Malice in the Highlands

by Graham Thomas

  “I'm sorry I kept you waiting.” She smiled, making any reply superfluous.

  “Ah, yes, well, thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Miss Murray,” he said quickly. “This must be a difficult time for you.”

  “Yes, it is.” She regarded him with apparent interest and then turned and walked across the room to the writing table.

  To his acute embarrassment, Powell found himself having unchaste thoughts. He would have been hard pressed, however, to put into words exactly what it was about the young woman that he found so attractive. Her ginger hair was cut short, making her seem taller than she was, and she had striking green eyes that seemed both expressive and somehow unfathomable at the same time. Even the plain wool skirt and loose Fair Isle jumper she wore seemed inexplicably provocative. Powell concluded that Heather Murray's appeal was uncontrived and more an expression of her personality than of any particular physical attribute.

  Reluctantly bringing his mind back to the business at hand, he composed his thoughts as he waited for her to sit down. At her invitation he selected a chair opposite. He tried not to think about it as she crossed her legs.

  “Miss Murray, as I explained to you on the telephone, I am assisting the Scottish authorities with their inquiry into your father's death. Information has recently come to light suggesting that foul play may have been involved and, while I realize that it may be difficult for you, I'm afraid I have to ask you some questions.”

  “I understand, of course; it's a policeman's job to be difficult, isn't it?” Her eyes sparkled.

  “We endeavor, Miss Murray, to inconvenience only the criminal element,” Powell rejoined, beginning to feel more at ease.

  Suddenly her expression, without seeming to change outwardly, was serious. Powell decided that it had something to do with her eyes.

  “You must know that I've already spoken to your Mr. Barrett.”

  “Yes. But if you'll bear with me, I'd like to cover some of the same ground again. I'm a bit of a plodder, you see.”

  She looked skeptical. “You don't look like a plodder to me, Mr. Powell.”

  He coughed. “Yes—well—now, Miss Murray, I understand that your father was involved in the mining industry back in Canada. Perhaps you could begin by telling me something about his work?”

  She did not reply immediately and Powell got the distinct impression that she was in some way evaluating him.

  “My father was a geologist by training,” she began in an even voice. “After the war he worked for several large Canadian and American mining firms in the mineral exploration field. Eventually he struck out on his own with a small exploration company. In the late seventies he staked a number of claims at Ptarmigan Mountain near the Alaskan panhandle in northwestern British Columbia. He sank everything he had into the venture. It was mostly moose pasture, as he was fond of saying later, and the initial drilling results were not very promising. But my father was a stubborn man and he somehow managed to raise enough money to continue the exploration work. There were numerous disappointments and setbacks, but he persevered and eventually discovered a large gold deposit.”

  She smiled faintly. “It was a real family affair in those days. My mother cooked for the men in the drilling camps. I remember her telling the most harrowing stories of life in the bush, fending off giant mosquitoes and grizzly bears. It may seem hard to believe now, but I was born in a log cabin surrounded by glaciers. They had to fly the doctor in by helicoptero

  Powell grinned. “With a background like that, we Brits must seem a boring lot.” He paused to give her an opportunity to dispute this suggestion, of which she chose not to avail herself. He cleared his throat. “Ah, please continue, Miss Murray.”

  “There's not much more to tell, really. My mother died when I was ten and my father never really got over it. I think he compensated by putting even more time and energy into his business, until his retirement two years ago.”

  Powell had listened to Heather Murray with growing interest. He had come to Castle Glyn with a notion of Charles Murray as a rather questionable character, a man with a checkered past at the very least, but he had just been given a glimpse of someone more complex, someone he could perhaps begin to understand. Still, she had not told him what he really wanted to know.

  “Miss Murray, I'm curious about the financial side of your father's business—how he raised the necessary capital to carry on his exploration work, for instance.”

  “I was wondering when you'd get around to that,” she said matter-of-factly. She explained patiently, giving the impression that she'd done it many times before, “Mineral exploration is a very risky and expensive business, Mr. Powell. Basically, you have to find a way to finance the work with no guarantee of any return. Funds are normally raised by offering shares to the public or to private individuals and, obviously, prospective investors need to be convinced that they stand a reasonable chance of making a profit. Money and hope, Mr. Powell, are the twin currencies of the mining business. That's where the promotion comes in. You need to sell the story and downplay the risks. Nine times out of ten you'll miss the mark completely, and even when you find something, the reality is that very few properties will ever support economically viable mines. So there is no doubt that the majority of investors in small exploration companies will lose money in the long run. On the other hand, if one is astute and not too greedy, the profits can be enormous. A little luck doesn't hurt either.”

  She regarded him steadily. “Please don't misunderstand me, Mr. Powell. I am not naive. But I refuse to believe that my father was dishonest, if that's what you're wondering about.”

  “I have no reason to doubt you, Miss Murray, but given the nature of the business, wouldn't it be fair to assume that he might have made some enemies along the way?”

  She appeared to consider this suggestion carefully. “I suppose it depends upon what you mean, exactly, by enemies.”

  “People who lost money investing in his various projects, for instance.”

  “Like fish in the sea.”

  “Miss Murray,” Powell said patiently, “I understand from Mr. Barrett that your father had been the target of various threats over the years. Now, I want you to think about this very carefully. Do you know of anyone in particular who might have had a score to settle with him?”

  “No one with sufficient reason to murder him, if that's what you mean. Look, Mr. Powell, the majority of people who invest in the sort of companies my father promoted are basically looking to make a fast buck. Some undoubtedly underestimate the risks involved, others are simply greedy. Either way, when they make money they crow about how smart they are; when they lose they bitch about it. It's human nature.”

  “That's a bit cynical, isn't it?”

  She laughed unaffectedly like a schoolgirl. “That's an interesting observation, coming from a policeman.”

  Powell smiled. “Touché.” Their eyes met, and he had to make a conscious effort to continue. “Miss Murray, I understand that you called Ruby MacGregor at the Salar Lodge on Tuesday morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mind telling me why?”

  She hesitated. “I told Mr. Barrett that I'd spent the weekend with a friend in Pitlochry. I neglected to mention that I'd quarreled with my father before I left. I was still upset about it when I got back Monday night. I'd hoped to speak to him, but he wasn't here—I mean he …” She seemed unable to continue.

  “What time did you arrive home?” Powell prompted gently.

  “Around ten-thirty, I think.”

  “What did you do when you realized that your father was out?”

  “I was tired, so I went to bed. When I discovered the next morning that he still hadn't returned, I was beside myself. So I called Ruby—to see if he'd been at the Salar Lodge.”

  “Why did you think that he might have gone to the hotel?”

  “I—I don't know really. It was just a feeling.”

  “Did he go there often?”

/>   “No, not often.”

  Powell searched her face. “What about Monday night in particular? Can you think of any reason he might have gone to the Salar Lodge? For a drink, perhaps?”

  “My father didn't drink,” she replied sharply.

  “Miss Murray, the results of the postmortem indicate that your father had sufficient alcohol in his blood to render him intoxicated at the time of his death.”

  She suddenly looked very pale. She sighed and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “If only I'd …”

  Powell gave her the opportunity to elaborate and when she did not, he said quietly, “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  She spoke mechanically. “My father used to be a hard drinker. I've spent half my life trying to hide it—from my friends, from myself. It went with the sort of life he led, I guess, but after he retired it became almost unbearable. Then one day he found some pot in my room. There was the inevitable blowup, as you can imagine, but in the end I think it brought us closer together. He promised me then that he'd give up drinking and he was true to his word.”

  “I see. Can you tell me what you and your father quarreled about?”

  “I'd rather not. It's personal, but I can assure you it has nothing to do with what happened.”

  “That seems fairly definite.”

  “It is.”

  Time to change gears. “I take it you know this Oliver Pickens?”

  “Yes. He is—he was a business associate of my father's from the old days. I hadn't heard Father talk about him for years.”

  “Were you aware that Mr. Pickens was spending the weekend at Castle Glyn?”

  “No, Father didn't mention it.”

  “Do you suppose Pickens might have just dropped in out of the blue?”

  “It's possible, I suppose,” she said doubtfully.

  “It may be important, Miss Murray. Would you mind if I questioned the staff about it?”

  “No, of course not. But I'm not sure I understand …”

  “If one were planning a murder, it's unlikely that one would openly arrange to be the intended victim's only house guest at the time.”

  “Yes—yes, I see.”

  “Were you personally acquainted with Pickens?”

  “I met him years ago, but I'm not sure I'd even recognize him now.”

  “Do you know if he might have had some business to conduct with your father?”

  “My father didn't confide in me about his business affairs, but I suppose it's possible. I know he still kept his hand in to some extent.”

  “Do you know if Pickens might have borne some grudge against your father?”

  She shook her head. “No, I'm sorry.”

  Powell swore silently. He had been hoping for more. “Miss Murray, I must admit to being a bit curious about your father's reasons for coming to Kinlochy.”

  She shrugged lightly. “I don't think he ever really planned to retire, but he had some sort of disagreement with the other directors of the company he was promoting at the time, and they tried to force him out. Father had the support of the shareholders, so there's no doubt he could have stayed on if he'd wanted to, but I think he'd just had enough. He resigned from the boards of all of his companies, although he remained a major shareholder in several of them. He was quite bitter about it, but eventually I think he realized that he needed to put it all behind him and get on with his life. He'd spent quite a lot of time in the UK over the years and had fallen in love with Scotland. He often said that the Highlands reminded him of home.” She toyed absently with a small feather. “My paternal grandfather was a Scot and, at the risk of sounding trite, I think he felt some sort of connection with his ancestral homeland, although I'm sure he would never have put it that way. Anyway, he'd heard about Castle Glyn from a business associate and a few months later we moved in.” She paused thoughtfully. “Also, I think there were too many memories associated with my mother back home.”

  “And what about you, Miss Murray?”

  “What about me, Mr. Powell?” She looked at him with those penetrating green eyes.

  “You're obviously an independent young woman. No doubt you had friends and a life of your own in Canada. You must have had to pull up roots to come here.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I thought my father needed me. Is that so difficult to understand? Besides, I don't see that it's any of your business.”

  Powell felt strangely wounded. “Please forgive me, Miss Murray; it is not my intention to pry into your personal affairs. I can assure you that my only concern is to find out what happened to your father.” But even as he spoke, he felt like a pompous arse.

  Heather Murray sat motionless. Eventually she said quietly, “I'm sorry. It's just that right from the beginning it was obvious we didn't belong here. But there was nothing left for Father back home, and with so much time on his hands …” She hesitated. “Mr. Powell, my father wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, and we didn't always agree on things, but I know he had my best interests at heart.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Please forgive me— I suppose the strain is beginning to take its toll.”

  “I understand.” There was a difficult moment as he considered the inevitability of his next question. “Miss Murray, you've hinted that your father was not entirely happy at Castle Glyn. Is it possible that he became depressed and took his own life?”

  Her eyes were unwavering. “Suicide is out of the question, Mr. Powell. You didn't know my father. He would never have taken the easy way out.”

  Powell nodded, satisfied. “Just one more question, Miss Murray: Did you happen to notice whether your father's car was here when you got home Monday night? I understand it was found parked in its usual place in the garage Tuesday morning.”

  She shook her head. “I didn't think to check. I suppose I just assumed he'd taken it.”

  “Thank you, Miss Murray. You've been most helpful. I promise to let you know the moment there is anything to report.” He stood up. An awkward pause. “Do you need any help with the arrangements?”

  “I'm managing all right, thanks. I've got a few more things to clear up here and then I'll be going home.”

  “I see. Well, let me know if there's anything I can do. Anything at all.”

  “Yes, of course.” He knew somehow that she wouldn't be calling him.

  “Fine. I'll let myself out.”

  She smiled without conviction. “Goodbye, Mr. Powell.”

  He could sense her eyes on his back as he left the room.

  Before leaving Castle Glyn, he managed to track down Ross. “Did Mr. Murray give any indication before he left with Mr. Pickens on Monday afternoon that he was expecting another guest?”

  Ross thought strenuously for what seemed an interminable time. “Not exactly, sir,” he wheezed eventually. “However, he did make a remark about the silver, sir.”

  “What?”

  “He told me to polish the silver, sir.”

  “And what do you make of that?”

  Ross cocked his head. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Powell repeated the question with exaggerated precision.

  “Well, sir, it was his way of telling me that he wanted everything shipshape, in a manner of speaking, sir.”

  “I see. And you're certain he didn't mention anything about another visitor?”

  “Not that I can recall, sir.”

  “Just one more thing, Ross. Would you say that Mr. Pickens's visit was an amicable one?”

  Ross looked puzzled.

  “I mean,” Powell said loudly, “did he and Mr. Murray have words or anything like that?”

  The butler drew himself up to full height, or would have had he been able, and sniffed, whether as a result of indignation or a sinus condition Powell was unable to determine. “I'm sure I really couldn't say, sir.”

  “Thank you, Ross. That will be all.” He made a mental note to have Shand interview the other domestics.

  When he got back to the Salar Lodge, there was word wait
ing from Barrett. They had located Oliver Pickens.

  CHAPTER 9

  Powell stared out the window of his darkened sleeper as the coach rocked and swayed through the impenetrable blackness. The first blush of dawn was still an hour away and occasionally he could see the lights of a cottage or farmhouse in the distance, with curtained windows that were cosily inviting yet nostalgically remote and unattainable. He switched on the reading light and noticed his wan reflection in the window. Not yet fifty, with most of his hair and just enough gray to look experienced, he was supposedly in his prime. But at that moment he felt bloody old.

  When Barrett had suggested that he return to London to interview Oliver Pickens, he had jumped at the chance. He knew that he needed to get away from Kinlochy for a while, as if by physically removing himself from the scene he might regain a sense of perspective. He had been in the midst of packing when Shand arrived at the Salar Lodge and dropped his bombshell about Heather Murray and young Whitely. The revelation weighed heavily on him and he had been unable to sleep since boarding the train at Aviemore. He knew he was reacting like an adolescent fool, but the young woman had stirred something in him that he hadn't felt for a long time. The sensation was unsettling.

  He turned to his book and began to read in a desultory fashion but found himself unable to concentrate. He tossed the book aside and turned off the light. Eventually, lulled by the hypnotic clattering of the train, he slipped fitfully into the embrace of a faceless succubus.

  The train pulled into Euston Station shortly before eight A.M. It was a typical damp, gray London morning. Powell hailed a taxi and arrived home as the breakfast dishes were being cleared. He detected the lingering aroma of bacon and coffee.

  A few minutes later over a disappointing oat bran muffin (Marion insisted that it was just the thing for his cholesterol), he was explaining his surprise appearance. “I was going to call last night, but it was late and I didn't want to wake you.” Was that the real reason? he wondered. “There's been a break in the case; we've located a key witness in London and I've come down to interview him. If all goes well, I'll be returning to Scotland tomorrow night.”