Marion frowned slightly. “I wish I'd known. We might have done something tonight, but I've made arrangements to take the boys up to Ely to visit Sarah. We won't be getting back until late tomorrow, so I probably won't see you.”
Powell had forgotten that it was Spring Bank holiday. “I wouldn't want you to change your plans on my account. You don't see your sister that often.”
“No, I suppose not.”
There was a lengthy silence.
“How are things—in Scotland, I mean?”
“All right.”
“Not much of a holiday, I take it.”
“You know how it is.”
“Duty calls.” She gave a mock salute.
“Something like that.”
She placed her hand on his arm. “You should really try to unwind, Ers. Life's too short.”
“You're telling me.”
“I know things have been getting you down lately. But all you seem to think about is work.” She brushed the hair from her face, exasperated. “For goodness’ sake, you're supposed to be on holiday.”
“Since when have you been so interested in my so-called holiday?”
“Look, I understand you need to get away, not that it seems to do you any good.”
“You'd be surprised.”
“I'm serious, Ers.”
“So am I.”
“I think we need to spend more time together.”
He shrugged. “It's hard to find the time, isn't it?” He searched her face carefully. “What's this all about, if you don't mind me asking?”
“I've just been thinking, that's all.”
“A dangerous pastime, in my experience.” He rose abruptly from the table. “Where are the boys?”
She sighed. “Upstairs, I imagine.”
For the first time, he felt, rather than heard, the faint thump of music. “I'll go see.”
Later, after Peter and David had gone off to a football match, he and Marion made love. It was spontaneous, unexpected. All the more so since he would have been hard pressed to recall when they'd last slept together. It had begun innocently enough, Marion brushing against him as they passed in the upstairs hallway. Her breast touching his arm and the scent of her hair. She had turned to say something, reaching for him as his mouth silenced hers.
Afterward, as she lay contentedly in his arms, she interpreted his silence as the unspoken ease of long familiarity. In reality he was feeling slightly guilty; he'd been thinking about Heather Murray.
When Powell arrived at the Yard he found Detective-Sergeant Bill Black on the early turn.
“How's the holiday, Mr. Powell?” Black remarked affably with a barely suppressed chortle.
“Very funny. Anything for me?”
“A fax from Inverness this morning. It's on your desk.”
Powell grunted. “How's our friend?”
“He's cooling his heels downstairs, and I'm given to understand that he's not very happy about it.”
“Have him brought up to one of the interview rooms.”
“Right.”
“Say, was I seeing things, or did I see a copy of The Collected Poems of John Donne on your desk?” Powell called out to the sergeant.
“It's for an evening class, sir.”
Powell examined his colleague with interest. “Really?”
Sergeant Black looked slightly embarrassed as he nodded and turned to go downstairs.
Powell poured a cup of coffee and spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing the material Barrett had sent. Occasionally he pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
The interview room was sparsely furnished with a Formica table bolted to the floor and two molded plastic chairs that were intended to bounce harmlessly off the cranium if thrown by a dissatisfied client. There were no windows, but special fluorescent lighting, prescribed by psychologists to soothe the savage breast, created a warm pink ambience that Powell found mildly irritating. None of your naked swinging light bulbs and rubber hosepipes these days, as Detective-Sergeant Black had once been heard to remark a trifle wistfully.
Oliver Pickens was already seated at the table. Without a word, Powell sat down across from him. Detective-Sergeant Black stood unobtrusively in the corner, slightly behind and to the right of Pickens, notebook at the ready.
Pickens was not at all as Powell had imagined him. Pinched and slightly astringent in appearance, with wire-rimmed spectacles and sartorial tastes tending toward the funereal, he did not fit Powell's mental image of a red-blooded stock promoter. More like the common variety of ferret you'd find in a Soho porn shop.
Pickens stared inimically at Powell. “What the hell's this all about?” he demanded in a sharp, unpleasantly nasal voice. “Why have I been arrested?”
Powell began easily, “First things first, Mr. Pickens. I'm Chief Superintendent Powell and this is Detective-Sergeant Black. Now, to answer your question, you have not been arrested. You have been asked to voluntarily attend here because we are hoping that you'll be able to assist us with our inquiry into the murder of Charles Murray, who, I believe, was an acquaintance of yours.”
“What choice do I have?” Pickens whined.
“You are, of course, free to leave at any time. We simply wish to ask you a few questions.”
“Like I told the sergeant, I found out about Charlie only when I read about it in the papers.”
“Oh, yes?” Powell yawned. “Now, Mr. Pickens, let's not beat about the bush. I understand that you were Mr. Murray's guest at Castle Glyn last weekend. What was the purpose of your visit?”
“It's none of your goddamn business.”
Powell sighed inwardly. He could see that it was going to be one of those days.
“Sergeant Black, I don't think Mr. Pickens fully appreciates the situation.” He got up and walked around the table behind Pickens and began to pace back and forth.
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” Pickens demanded, twisting awkwardly in his chair to face Powell.
“Not at all, Mr. Pickens. I'm just trying to figure out what your game is and what you could possibly hope to gain by being uncooperative. Perhaps you're just a bit thick.”
Pickens did not reply. A tiny muscle below his right eye had begun to twitch spasmodically.
Powell returned to his chair and considered his options. Better to be safe than sorry, he decided. “Last Monday night,” he continued equably, “between eight o'clock and midnight, someone bashed Charles Murray on the head and then chucked him into the River Spey. We know that you were with Murray, and we have every reason to believe that you were the last person to see him alive. Up to this point, I've considered you to be a potential witness, not necessarily a suspect, but I'm afraid I'm beginning to have second thoughts.”
Realization seemed to dawn on Pickens and his facial tic became even more pronounced.
Powell stood up and walked to the door. “Sergeant Black.”
Black followed him out, locking the door behind them.
“Read him his rights. I'm going upstairs to brief Merriman.”
“Yes, sir.”
Powell returned about fifteen minutes later. “Sergeant Black has already cautioned you, but I'm going to ask you again: Do you wish to contact a solicitor?”
“I don't need a goddamn lawyer—I haven't done anything wrong!”
“That's as may be, but I must remind you that we suspect your involvement in the murder of Charles Murray. Do you understand?”
“I'm not an idiot and I—” He checked himself. One could almost hear the wheels turning. He seemed to come to a decision and began to speak rapidly, “See here, I have an important business engagement on Tuesday and I can't afford any, er, inconvenience, so let's get this over with. Ask me any questions you like.”
“Much better, Mr. Pickens. We're particularly interested in your whereabouts from the time you were seen leaving Castle Glyn with Mr. Murray on Monday to your arrival in London.”
“It's true that I spent last weekend with Charlie
Murray, but I can assure you that he was alive and kicking when he put me on the train at Aviemore. That was the last time I saw him.”
“What time did you leave Castle Glyn?”
“I don't remember exactly—sometime after lunch. Charlie's butler can vouch for that. The Edinburgh train leaves Aviemore around three-thirty and I wanted to get there in plenty of time.”
“So you boarded a train at Aviemore on Monday afternoon—what did you say your destination was?”
“Edinburgh, I just told you.”
So much for any pretense of civility. “Ah, yes, of course. Tell me, Mr. Pickens, what did you do in Edinburgh? A little shopping in Princes Street, perhaps?”
Pickens grinned slyly. “As a matter of fact, I decided on the spur of the moment to continue on to York.”
“Really. Why was that?”
“I changed my mind. It's a free country, isn't it?”
“All right. What did you do in York?”
“Nothing much, as it turned out. I was so beat that I slept right through and didn't wake up until the train got into London around midnight. As the last train north had just left, I spent the rest of the night in London. Seeing the sights, you might say.” He leered unpleasantly. “The next morning I caught the first train back to York.”
“A rather convoluted itinerary, I'd say. Is there anyone who can corroborate your story?”
Pickens shrugged.
“Nobody saw you? You spoke to no one?”
“Even if there was someone, a gentleman shouldn't kiss and tell, should he?” Smirk.
The prospect of Oliver Pickens kissing anything didn't bear thinking about. But for the time being, Powell thought, he could worry about his own alibi.
“Tell me, why were you so anxious to get to York?”
“Because it's in Yorkshire,” Pickens replied with contrived innocence.
“I'll bite. Why Yorkshire?”
“Let's just say I'm a big fan of James Herriot.” Snigger.
Powell did his best to conjure up a mental image of the venerable vet with his arm buried to the shoulder up a certain bespectacled horse's arse. He smiled benignly. “I assume that you eventually arrived at your destination. Then what?”
“I hired a car and spent a couple of days touring the Dales.”
“That covers a lot of territory. Can you be a little more specific?”
“Wensleydale and Swaledale, if you must know.”
“Very scenic.”
“I was particularly interested in the local geology. The Buttertubs, for example, were very impressive.”
“I take your point, Mr. Pickens. You can rest assured that we will be checking your story in every detail. Now, you returned to London, suitably refreshed, I presume, from your sojourn amongst the high fells—when?”
Pickens's eyes narrowed. “Friday night. You know the rest. By the way, I don't much care for your attitude. I may just have to speak to your superiors.”
“My superiors are well aware of my attitude, believe me. Now, when did you say you first learned about Charles Murray's death?”
Pickens began picking his teeth. “I don't remember exactly. I picked up a newspaper someplace and saw the story buried in the back pages.”
“Then you'd have read the other bit about the police being eager to interview a Canadian tourist, one Oliver Pickens, in the hope that he might be able to assist them with their inquiries.”
“Gee, I must have missed that part. You see, I'm not much interested in current affairs. Too depressing.”
God, this is bloody tedious, Powell thought. His head had begun to pound. “I should tell you while you're formulating your next flippancy that I'm thinking about adjourning our little chat to give you time to consider your position. In the meantime we can offer you a night of commodious accommodation compliments of Her Majesty. Whether or not you choose to avail yourself is entirely up to you.”
In the corner, Detective-Sergeant Black was grinning like a large ape.
“I know my rights,” Pickens whined. “You can't hold me without grounds. Look, I've answered all your questions. What more do you want?”
Powell regarded him with barely concealed distaste. Pickens was cringing now like a beaten dog, but not the type you would want to turn your back on. “To be precise, Mr. Pickens, we can detain you for up to twenty-four hours while we decide what to do with you.” He had made up his mind. “Why don't we take a break while you think it over.” He motioned to Black, and before Pickens could protest they had stepped out of the room.
“Nasty piece of work, that,” Detective-Sergeant Black remarked pleasantly.
Powell grimaced. “Let him stew for a while and then take a formal statement. While you're at it, try to extract a bit more detail on his comings and goings. Then lock him up and get started on his story.”
“Right;’
“I get the distinct impression he's a bit skittish about his so-called business appointment on Tuesday. We'll have to play that up for all its worth. I'm afraid if we can't get our teeth into something more substantial, we'll have to let him go. At least for the time being.”
“His story seems plausible,” Black rumbled.
“We'll know soon enough.”
Powell returned to his office and sent out for a sandwich. He spent the remainder of the afternoon in bureaucratic fettle, clearing off his desk. At five o'clock he left New Scotland Yard and walked briskly in a fine drizzle to the tube station at St. James’ Park. Except for a few damp sightseers, the streets seemed oddly deserted. He changed at Embankment Station, continuing on foot from Goodge Street to his destination.
It had begun to pour, the rain slanting like tinsel against the black buildings. Just ahead he could see a faded green awning under a jagged blue neon signscape that was intended, he supposed, to represent the high Himalayas but which looked in the thickening mist more like the surreal brain wave trace of some deranged acid-head. Powell collapsed his umbrella under the dripping awning and entered the fragrant and enveloping warmth of the K2 Tandoori Restaurant.
He inhaled deeply. The atmosphere was redolent with the complex aromas of fenugreek, cloves, cinnamon, and coriander. He was greeted almost instantaneously by the proprietor, a small ebullient Pakistani named Rashid Jamal. “My dear Erskine, this is indeed an unexpected pleasure! Here, let me take your coat. I thought you were in Scotland pursuing the salmon?”
Powell smiled. “I had to return to London on business for a couple of days, Rashid. Marion's away for the weekend and I couldn't face the prospect of cold pie at home, so here I am.”
His host beamed. “I am absolutely delighted,” he said, gesturing toward Powell's usual table near the window.
“I desperately need a pint of something soothing, Rashid. Will you join me?”
“It would be my pleasure, Erskine!”
While his host repaired to the bar, Powell surveyed his familiar surroundings amidst the muted strains of a recorded sitar and tabla. The dining area of the K2 was arranged in a horseshoe-shaped configuration, with the bar and general service area situated in the center. At the rear of the restaurant, which corresponded to the open end of the horseshoe, access to the kitchen was obtained by way of swinging doors, through which on a busy night one could get tantalizing glimpses of frenetic culinary activity. From his vantage point at the front of the restaurant, Powell could see that he was the only customer. It was still early, however, and he savored the solitude. The red flock walls were decorated with assorted prints and batiks depicting lavishly bejeweled sultans and maharanis in various erotic but highly improbable positions. And, as always, the bar was festively, if unseasonably, festooned with strings of red-and-green Christmas lights.
Rashid soon returned with a pint of bitter for Powell and a tonic and lime for himself.
Powell raised his glass. “Cheers, Rashid.” He took a grateful gulp. How are Nindi and the kids?”
“Fine, fine. And your family?”
“Keeping me hopping.”
“Good, good.”
Powell couldn't resist the opportunity. “I see another Balti house has opened down the street.”
Rashid's eyes flashed angrily. “Balti-shmalti! I have been cooking fresh food in the karahi for twenty years, but I refuse to cater to lager louts!”
“Thank God for that,” Powell replied. He took another long draft of his beer and then sighed heavily. “Tell me, Rashid, do you think I could make a go of it in the curry restaurant business?”
Rashid grinned. “Oh, undoubtedly, Erskine, undoubtedly. But I am not at all certain that I would like the competition.” He examined his companion closely and then frowned, evincing an air of deep concern. “But why would you ask such a question?”
“They say a change is as good as a rest.”
“What are you saying, my friend? Yours is an honorable profession. There is no higher calling than to labor for the public good.”
Powell shrugged. “I don't know, Rashid. Marion says it's male menopause. And an inability to get in touch with my feelings, no bloody doubt.” He grimaced and took another sip of his beer.
Rashid nodded sadly in a gesture of masculine commiseration. “I know what you mean, my friend, but think how terrible it would be if there were no honest policemen like yourself to protect the innocent citizenry like myself,” he said earnestly.
Powell managed a thin smile. “I do appreciate the sentiment, Rashid, honestly. But what about you? Have you ever regretted not becoming a doctor like your father?”
Rashid laughed infectiously. “I learned long ago that the key to health and long life is a happy tummy, and I have steadfastly devoted my life to that principle ever since. But seriously, my friend,” he persisted, “the grass frequently appears greener on the other side of the mountain range. As my dear old mother used to say—or perhaps it was Tom Jones, I cannot remember now—enlightenment is frequently to be found under one's very nose. You know, the green, green grass of home. Hee hee!” His dark eyes twinkled. “My mother used to say also that we are all just gravy spots on the tablecloth of life. But remember, Erskine, my dear chap, spicy fellows like you and I are damn difficult to wash out, yes?”
Malice in the Highlands Page 10
