Alan poured some for both of us and sat back down. ‘Trying to find out, is more like it. No one can actually be accounted for definitively, but they do have alibis of a sort. When Carter had had his say and stormed out, Fairweather took Norquist to a pub for a drink. Norquist confirms that, incidentally.’
‘Why would he have done a thing like that? I thought he didn’t like Norquist.’
‘He doesn’t, particularly. He doesn’t particularly dislike him, though. He said the man was extremely upset about Carter’s pronouncements, and he felt sorry for him. Fairweather felt sorry for Norquist, that is. He said he bought him a drink or two, hoping to calm him down, but that Norquist had no head for drink and became maudlin instead.’
‘Aha!’ I said. ‘That would explain Norquist’s headache the next day.’
‘Indeed. Fairweather thought the man had best not drive home, so he drove him home about midnight and put him to bed, then went home himself. Part of that can be checked, of course, with the publican. There’s not much hope of checking when each of them reached home. Fairweather’s temporary digs are in a cottage near Tingwall harbour, with no near neighbours.’
‘And Norquist? I’ll bet he lives with his ancient mother.’
Alan’s chuckle was a bit rueful. ‘You’re close. He did in fact live with her until a year or two ago when she had to go into a care facility. Now he lives in a flat not far from the museum.’
‘Alone.’
‘Got it in one.’
‘And of course either of them could have left again at any time during the night. What about Larsen?’
‘Well, of course I haven’t talked to him yet, but Fairweather assumes he went straight home after the meeting. He lives in Kirkwall near the college. He’s a lecturer in archaeology and ancient history when he isn’t busy running the Friends. And before you ask, he’s divorced and lives alone.’
‘You know,’ I said, finishing my coffee, ‘these things were easier in the Golden Age when everyone lived in big houses with relatives all over the place and servants so thick on the ground one tripped over them. Alibis meant something back then.’
‘If you lived in an Agatha Christie novel, at least. Her view of the world was distinctly from the upper class side. But we’re stuck here in modern-day Britain, and the sober fact is that none of those chaps has a really solid alibi.’
‘So disappointing. It’s always the one with the perfect alibi who ends up being the killer. What about means? If we discount – what was it, Andersen’s pigsty?’
‘Feeding trough therein. The theory is that there was a fight, and Carter fell against the trough. The trough hasn’t yet been definitely identified as the murder weapon, but the general shape’s about right. And if that is what killed him, it pretty well lets out anyone except Anderson, but it lets in the possibility of accident. If it isn’t, then they’re looking for something with a sharpish square edge, like a poker, only it would have to be fatter than they usually are. Something like a brick would do, although it wouldn’t be easy to wield that edgewise.’
‘A plank. An unabridged dictionary.’
‘If a plank is long it’s unwieldy. If it’s short it’s not heavy enough. As for a dictionary, same objection as the brick. Easy to throw, or drop on the head. Hard to get the leverage to strike with the edge.’
‘Our killer might have got lucky with the throw. Let’s see.’ I looked around the room for inspiration. ‘I know! Any of those things, squareish, heavy, inside a carry bag! You could swing it. The handles would give you the leverage.’
‘Or one could use a suitcase, or a briefcase filled with papers. Does anyone carry a briefcase anymore?’
‘They don’t need them,’ I said with a sigh of regret. ‘And they used to be so elegant. I had a lovely leather one once, for carrying papers back and forth to school. Nowadays everything’s either in a canvas carryall, or stored electronically on a gadget the size of a paperback novel. And those aren’t heavy enough to damage anything much bigger than a mosquito. Even Fairweather wasn’t carrying a briefcase the night of the meeting, as I recall, just a laptop for his presentation – and those aren’t very heavy these days, either. Do you suppose the police are looking for any of those possible weapons?’
‘No, because they have the ideal suspect in hand. They’ll be waiting for the analysis of that blood on the trough. If it turns out not to be Carter’s, then they’ll start looking.’
‘But by then it’ll be too late! Our murderer will have cleaned the weapon, or thrown it into the sea, or buried it … Alan!’
He looked at me, his head on one side.
‘Why are we inventing all sorts of ingenious murder weapons when the very best one is at hand, all over the place?’
Alan raised his eyebrows.
‘The stones! Those flat building stones the Stone Age people used! Square edged, thin but not too thin, heavy enough to do the job, and available everywhere you turn. There must be thousands of them at High Sanday. Which, furthermore, is where Carter was found. Someone lured him there, killed him with one of the stones, and then arranged for a little wall to collapse and hide everything.’
‘They’re terribly heavy, Dorothy. Far too heavy for one person to lift.’
‘The big ones are, but there are shards. I saw them myself, About the size of sheets of paper, except of course a lot thicker. Someone could pick up one of those with one hand, and in the dark …’ I shivered.
‘It’s possible,’ said Alan slowly. ‘It’s more than possible, actually. And it leaves all three of our favourite suspects with arguable opportunity and probable means, and one of them with a strong motive.’
‘But the other two, unless they knew about the will, had strong – what you might call anti-motives. Is that a word? Anyway, it hardly matters at this stage, because we have no proof of anything. What do we do next?’
‘I think what I have to do next is go and talk to Baikie, though I don’t know how welcome I’ll be. I know how much I appreciated it when police from other jurisdictions tried to interfere in one of my investigations.’
‘And suppose I invite Mr Larsen over for a little talk. We learned a lot from Fairweather’s visit. What’s Fairweather’s first name, by the way?’
‘Robert. He made me free of it last night.’
‘How jolly. When do you think you might be home? I don’t think I want to entertain a possible murderer alone.’
‘I’ll be back by lunchtime, I expect. Why don’t you see if he can come to tea? I can stop by that bakery and pick up some goodies so you don’t have to fuss.’
‘Good. I love to bake in my own kitchen, but not in somebody else’s. I can manage scones, though, I think. I’ll take Watson for a walk and pick up some jam and clotted cream, if they have it.’
‘I can feel my arteries hardening at the very thought. Be careful of that cat!’
I didn’t have to be told. After I’d phoned Mr Larsen and cajoled him into coming to tea, Watson and I took the long way to the co-op, taking the harbour road down to where it joined The Street and then backtracking. I had seen Roadkill only at the other end of the village, and hoped we’d be safe.
I tied Watson’s leash to a bike rack outside the store, not without some trepidation, and told him to behave. I’d only be a few minutes, I told myself. He’d be fine for such a short time.
I found the clotted cream, somewhat to my surprise, and some very expensive strawberry jam. At that price it’d better be good. I also got a small chunk of stewing beef for Watson. He’d been so good I wanted to reward him.
That was a mistake. There was a hole in the plastic covering the package of meat, so of course Watson smelled it the moment I got outside the store. So did a couple of other dogs, and one cat.
Roadkill.
I kept a tight hold of Watson’s leash and backed into a doorway. He was growling low in his throat, and the cat was snarling and moving ever closer. I didn’t know what to do. The meat was at the bottom of my bag. If I tried t
o get it out and throw it to the cat, Watson would probably lunge after it. If I didn’t …
I backed more firmly up against the door, and nearly fell inside when it opened.
‘Come in, quick, and bring your dog!’
I didn’t need a second invitation, nor did Watson. He was trembling, though whether with fear or rage I didn’t know. ‘Thank you! If you hadn’t opened that door I don’t know what I’d have done. Really, that cat is a menace.’ I stooped to pet Watson and reassure him. ‘That is – I hope he isn’t your cat?’
‘I feed him. So does half the town, if it comes to that. He can be quite sweet, actually, but he’s never been neutered, and other animals send him into a frenzy. There’s a female in season living just across the street, and she’s driving poor Sandy to distraction because they won’t let her out. The next thing, if anyone can catch him, is a trip to the vet. I think that’ll settle him down.’
I was still back at ‘Sandy’. ‘Is that his name?’ I asked doubtfully. ‘I’ve heard him called … other things.’
‘I’m sure. He’s not very popular up on The Street. Sandy’s what I call him. Look, I’ll give him some food, and that’ll keep him busy long enough for you to get away. You’d better leave by the back way and go through the garden down to the road. I’ll feed him at the front door.’
It worked well enough, but I was nervous all the way back to the flat, setting a pace that surprised me as much as it did Watson. Those titanium knees had a better turn of speed than I’d thought.
I told Alan about the encounter when he came home. ‘Even animals operate out of fear,’ I mused. ‘Watson was afraid he was going to lose his treat; Roadkill was afraid he wasn’t going to get it; everyone, including me, was afraid they were going to get hurt. It’s a powerful stimulus.’ I got out the materials for a salad. ‘What did you learn from Baikie? Or did he clam up?’
‘I didn’t talk to him.’ Alan sighed. ‘A sizable spanner has been thrown into the works, love. There’s been a terrorist threat to the oil terminal on Flotta, and it’s all hands to the pump. I’m afraid no one has much time to spare for a possibly accidental death of one American.’
ELEVEN
I sat down, stunned. ‘Where’s Flotta?’ I asked finally.
‘South of Kirkwall, more or less in the middle of Scapa Flow.’
I shook my head. I didn’t have the geography well enough in my head for that to mean much. ‘How far from here?’
‘I’d have to look it up, but probably not more than fifteen miles or so.’
‘Oh, dear.’ As inadequate remarks went, that was a prize-winner, but I was still trying to process the unwelcome news. ‘Um … what might happen if …?’
‘I gather there are bomb threats. If a bomb were to go off at a place where a great deal of oil is stored, it could be quite serious.’
I giggled nervously. ‘Yes, I’d say so. Are there many people on the island?’
‘I don’t know, love, but I did read a while ago that a new facility of some sort is being built. That presumably means a fair number of construction workers on site, as well as the regular employees.’
‘Well, then. How serious … do they think … what are the odds of something terrible happening?’
‘I’ve no idea. But they have to take this sort of thing very seriously indeed.’
‘Of course they do.’ I pulled myself together. ‘There aren’t a lot of policemen – er – police personnel in Orkney anyway, are there?’
‘Enough, in ordinary circumstances. But no, not a great many.’
‘So. But they won’t just forget about Carter’s death, will they?’
Alan smiled. ‘We never “forget about” a major crime. But investigation sometimes has to be deferred, and this is one of those times. Add the current crisis to the possibility that we might be dealing with an accidental death rather than murder, and you see the situation. However –’ he held up a hand to forestall my comment – ‘Baikie has, in effect, given me permission to do what I can – what we can – on our own. He left this note for me.’ He handed me a piece of paper with a hasty scrawl on it.
I handed it back. ‘Read it to me. I have a hard enough time deciphering the handwriting in this part of the world when it’s done carefully.’
‘“Must rush off. Blood on trough not Carter’s. Andersen released. Follow up if you wish. Will try to stay in touch.” And it’s signed with something that might be a B, if one uses one’s imagination.’
‘Well, I call that a handsome offer! And we were right. He didn’t do it.’
‘Well, he’s not quite in the clear. There’s still the watch to hold against him. But in his favour, the publican where he did his drinking on the night in question says he was barely able to walk when he left the pub, and it was a miracle he ever got home. And you needn’t sound so jubilant about it. If he didn’t kill Carter, it almost certainly means someone we like a lot better did.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t forgotten that. I wish you could have talked to him about Fairweather’s motive.’
‘I left him a note. I think he’ll like it, once he has a moment to consider the matter. Money is a good solid incentive to murder, much better, one might think, than the fear of losing one’s property, especially such rundown and unproductive property as Andersen’s. And Fairweather is English. Yes, he’s respectable, and yes, he’s brought business and tourists to Orkney, but he’s a foreigner. That makes him almost as desirable a villain as poor old Andersen.’
‘Well, it’s a pity, either way. I didn’t care for Carter, at least the brief glimpse I had of him, but murder is the ultimate crime, the ultimate failure of civilisation. Murder of even the most despicable person is unspeakable, and Carter wasn’t that, by a long shot. That miserable Roadkill is more of a menace to society than Carter, and I don’t wish even him dead.’
Alan looked startled for a moment and then smiled. ‘Sorry, love, I didn’t hear the upper-case R at first. I agree about the menace, but I’m not sure the triumvirate would rank the cat lower on the scale than the capitalist. And speaking of the triumvirate, I hope Larsen is coming to tea, because now that I more or less have free rein, I’m eager to speak with him. Not to mention the fact that I bought enough carbohydrates to send us into sugar shock if we eat them all ourselves.’
‘He is. I had a bit of trouble convincing him, because he’s busy with some project at the university, but he succumbed to my famous charm. And I’m making scones and a few sandwiches to contribute to the feast. That’s why we’re having a salad for lunch.’
Alan took Watson for his afternoon walk, feeling a bit more capable than I of dealing with Roadkill, if necessary, while I fretted over what to say to Larsen. He wasn’t nearly as good a suspect as Fairweather, but I still wasn’t sure how to approach any questions about the murder. Ah, well, I had a good many questions about the dig, and archaeology in general, and doubtless Alan would help with the rest.
The scones turned out better than I’d dared hope, and Larsen arrived punctually at four, looking far more like a professor than a working archaeologist. He was both clean and tidy, and had gone so far as to put on a tie.
‘This is very kind of you, Mrs Nesbitt.’
‘Martin,’ I correctly automatically. ‘I kept my own name when Alan and I married. But I wish you’d call me Dorothy. Surnames are awfully formal. And we’re having our tea comfortably at the table, even if the sitting room is more proper. I hate balancing plates on my lap and dropping things on the floor.’
‘And Watson doesn’t need the goodies that he’d snap up before they even hit the floor,’ said Alan. He extended his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you under less stressful circumstances, and conditions, than the last time.’
‘This is certainly more pleasant, in every sense. The dig is a marvellous place to be when the weather is good. When it isn’t, the wind and rain can scour off one’s skin. And of course … but we shouldn’t talk of the recent tragic events, I suppose.’
‘Not until we’ve had our tea, at any rate.’ I hoisted the teapot. ‘Milk, Mr Larsen? Sugar?’
‘Neither, thank you, and it’s Jim. I prefer informality, too.’
‘Good. Then please help yourself to anything you like, and then tell me about High Sanday. How was it discovered, for a start?’
In between bites of sandwiches and scones and little pastries, Larsen complied. ‘It was found in the usual way. Nothing dramatic like the storm that uncovered Skara Brae. A farmer was ploughing a field, and the plough ran into something so unyielding that it broke the ploughshare. The farmer wasn’t best pleased, of course, and when he got down to examine the damage, he saw the stones just under the surface.’
‘I’ve been wondering how often that happens, and the farmer ignores the whole thing and goes on about his business. Surely no one wants his land overrun by archaeologists. Look at Mr Andersen.’
Larsen uttered what would have been a guffaw if he hadn’t been so polite. ‘Andersen doesn’t really give a fig about his land. He’s bone lazy. He’s let that farm ruin itself for lack of maintenance. He’s just interested in screwing as much cash out of the Friends as he possibly can. That’s why it surprised us so much when he was arrested for killing Carter. One, he was too drunk that night to kill a fly, and two, with Carter gone he didn’t have a prayer of getting any money at all.’
‘But now he does,’ said Alan quietly.
‘I grant you that.’ Larsen finished spreading jam and clotted cream on a scone and took a bite. ‘These are heaven, Mrs – Dorothy. Yes, Alan, Carter will get his due now. No more than that. Or perhaps a bit more, just because he’s such a nuisance. But he couldn’t have known that before Carter died. No one had the least idea the man was going to leave us all that money.’
I swallowed the last of a smoked salmon sandwich and was careful not to look at Alan, who took up the questioning. ‘So you don’t think Andersen is our killer?’
‘The police thought so, to begin with, didn’t they? But now I hear they’ve let him go, so they must have doubts. Sensible of them. The man’s a lout, but I think he’s more bark than bite.’
Shadows of Death Page 9
