by Gwen Moffat
She stopped. Merrick said, ‘Or a clever man pretending to be stupid. I don’t know; I wasn’t there.’
‘Low cunning,’ Miss Pink said thoughtfully. ‘Then there was his suggestion that Betty Lindsay was a Lesbian and so she could be the killer, but when I said that I’d thought that Betty was attracted to him, either vanity or prudence got the better of him, and he went off on that tack, but maintaining that the attachment was neurotic on Betty’s part. I got a strong impression that he was building fantasies as he went along. He would start with a lie or an innuendo and then got carried away. Definitely not a clever man, I would say.’
‘Unless diabolically clever, ma’am.’
‘Not George Watkins. Just self-centred, I imagine. If he has any feeling for anyone, it’s for himself. I can’t see him taking the trouble to go across to Largo.’
‘Perhaps she went to him,’ Ivory said, and the others looked at him, Miss Pink thinking that he could be right; so many victims had a compulsive need for their predator.
Merrick was following his own line of thought. ‘Hardly rape,’ he mused, ‘unless he dressed her afterwards. Unusual though. But then it’s unusual to remove the body; you’d expect him to leave it lying, but perhaps he thought it would be covered by rubbish and not found, at least till he’d got away. But no one has left the glen since last evening, excluding Maynard, who did, but came back. What puzzles you, ma’am?’
‘I’m wondering why you’ve not mentioned young MacNeill.’
‘Haven’t we? You think he’s a strong suspect?’
‘I thought you would think so.’
‘You think we always follow the obvious lines. True enough. We’ve spent quite a while with young Willie. I haven’t seen him myself, mind, but I’ve read his statement and talked to the officers who saw him. There doesn’t seem to be any discrepancy with what he told you in the kitchen. Not a very articulate lad, particularly by the time our people reached him, but shock could account for some of his behaviour. We have his reactions on finding the body from you. He could have been acting, like Watkins. Low cunning is sometimes sufficient to carry through an act. If they have the nerve to stick to a story, it can be very difficult to break them down. There’s that tale about him going to Largo and hearing the girl washing dishes in the company of a man. If it’s true, who’s the fellow? If it’s not true, why tell us?’ He looked at his sergeant.
‘Because someone saw him over there,’ Ivory said patiently.
‘Then why doesn’t he identify the fellow? He’s a suspect too.’
‘He only heard the man mumbling,’ Miss Pink said. ‘I agree with you, Mr Merrick; the story must be true because there’s no reason why he should make it up. If anything, it incriminates him. After all, his father almost certainly knew the lad was out, but his story will agree with the son’s.’
‘He doesn’t say he heard Willie come in. He says he was fast asleep and heard nothing.’
‘Confidence,’ she hazarded. ‘He knows his son didn’t do it and doesn’t need alibis.’
‘But that business of dumping the rubbish on top of the body,’ Merrick continued. ‘It’s suspicious—although all the locals, and the people staying here, knew he’d be tipping sooner or later. If he wasn’t the killer, he was certainly being used as an unwitting accessory.’
‘It could have had significance,’ she murmured.
‘How’s that, ma’am?’
‘Hatred. Like multiple stab wounds after death. To put the body on a tip might have been choice, not expediency.’
He thought about that for a while then leaned forward with his elbows on the table. Miss Pink was in an easy chair on the other side. ‘If it wasn’t rape, did sex have any bearing on the murder?’ he asked.
‘I think so. You never saw her.’
‘What did she look like?’
‘She was the kind of girl people turn round and look at in the street, even if she’s wearing the dullest clothes. She would excite passion in any man, and many women. Either love or hate but never indifference.’
‘Indeed?’
‘It wasn’t only her appearance but the things she said. She seemed unaware of the nature of the reactions she roused in people; she was rather stupid, you know: a very dangerous combination. One sees so many pretty girls in the courts who are not really delinquents, just innocent animals. Unfortunately they’re usually found by weak or wicked people and get into trouble before they have time to find the kind of people who might see to it that they come to no harm. But of course, they can’t tell the difference.’
Merrick’s eyes were grim but he didn’t follow that line. ‘Who’s next?’ he asked, looking at his list. ‘Irwin. In his twenties, a good guide but doesn’t possess formal qualifications, which puts him on the wrong side of our host, who is old-fashioned. You say Irwin was fond of the girl, took her in when Watkins threw her out. . . .’ He nodded to himself. ‘We don’t know much about Irwin really, do we? Except that on the night of the murder he was allegedly sleeping in a tent on his own not many miles away.’
‘But he’d have no reason to—’
There was a knock at the door and Gordon Hamlyn entered with a tea tray. ‘I guessed you’d be needing this,’ he said with a self-congratulatory air. He placed the tray on the table, nodded at Merrick and, without invitation, started to set out the cups.
‘I understand you climb, sir?’ Merrick said, and Miss Pink remembered that Hamlyn was on his list.
‘I can still lead a Severe competently. Do you climb?’
‘No.’ The inspector looked at Miss Pink.
‘A Severe is quite hard,’ she explained. ‘The colonel is a well-known mountaineer.’
‘So you’ll know all about equipment,’ Merrick mused as the other started to pour out the tea. He gave Miss Pink a small smile. ‘I’d appreciate a second opinion on some of these points, sir. Now, this business of the disposal: we don’t often come across cases where bodies are carried so far—manually, but climbers must be used to the weight of a body?’
‘There’s a confusion here between climbers and rescuers.’ Hamlyn had handed round tea and biscuits, and now he settled himself in a chair. ‘Climbers are familiar with the weight of other climbers when there’s a slip or a fall, but you have to remember that the fallen man is then alive and conscious and capable of helping himself. Of course, I’m speaking of the normal run of events, you understand, not a serious or fatal fall. All climbers are familiar with the weight of a second on the rope—but that is not in the same category as the full weight of a body. That is, if you’ll forgive the pun, a dead weight.’ He leaned back and regarded Merrick with satisfaction.
‘Carried many?’ the latter asked with an air of childish curiosity.
The other nodded. ‘A great many, but never for long distances on my own. We usually manage to find at least six men for the stretcher. But I have, on occasions, had to hoist a body about unaided: in difficult places and before the full team arrives at the site of the accident. They are very heavy indeed, you may take my word for that—and damnably awkward: floppy before rigor, stiff as a board afterwards.’
‘I can believe it. What an interesting life you lead. Do a power of good too. Bodies are the business of the police by rights. Without Mountain Rescue teams, there’d have to be a special department trained to deal with violent death in the mountains. The taxpayer’s saved thousands of pounds by voluntary rescue teams.’
Hamlyn’s face was stiff with embarrassment. He gave a loud, barking cough. ‘We do what we can. How can I help you here?’
‘George Watkins,’ Merrick said dreamily. ‘Is he a professional guide?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do his job well?’
‘I’d rather not answer that one.’
The inspector didn’t comment on that. ‘Colin Irwin?’ he went on.
‘You want my professional opinion? He’s not a qualified guide. One of the long-haired brigade: a squatter in MacNeill’s cottage across the river—w
ell, of course you know Largo! What am I thinking of? MacNeill would have allowed him to stay there to spite me, I dare say. They know how I feel about hooligans and hippies.’
‘Been making himself a nuisance to you, has he—Irwin? An alcoholic?’
‘I won’t have him in my bar.’
‘Ah. Drugs then, is it?’
‘They’re all on drugs.’
‘Tell me what he’s done to annoy you, colonel.’
Hamlyn re-crossed his legs. ‘Nothing specific—no need for that. But you must understand that climbing is an extremely dangerous game, and guides must be highly qualified. They’re subjected to the most stringent tests and examinations by the Mountaineering Council before they’re granted their certificates and allowed to practise. We have two guides in the glen at this moment and whatever they are otherwise—one of them, that is—there’s no getting away from it: they are qualified guides. Irwin is nothing but a long-haired layabout: an ordinary climber out to make an easy buck. I heard that he’s actually been refused his certificates, and I wouldn’t mind betting that this was because of his manner. Clients are particular about the fellows they employ on the hill. They like to see discipline, and that’s something that Irwin is a stranger to: discipline.’
‘You have deduced that from conversation with him?’
‘I haven’t conversed with the man. You’ve only got to look at him.’ He grimaced with disgust. ‘He wears his hair in a kind of band.’ He looked at the others meaningly. ‘My wife calls it an Alice band.’ His face was suddenly expressionless. ‘I’ve seen him tie it back in a ribbon.’
‘And the dead girl: would you say she was a female counterpart of Irwin?’
He gave the matter thought, then shook his head decisively. ‘No, not at all. She was neat and clean.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Outlandishly dressed, of course, but very charming, and so pleasantly old-fashioned. Wore a long skirt. These short skirts have led to a lot of crime in my opinion. I could be biased but it’s all part of the permissive attitudes nowadays. Fashion isn’t the least of it; there’s the media with public performances on television of the most private acts, and this, sir, is all exploitation of the masses by a few. . . .’ He came forward in his chair. ‘The collapse of every civilisation has been preceded by decadence, were you aware of that?’ He leaned back and surveyed Merrick and Ivory. ‘That’s why the police are powerless, why the crime rate is rising and you can do nothing to contain it—because decadence is starting at the top. This country is no democracy, sir; it’s run by men who are so anxious for power that they’ll do anything to please the voters. Britain is ruled by the masses, with a few hundred puppets at the top, and all decadent, every one of them.’
‘Exactly,’ Merrick said, his eyes glazed. ‘And what’s your remedy?’
Suddenly Hamlyn slumped and sighed deeply. ‘I sympathise with you, indeed I do; it’s uphill work all the way, and no corporal punishment, no death penalty.’ He smiled at Miss Pink with charm. ‘And if I say the magistrates are too lenient, I shall lose this good lady’s favour.’
‘So you’re suggesting that the murder had some association with decadence?’ Merrick suggested.
‘It sounds silly, put that way, but it was preceded by the most outrageous behaviour which, I admit now, should have been reported to you at the time.’
‘Yes? Who was at fault there?’
Hamlyn appeared confused. ‘Perhaps all of us. I believe we were all aware that the girl had been badly treated, yet we did nothing about it.’
‘You’re referring to last Saturday night?’
‘Of course.’ He looked at the inspector as if the man were mad. ‘Nothing like that has occurred in this glen before, not in our time at all events. A man who can hit a woman is capable of anything, sir! And to continue beating her after the first blow, after he’s seen the damage he’s already inflicted, that is sheer sadism!’
‘He beat her for some considerable time, did he?’ Merrick flicked back through his notebook as if looking for a reference. ‘We don’t seem to have a description of the injuries,’ he mused. Hamlyn waited attentively. ‘What were her injuries?’ Merrick asked, still leafing through the pages, then he looked up.
Hamlyn said, ‘You were addressing me? I didn’t see her after the Saturday evening.’
Merrick looked flustered. ‘I must get people’s movements straight. I think we’d better do some work on that now.’ He glanced at Ivory and smiled at Hamlyn who, recognising that this was dismissal, got up reluctantly and went out.
Miss Pink and the inspector regarded each other.
‘How stupid is he?’ Merrick asked.
She was thoughtful. ‘Stupidity is seldom consistent, is it? People will have blind spots in one direction, particularly where human relationships are concerned, and yet be perceptive and intelligent in other directions. Look at wives and husbands: devoted wives who are completely blind to husbands who are rogues, oafs, misers—you know the kind of thing—and yet quite good judges of character or at least, high-principled, where other people are concerned. It’s a kind of dual morality.’
‘Those are women blinded by passion and, as you say, not uncommon. I was talking about Hamlyn, ma’am.’
‘I’m sorry; I was side-tracked. . . . Hamlyn? Oh yes; stupid in one direction, you see: in his view of society, but then surely, it’s only a matter of degree? He’s way out on the right wing. A lot of old regular officers are that way inclined.’
‘Heaven preserve me from them.’ He sighed and looked at his watch. ‘We have to be up early. Let’s have a look at the last two on the list. Andrew Lindsay; now he’s the man who’s employing the execrable Watkins—and the only time Lindsay is happy is in Watkins’ company. Otherwise he’s morose, nervous, preoccupied. His wife is a dominating lady who is treated abominably by Watkins when they’re climbing. She’s a superior climber to her husband—does he resent that, I wonder? You suspect a relationship between the two men. How does the wife react to that?’
‘She appears unconcerned. It could be as Watkins suggested: that she’d like to mother both of them.’
Even Ivory was startled at that. Merrick recovered himself and wondered what this triangle might have to do with the deceased. No one helped him. ‘And then there’s Kenneth Maynard,’ he went on. ‘“Porn?”’ he read from his notebook. He addressed Ivory, ‘Why pornography?’
The sergeant coughed meaningly and one nostril twitched. ‘Woman’s magazine,’ he prompted.
Merrick glanced at Miss Pink who mistook the nature of the cue. ‘I have no more facts than I gave you.’ She was apologetic.
‘Fifty-ish,’ Merrick said, out of his head, not from his notebook. ‘An enthusiastic climber, employs expert lady guide, not a femme fatale—’ his audience was expressionless, ‘—his somewhat older wife is in ill-health and doesn’t climb. Frets, perhaps?’ He looked at the table. ‘A liking for young girls?’
‘Not Lavender,’ Miss Pink murmured.
He looked at her reproachfully. ‘Maynard.’
‘Not apparent.’
‘Powerful?’
‘Only moderately.’
‘He climbs, so he carries heavy loads but not, as the colonel explained at length, dead weights. And he brought the girl to the glen.’
‘That meeting must have been coincidence. Moreover, there’d be no opportunity for dalliance in Lavender’s presence. And I’m sure he didn’t meet her again.’
‘Ma’am!’ He was pained and she looked guilty.
‘I’m sorry; I must be getting tired.’ She amended the statement. ‘He spoke to her in the cocktail lounge on Saturday evening but to my knowledge he didn’t meet her again.’
‘That’s better.’ He nodded as if a promising pupil had redeemed a mistake. ‘What time did Maynard go to bed that night—I mean, Monday night of course? You went up at eight-thirty.’ He looked at Ivory. ‘So—we want the movements of these five men from six on Monday evening until six on Tuesday morning.’ He saw the question in M
iss Pink’s eyes. ‘The last independent witness to have seen her alive is yourself, ma’am: about six, you said, when she went inside Largo with young MacNeill. And it gets light about six in the morning. After that the killer had to be in his bed or somewhere else equally innocent. Sunrise is at seven. The body was put down Scarf Geo in the dark.’
She nodded and looked diffident. ‘Were you implying that Maynard’s magazine was pornographic?’
‘No, ma’am.’ He tapped his notebook. ‘I had put a query against the term.’ Ivory was frowning fiercely. ‘But Mr Ivory wouldn’t query it.’
‘Permissive,’ the sergeant observed. ‘Only just keeps clear of the Obscene Publications Act.’
‘Really?’ Miss Pink was surprised.
‘Article on—er—’
‘Eunuchs,’ Merrick supplied equably.
‘With pictures.’ Ivory glowered. ‘Made a lot of trouble in the Highlands.’
‘I would have thought, with lambs, and bullocks—’
‘They’re different,’ Ivory said.
She was silent for a moment while Merrick started to gather up his papers, then she said abstractedly: ‘Yes, it is a publication that does sail close to the wind and now I think I see a correlation—between his work and his climbing. I’d have thought that exploiting sex was the antithesis of climbing. But he’s an intelligent man, not your typical flesh-peddler—’ their eyes widened at her, ‘—he needs the hills. Poor fellow,’ she mused, ‘it must be very hard on him.’
‘Hard enough to kill, ma’am?’
She looked at them as if she were surfacing from an anaesthetic. ‘To kill? Kill Terry Cooke? Why should he?’
‘Oh, come now!’ Merrick was impatient. They were all tired. ‘Here’s a man all mixed up with sex: makes his living out of it, married to a woman who’s probably mad with jealousy because he spends all day—and sometimes whole holidays—alone with an attractive girl thirty years younger than herself. . . . Are you going to tell me he hasn’t had an affair with Madge Fraser?’
