

  “I'm all right, Jack, is that it? What about me? But more to the point, we have our long-term interests to consider.”

  Powell refused to take the bait.

  “Good God! Do I need to paint a picture for you?”

  “Please do.”

  “Considering Bob Whitely's behavior yesterday, it's likely that we'll have to make a few inquiries in that direction. But I'd prefer to, em, test the waters first, in a manner of speaking, and quite frankly, Erskine, you're in the best position to do so, having, as you say, no official ax to grind. After all, we wouldn't want to cause any needless upset, would we? I for one would like to be able to return to the Salar Lodge next year as a member in good standing. Need I say more?”

  And if there are any bridges to be burned, I'll be the one left holding the match, Powell thought. He was well aware that he was being maneuvered, but he had anticipated Barrett's argument and had to admit that it had merit. Besides, he already was involved. From a tactical standpoint, however, he decided that it would be wise to maintain the persona of a reluctant conscript.

  “Having given the matter considerable thought,” he said at last, “I am prepared to assist to the limited extent that I'm able, provided it's clearly understood that there is a line over which I am not prepared to step. Agreed?”

  Barrett grinned. “Agreed.”

  “Right. Now, then, I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on the good doctor's dissertation.”

  Barrett grimaced. “It's what he didn't say that's interesting.” He ruminated for a moment. “The possibility that somebody could have bashed Murray on the head and left him for dead is an intriguing one, although the scenario presents certain obvious difficulties. And there is no shortage of alternate possibilities, including the one suggested by Campbell. But in the end I'm afraid it may be difficult to prove conclusively one way or the other. I think, therefore, that we shall have to look elsewhere for enlightenment.”

  Powell nodded. “I'm inclined to agree with you. And I think we'd better start with Charles Murray, himself. You know, it's rather odd; one gets the distinct impression that he was a disagreeable sort of character and yet, apart from the odd innuendo, we really know very little about him. I suggest we have a chat with Shand. He may be able to provide some local color.” He handed the bill to Barrett and smiled. “Consultant's fee.”

  PC Shand paced back and forth in the Kinlochy police station, pondering his professional future. He sensed that there was more to the Murray case than met the eye. It could in fact be the opportunity he had hitherto only dreamt about, if he were given the chance. But being a realist, he had to admit that this was not very likely; important investigations were normally handled by subdivisional personnel in Grantown, and his own experience to date had consisted largely of issuing parking tickets and enforcing closing time in the local pubs. Besides, he supposed that he would be terrified of cocking it up. He'd heard through the grapevine that Chief Inspector Barrett could be an unforgiving taskmaster, and this had been amply confirmed by his own experience. Mr. Powell seemed all right, a bit posh, perhaps, but the Englishman's role in the affair was not entirely clear to him. He sat down to collect his thoughts. An instant later he leapt to his feet as Barrett and Powell strolled in, fresh from Solway's.

  “At ease, Shand,” Barrett said, flinging himself into the nearest chair. “Mr. Powell and I would like to pick your brain about the star of the present piece, the late Charles Murray, Esquire.”

  “Sir?” If PC Shand retained any lingering doubts about Powell, he wisely gave no indication.

  “Just tell us as quickly and as completely as you can what you know about him.”

  PC Shand took a deep breath and rose to the occasion. “Well, sir,” he began carefully, “Mr. Murray and his daughter moved here from Canada last summer. One day they just sort of turned up at Castle Glyn. There had been rumors that the old place had been sold to a foreigner, but I suppose most of us were expecting an oil sheik or a rock star or somebody like that. Mr. Murray seemed, well, quite ordinary, if you know what I mean. But he must have had bags of money—”

  “Keep to the point, Shand,” Barrett barked.

  PC Shand cleared his throat nervously. “Well, as I say, sir, they hadn't been here very long. I would occasionally see Mr. Murray and Miss Murr
ay in the High Street, shopping or what have you, but they seemed to keep to themselves mostly.”

  “Would you say that the Murrays were well received by the locals? I mean to say, did they more or less fit in, make friends, that sort of thing?”

  “I couldn't really say, sir. Folk around here tend to be fairly hospitable, as most depend one way or another on the tourist trade. But I expect there may have been some who were not quite sure how to take them—you know, as ordinary folk or gentry. With Sir Iain Denby, the old laird, everyone knew where they stood. With the Murrays I imagine that it could have been a bit awkward at first.”

  Barrett grunted.

  Powell leaned forward on his chair. “Tell me, Shand, did Miss Murray ever have occasion to make inquiries to the police about her father?”

  Shand looked puzzled. “No, sir.”

  “I understand that Mr. Murray liked to take a wee drop now and then,” Powell prompted.

  “If he did, sir, he never got into any trouble over it.” Shand suddenly looked embarrassed. “Not until now, I mean.”

  Powell frowned.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have had something against him?” Barrett asked.

  “No, sir.” He thought for a moment. “Unless …”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, sir, there could be something in his past.”

  “I think, Shand, that any speculation along those lines is premature,” Barrett said austerely. “For the time being, I'd like you to make some inquiries concerning Murray's movements on Monday. Who he was with, where he went, when he was last seen, and anything else you can think of. And, oh, yes, you'd better have another chat with that gillie at Cairngorm, just to make sure we haven't overlooked anything there.” And then, as if anticipating Shand's question, he added, “I'll fix it with Grantown.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Powell was reminded of a hound quivering for the chase.

  Barrett bounced to his feet. “I think I'd better pay a visit to Castle Glyn. You, Erskine, may have the afternoon off.”