Malice in the Highlands

by Graham Thomas

  “Anything else, mein Kapitän!”

  “That should do it. Oh, yes, we'd better have another go at Pickens. I'll have Sergeant Black pull him in again and wring him dry. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm going to repair to the bar for a nightcap.”

  “First things first. You didn't think that I was going to let you off the hook that easily, did you?” Barrett prodded.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I stuck my neck out. Now it's your turn.”

  Powell sighed. “Well, I won't quibble with anything you've said, but there is one person you haven't mentioned.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Ruby.”

  “You're joking, surely.”

  “I'm convinced that she's trying to shield one or both of the Whitelys. Think about it. Her first reaction after learning of Charles Murray's disappearance was to report it to a policeman. Then she seemed to go out of her way to imply, without actually saying so, that Murray was something of a lush, someone who might be expected to get into a bit of trouble now and then. Yet according to his daughter, he was on the wagon.”

  “It's obvious that somebody's not telling the truth.”

  “On the contrary, I think both statements are entirely consistent.”

  “What exactly are you driving at?”

  “Simply this: When Ruby first heard about Murray's disappearance, I think she suspected the worst. Furthermore, I think she had some reason to speculate about the identity of his killer. To ease her conscience, perhaps, she made a token effort to bring the matter to our attention, but once she'd done her duty she did her best to suggest an alternative explanation for Murray's disappearance. I believe Ruby knew through her friendship with Heather Murray that Charles Murray had once been a hard drinker; I think she wanted desperately to believe Murray had reverted to his old ways and had met his end as a result of some sort of accident.”

  “But aren't you forgetting that Murray had been drinking on the night he was killed?” Barrett protested.

  “Pure coincidence. Look, we know he was considering chucking it all and returning to Canada. He'd just had a row with his daughter when his old mate Oliver Pickens drops in to reminisce about the good old days. It's hardly surprising he fell off the wagon.”

  Barrett grunted irritably. “This is getting us nowhere fast.”

  “You asked.”

  After disconnecting, Powell rang up the Ravenscroft Guesthouse and learned from Mrs. Blakey that Sanders had still not returned. Next he called Shand and arranged to have the guesthouse placed under surveillance, leaving strict orders to be notified the moment Sanders put in an appearance. Best not to set the cat amongst the pigeons just yet.

  Having fulfilled his professional obligations, he made a beeline for the bar, where he spent the remainder of the evening debating the merits of the dry fly for Scottish salmon with George, the bartender. At ten forty-five he received word that Sanders had returned to the guesthouse. A quick call to Mrs. Blakey revealed that Sanders had already retired. “Without even taking his tea,” she added significantly.

  “I'll surprise him tomorrow morning, then, Mrs. Blakey.”

  “Och, you are a one, Mr. Powell,” she chortled.

  “Not half, Mrs. Blakey, not bloody half,” he muttered after he'd rung off.

  CHAPTER 13

  When Powell arrived at the Old Bridge the next morning, the scene-of-crime lads were already hard at it. As he walked down to the river he made a mental note to have Pinky's Land Rover driven back to the hotel. PC Shand introduced Powell to Inspector McInnes, who was in charge of operations. McInnes was a wiry man with restless blue eyes that didn't miss a thing. He exuded an air of quiet competence and Powell liked him immediately.

  “Anything, yet?” Powell asked.

  “We've found a fishing rod, sir,” McInnes replied smartly. “Lying on the shingle, over there by the big rock.”

  “Let's have a look at it.”

  A salmon rod was produced, and one glance told Powell what he wanted to know. “That's Mr. Warburton's rod. We're looking for a custom job, similar in length and general appearance, but made by Peter Grant of Kinlochy. It probably went into the river with Mr. Warburton.”

  “I'll get a couple of my men to suit up right away.”

  “Anything else?”

  McInnes shrugged. “The usual paraphernalia, bits of discarded line, the odd broken hook, cigarette butts, plastic wrappers, broken glass, and the like. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

  After a brief consultation with McInnes, Powell and Shand donned chest-high waders at the river's edge. Powell pointed to a large, flat-topped rock that lay half submerged approximately twenty feet from where they stood, where the river narrowed slightly after debouching from the Bridge Pool.

  “Right, once I get settled out there, I want you to wade out as quietly as you can, just like you were sneaking up on me, then give me a tap on the back.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shand said doubtfully.

  Powell began to slosh his way through the shallows. He was soon up to his crotch and could feel the river sucking the warmth from his legs through the waders's thin rubber membrane. The current was stronger than it looked, and he had to move carefully over the algae-smeared cobbles. When he reached the rock, he clambered up without too much difficulty and settled himself on his slick perch with his back to the others, legs dangling in the current. The river bottom dropped off steeply before him into the main flow of the river. He called out to PC Shand, “Right.”

  He closed his eyes, relaxed yet fully alert, and immersed himself in the sounds around him. He could distinguish the lapping of wavelets against the rock, the powerful suck of the current as it funneled past him, and the muted roar of distant rapids, harmoniously married like the notes of a liquid chord. Occasionally he caught a snatch of conversation from McInnes's men.

  Powell was jarred from his meditation by a loud splash. Startled, he resisted the temptation to open his eyes. A salmon must have jumped in the Bridge Pool. He steadied himself again.

  The next thing he knew, he was in the water, thrashing wildly and fighting to stay on his feet as the current swept him downstream. The water lapped at the top of his waders and he could feel the sobering shock of the first icy trickles running down his legs. He tried to steer toward the bank by keeping his feet moving on the shifting cobbles as if he were running down a scree, but as he took on more and more water, his waders began to pull him down like a deadweight. He was struggling desperately now but was unable to make any shoreward progress. With a curious sense of detachment he realized that he was being forced inexorably into deeper and faster water. Powell was vaguely aware of men shouting and felt faintly ridiculous as he contemplated the possible ignominious consequences of his little lark. In keeping with the gravity of the situation he fancied he could hear the faint skirling of bagpipes. He thought about Marion and the boys and felt the sharp edge of panic at his throat.

  He was about to cry out when something caught his arm from behind and he found himself staring into the taut face of Inspector McInnes. Clutching each other and lurching like two drunks, Powell and McInnes managed with their combined strength to stem the current and edge crablike toward shore. When they reached the shallows, they collapsed together and crawled on their hands and knees onto the shingle, fully spent, like a pair of beached whales. In a clumsy slow-motion ballet Powell struggled out of his waders and rolled onto his back, gasping for breath.

  McInnes, ashen faced, inquired anxiously, “Are you all right, Mr. Powell? My God, you might have drowned!” His expression suddenly darkened. “Bloody hell!”

  “Forget it—no harm done,” Powell said heartily, or as near to it as he could manage under the circumstances. He pushed himself into a sitting position. “By the way, thanks.” He winced as he slowly flexed his cramping legs.

  There was a great commotion as McInnes's men, with Shand in tow, descended upon them. A large plaid blanket and an unofficial medicinal flask
were produced, and Powell and McInnes huddled for a few moments in the warm afterglow of these ministrations. Then McInnes fixed PC Shand with a withering stare. “You had better explain yourself, Constable.”

  Shand, who looked more miserable and bedraggled than either of the casualties, said haltingly, “I didn't mean— I mean, I didn't realize it was so slippery. I lost my footing as I reached out to touch Mr. Powell. The next thing I knew …” Shand looked at Powell with a pathetic expression, visions of his erstwhile career evaporating before his eyes. “I—I'm terribly sorry, sir.”

  Before Powell could respond, McInnes asked incredulously, “But why did you just stand there gawking, man?”

  PC Shand's expression evinced utter and total devastation. “I—I'm afraid of the water, sir,” he stammered.

  “What?” McInnes roared.

  Shand repeated himself, more piteously than before.

  “Well, laddie,” McInnes rumbled ominously, “we'll soon rectify that particular deficiency in your training. FU see to it personally.”

  It was learned in the discussion that followed that something of interest had turned up on the road. One of McInnes's men, a Sergeant Cavers, stepped forward to elaborate.

  “Based on my examination, sir, I have identified three distinct sets of tire impressions in the turnaround area, possibly four. All are fairly fresh, made in the last day or so, I'd say. One set, of course, belongs to the Land Rover that's parked up there, another set appears to have been made by a subcompact model, and the third by a vehicle with a longer wheel base. A small lorry or possibly a van would be my guess.”

  Powell and Shand exchanged involuntary glances.

  “Is it possible to determine the sequence of comings and goings?” Powell asked.

  Cavers frowned. “It's difficult, sir. The ground is badly churned up with the recent rain, but it does appear that the impressions made by the smaller vehicle were superimposed on the other two.”

  “You mentioned the possibility of a fourth set of tracks.”

  “Yes, sir. There is another, very faint impression on the harder, drier ground just before you get to the turnaround, but it's difficult to say how old it is. Another small car, it looks like.”

  Powell nodded. “Good work, Sergeant. You've taken some photographs, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Powell emerged somewhat reluctantly from his tartan cocoon and got to his feet with an undignified squishing sound. “Come along, Shand. We've got work to do.” In actual fact, his immediate plans did not include the young constable, but he wanted to spare him the ordeal of being ragged, or, rather more likely, congratulated by his colleagues for nearly drowning his superior.

  When Powell arrived at the Salar Lodge, there was a message from Barrett waiting for him, indicating among other things that he would be arriving Saturday morning. It's about bloody time, Powell thought irritably. After a reviving soak in a near-scalding tub, he set off for the Ravenscroft Guesthouse.

  Mrs. Blakey, a grandmotherly woman with a pleasant manner, ushered Powell into a sitting room chockablock with embroidered cushions of various shapes and sizes.

  “I'll tell Mr. Sanders you're here,” she said with a conspiratorial chuckle, still under the impression that she was presiding over some sort of joyous reunion.

  When Sanders appeared a few minutes later it was obvious that he was not in the best of shape. Bleary eyed and even more tousled than usual, he collapsed into a chair and gestured for Powell to do likewise. His fingers quavered as he lit a cigarette.

  “You'll have to excuse me. I haven't been getting much sleep lately.”

  A bit edgy, are we? Powell thought coldly. He was going to enjoy this.

  “I've been expecting you, actually,” Sanders continued. “As soon as I found out about Pinky I figured you'd come looking for me.”

  “Really? Now why would you think that?”

  “I was the last person he was with, right?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, I want you to know that I consider Pinky to be my friend. I've known him only a short time, it's true, but we've become good chums all the same.”

  How touching. “It's odd that you haven't gone to visit your old chum in hospital, then.”

  “Yeah, well, I feel badly about that. I've called the hospital to see how he's getting on, of course, but under the circumstances I thought it best to keep a low profile.”

  “And just what circumstances are those, Mr. Sanders?”

  Sanders smiled weakly. “Mr. Sanders, is it? As bad as all that?”

  Powell did not reply.

  Sanders shrugged. “Have it your way. Well, for starters, the rumor began to circulate that what happened to Pinky was no accident.”

  “Where did you hear that particular rumor?”

  “Perhaps I should back up a bit. Pinky has probably told you that I left him fishing at the Old Bridge to run some errands in town. When I returned an hour later he was gone.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Half-past three, give or take.”

  “Were you driving your Escort?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  “At first I thought that he must have wandered downstream to compare notes with the fellows on the next beat, but when I checked, there was no one there either. It seemed a bit strange at the time. On the way back I found Pinky's rod lying on the riverbank. At that point I really began to worry. When I checked in at the Salar Lodge to see if he was there, I bumped into old George Stuart, who wasted no time in telling me that someone had tried to drown Pinky. ‘Just like Mr. Murray,’ he said.” Sanders looked sheepish. “To be completely honest, I panicked. I didn't want to get involved.”

  “Well, you are involved,” Powell snapped. “In an investigation of attempted murder, and that's just for openers.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Sanders demanded, shifting nervously in his chair.

  “According to Peter Grant, you purchased a new rod from him about a week ago. You then returned yesterday and bought another one, claiming to have broken the first. You were carrying the new one when we bumped into each other at the shop. I'd be very interested to learn what happened to that first rod of yours.”

  Sanders shook his head painfully. “It was a crazy thing to do, I'll admit it, but I've become kind of hooked on this salmon fishing, if you'll pardon the pun, and I wanted to try out my new rod. I wasn't able to get another ticket on the hotel water, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and have a go at Castle Glyn. I didn't think anybody would mind under the circumstances.”

  “With Charles Murray dead, you mean.”

  Sanders took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Yes.”

  Powell fixed him with a deceptively placid gaze. “You realize, of course, that poaching is against the law in this country. Frankly, I don't believe you're that stupid. Quite the contrary, I'd say.”

  “It's a minor offense, surely. Let's just say I made an error in judgment.” Sanders met Powell's eyes with bloodshot intensity.

  Powell smiled humorlessly. “But an error in judgment with potentially far-reaching consequences, wouldn't you agree?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I'm given to understand that you're a freelance journalist, Mr. Sanders, and I expect you have to do a fair bit of traveling in your line of work. I shouldn't imagine you'd wish to be encumbered by a police record. The precise nature of the transgression, I think, is rather beside the point. The customs and immigration authorities don't usually split hairs over that sort of thing.”

  Sanders sighed heavily. “Okay, now that the cat's out of the bag I've got nothing to hide, and whether you believe it or not, I'd like nothing more than to see you nail the bastard who tried to kill Pinky.” He leaned forward. “It's true that I'm a reporter. And as I'm sure you've already guessed, I came here to do a story on Charles Murray. It seems that the public never tires of that sort of crap—you know, a glimpse into the lives of the rich and famous. B
ut it pays the bills.”

  “Perhaps we can discuss your journalistic integrity later. I'm still waiting to hear about your little poaching adventure.”

  Sanders indignantly drew on his cigarette. “I was caught in the act. Someone chucked a great bloody rock at me—I could have been killed!”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  He shook his head. “There was a shout and then a big splash. I assumed it was a gamekeeper or somebody like that, but I wasn't about to stick around to find out. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. It was only later that I realized I'd lost my rod somewhere along the way. I've been fretting ever since that somebody would find it and somehow trace it back to me.”

  Powell frowned. “I don't understand. Why didn't you just leave Kinlochy?”

  Sanders smiled bitterly. “If I had, I guess I'd have saved myself a lot of trouble. The truth is I wanted to finish my story and to do that I needed to interview Heather Murray. Unfortunately, she seems immune to my charms and refuses to see me. But if nothing else, I'm a persistent son of a bitch. As a matter of fact, I called her again yesterday afternoon, but she'd have none of it. She even threatened to call the police. That was enough for me. I decided to leave well enough alone and was planning to return to London tonight. But now …” He shrugged.

  “Exactly what line were you going to take in this story of yours?”

  “A biographical sketch for starters—you know, local boy makes good, that sort of thing—a generous helping of Highland color, and then the pièce de résistance’, a tantalizing suggestion that, despite his alleged retirement, Charles Murray was in fact working on a major new deal, possibly his biggest yet.”

  Powell perked up. “What gave you that idea?”

  “I didn't have any hard evidence, really. Just a reporter's intuition. Plus the odd suggestive tidbit.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for one thing I bumped into an old associate of his in the Grouse and Butt the other day. A well-known Vancouver stock promoter. I overheard him ordering a taxi for Castle Glyn.”

  “That wouldn't be Oliver Pickens, would it?”