by Gwen Moffat
‘Not in Sgoradale. We don’t have crime.’
‘Hamish’s disappearance?’
‘You don’t think –’
‘No, he disappeared after Campbell was killed.’
There was a knock at the front door. ‘That will be the police,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
‘That’s kind of you, but I can cope. Why don’t you stroll through the North Wood and come back later?’
‘It’s nearly dark. I’m going home. Ring me when they’ve gone.’
She followed Beatrice to the front door. Two strange men were on the step, one with a photographer’s bag. The other one said brightly, ‘You’re Miss Swan? We’re from the Northern Mail. May we come in?’
‘How can we help you?’ Beatrice made no move to admit them. Miss Pink hovered in the rear.
‘You were the last person to see Campbell alive.’
‘I was.’ Beatrice was startled, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Colin MacAllister. We were told –’
‘The last person to see Mr Campbell alive was his murderer.’
‘Of course.’ He looked past her to encounter Miss Pink’s penetrating stare.
‘You can get the facts from the police,’ Beatrice said. ‘Those that they’re able to make public, that is. I’d think it would impede the investigation if they divulged everything they know. All I can tell you is that Mr Campbell was helping me on Friday afternoon, and he left here at five o’clock.’
‘Why did he come here on Saturday night?’ The old eyes flashed, is this normal practice?’
‘Is what normal practice?’
Miss Pink moved forward. ‘Mr MacAllister, you must be the first reporter Miss Swan has come into contact with, and you’re not making a very good impression. She was quite right when she said you must go to the police for facts; as for a human story, we can tell you no more than that Campbell was a good worker. We knew nothing of his private life; that wasn’t our business, and speculation is a waste of time and energy. And now we mustn’t keep you any longer. Thank you for calling. Good night, gentlemen.’
Back in the sitting room Beatrice said, ‘I’ve changed my mind. Please stay. The police I can handle, but not that kind of thing.’
Miss Pink shrugged. ‘They were doing their job ... And the television people will be here tomorrow. It’s a sensational story – and with Hamish missing as well, the Press are bound to speculate. I was tempting fate to use the word; they’ll do nothing else.’
‘What did you mean when you said earlier that Knox was thinking the worst?’
‘Now that’s an odd thing. Before Campbell’s body was found I thought – given the premise that Hamish was the village joker – he could well have run into more trouble than a boy could deal with. That was what I thought originally. Then I found Campbell’s body.’
‘That makes a difference?’
‘It must do. Who killed Campbell? Is it possible that Hamish isn’t a victim but a murderer?’
‘You know how I felt about arson, so this leaves me unmoved. A sixteen-year-old boy!’
‘There have been younger murderers.’
Beatrice shook her head and leaned back in her chair. ‘This is all too much for me. Murder in Sgoradale! But we don’t know anything, do we?’
‘We don’t know who killed Campbell.’
‘That’s horrible. It has to be someone local?’ Beatrice was begging to be contradicted.
Miss Pink gave the question thought, it doesn’t have to be,’ she admitted. ‘Someone could have left a car on a peat track out on the moor where it wouldn’t be seen from the Lamentation Road, or he could have been dropped by an accomplice to hide in the woods and be picked up after he’d done what he came for. There were two visits to Campbell’s cottage on Friday evening: the intruder who knocked him down, and the arsonist. Two visits but, we assume, one visitor. Of course, we only have Campbell’s word for those incidents, and now there’s no way of finding out how much of what he told us was truth and how much fantasy, if any. Was someone else similarly frustrated, and killed him to be on the safe side?’
* * *
The police came late, presumably after interviewing other people. Pagan looked tired and Steer had lost some of his alertness, but once they were seated and furnished with drinks Pagan got down to business, wanting to know what time Campbell had left Feartag on the Saturday evening, after the clandestine visit. About ten o’clock, Beatrice told him. Then he wanted to know everything Campbell had said, and this she found difficult to recall in view of his fantasies, which were inclined to make one nod if he got on to one of his hobby horses.
‘Such as?’ Pagan asked.
‘People watching his house. Arsonists.’
‘Yes, I want to come back to that. What did he say about his future movements, starting with when he left this house?’
‘He said that in no circumstances would he sleep on the island, that he would go back and pick up his gear and drive to somewhere that was safe.’
‘Where was his boat? Where did he come ashore?’
‘I don’t know. I assumed it was at the mouth of the river, below this house. It was high tide ... But I hadn’t heard an outboard ... Of course, he was rowing; I’d forgotten that.’
Miss Pink said, ‘I don’t think he’d row all the way from the island. I’ve been thinking that he put ashore in the cove – the one where I found the body – and walked to the village. That would be safer if you didn’t want to be seen. It’s not easy to get out of the way if you’re in a boat.’
‘Out of the way of what, for example?’
‘A bullet?’
‘We don’t know how he was killed. There may be a bullet wound under those fractures, but so far it looks like a blunt instrument.’ His tone changed. ‘So we have him starting back to his boat around ten o’clock. How would he go from here?’
‘Along the street and the quay,’ Beatrice said. ‘He’d work up through the trees on the other side of the hotel to strike the path along the south shore – the little sheep trod.’
‘There are lights as far as the end of the quay. How would he go if he didn’t want to be seen?’
‘Providing he had a torch, he could go up river for a short distance, then through the park and cross the Lamentation Road to the gate at the start of the loch path.’
‘How long would that take?’
‘Twenty minutes, perhaps.’
‘Could someone follow him without him knowing?’
‘No, they’d make too much noise and he’d be aware of a torch.’
‘And his killer couldn’t take a short cut along the street for fear of being seen. So how was he killed, and when?’
Steer said, ‘Someone was waiting at the cove – someone who knew he had to come back to the island.’
‘How did he know that?’ Pagan asked of Beatrice.
Surprised, she said, ‘His sleeping bag, all his gear was there. He’d lost everything else in the fire.’
‘How did the killer know about his camp?’ Beatrice looked blank. Miss Pink said, ‘That’s easily explained. Three –’ She stopped dead.
‘Yes?’ Pagan asked pleasantly.
‘Three of us were there,’ she said, without expression. ‘Miss Swan, myself and Lady MacKay. We didn’t keep quiet about it when we returned. After all, we thought the poor fellow was mad and had to be found. He’d set fire to his house –’
‘You thought he was responsible for that?’ Beatrice said tentatively, ‘There were two fires, on consecutive nights. I believe everyone thought he was responsible for the first one.’
‘I still believe he was,’ Miss Pink said.
‘And why is that, ma’am?’
‘Because that night he made no bones about returning to sleep in that place.’
‘Returning from where?’
‘From my house. He called on me late that night, in something of a state. That was just after his wife left him.’
Steer produced a notebook and she was taken back over that visit from Campbell, recalling her reactions which, in retrospect, were imbued with something of fantasy themselves – her fears for Debbie and the children, her inability to distinguish fact from fantasy. Campbell had said his family had gone, he said the fire had been set in order to burn his records, that he would dust for prints, that he possessed those of all the locals, collected over the years ... Pagan interrupted. ‘He said that: “all the locals”?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘And on the second night’ – he transferred his gaze to Beatrice – ‘he shouted “I’ve got your prints” at the intruder.’
Miss Pink looked at her friend, thinking furiously. Steer turned back the pages in his notebook. Beatrice said slowly, ‘I remember fingerprints were mentioned but ...’ She spread her hands helplessly and Miss Pink felt a twinge of anxiety; she was too old and frail for horror at this hour of the night, at any time. ‘Can’t we continue this in the morning?’ she pleaded. ‘We’ll be much better after a night’s sleep.’
Pagan was all apologies. Steer made to close his notebook, but his superior stopped him with a gesture. ‘We’ll spare you the questions,’ he told them. ‘Listen to the sergeant for a moment and tell us if he’s got it right.’
Steer cleared his throat and started to read in his Glaswegian accent: ‘Campbell was knocked to the ground but not rendered unconscious. He went outside and saw the intruder running fast into the trees. Intruder wore a hood but no gloves. Campbell shouted:
“I have you now. You have left your fingerprints.” Campbell continued conversation with information on the science of fingerprints which sounded authoritative.’
Pagan lifted a hand and Steer, who had read the last sentence with difficulty, stopped, is that correct?’ Pagan asked.
Beatrice was puzzled. ‘I don’t remember his talking about the science of fingerprints.’ She looked at Miss Pink, who said, it’s near enough what he told us. I gather those notes were taken from customers who were in the bar on the night of the big fire.’
Beatrice gave them her sweet smile. ‘Of course, you’ve been talking to other people.’
‘So,’ Pagan went on, ‘evidently the fire was set to destroy the prints. Whether or not Campbell did collect fingerprints, someone believed he did, and that was the same person who broke in before the fire – trying to find out if Campbell kept records on local people. This chap didn’t believe the fantasy about secret agents, of course, but he did know that Campbell was inquisitive and mad enough to follow any interesting trail that presented itself – like petty thieves who wear gloves.’
Miss Pink, who had been following this carefully despite her fatigue, interrupted: ‘No, he wasn’t wearing gloves.’
‘The thefts from cars back in the summer.’ They stared at him. ‘Go on,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Only two of those cars were printed. People were too busy to attend to the others. Thefts from cars in the summer run into hundreds. Where those two cars were concerned, the thief wore gloves. Legitimate prints were smudged. And all the burglarised cars were Renault 14s or Ford Sierras of particular years, if they weren’t unlocked. The thief had keys. What does that say to you?’
‘He didn’t have any work to do,’ Miss Pink said promptly. ‘He didn’t have to pick a lock or break a window –’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Only money was taken; no cameras or clothes, no credit cards, only money – and that can’t be traced in the normal way. What kind of chap likes cash but doesn’t know a fence, won’t risk obtaining money on a credit card, and wears gloves?’
‘It sounds like Campbell,’ Miss Pink said, ‘Immature, an opportunist, careful – but it couldn’t have been. He was killed.’
‘The point is,’ Pagan said, as if he hadn’t heard, ‘there were two arsonists, but only one matters. Campbell set the first fire out of pique because his wife walked out. She’d had enough when he told her he’d been recruited by MI6 before he met her. We got that by way of the Pitlochry people,’ he added, seeing Miss Pink’s amazement. ‘But the second fire was for real – and petrol bombs were used; the firemen found the bottles. And Campbell came straight to you. Why?’
Miss Pink’s eyelids were drooping. ‘He told us about the fire ...’ Her words seemed distant, ‘... the intruder, fingerprints ... He wouldn’t go home – he had no home. We didn’t believe him. He asked for a gun and Miss Swan refused. That’s why he came – for a gun.’
‘He came here?’
‘No, to my house. Miss Swan was dining with me.’
‘And did you give him a gun, ma’am?’
Beatrice stared at him. ‘Of course not. I feel bad about it.’
‘He could have done a lot of damage.’
‘I mean, I feel bad because I didn’t take him seriously.’
Pagan stood up. ‘It’s ironic when you come to think of it. Here’s this fellow, spends the greater part of his life acting a big macho role, and then he comes up against the real thing and he’s snuffed out like a candle.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Gales lashed the coast throughout the night. The loch was partly sheltered by the southern headland, but last evening when Pagan dropped her at her door Miss Pink tasted salt on her face. Rain and spray gleamed in the lights, merging and parting in drifts of grey and gold. The sweep of water on tarmac was punctuated by waves crashing on the shore.
With her window closed she slept badly, waking in the small hours to become aware that the sea was quieter, but the wind howled like a wolf in the power lines. Savage gusts drove fistfuls of rain against the window panes. A continuous low note puzzled her until she identified it as the roar of the open ocean.
She slept soundly then and woke at nine to a wet and windy morning with the cloud ceiling skimming the escarpment. Waterfalls draped the crags like shreds of lace, obscured even as she watched by a mass of rain.
By nine-thirty an increased volume of traffic in the street was noticeable; by ten the shop was so busy that cars were parked outside her sitting-room window, obstructing the view. Whenever there was a lull in the weather, people with video equipment and movie cameras appeared on the turf across the way.
Beatrice telephoned. ‘Are you alone?’ she asked. ‘I thought you might have company with all the traffic about. Is this the Press or police?’
‘I imagine it’s the Press. They seem to be concentrating on the Millars.’
‘Poor Rose – I must go, there’s someone at the door. I’ll call you back.’
Miss Pink put down the receiver and moved to the window, looking over the net that draped its lower half and glowering at a battered station wagon. She glanced at her typescript, waiting for the telephone to ring. After a few minutes she guessed that the visitors had remained at Feartag and applied herself to the chore of answering her agent’s letter about a Brazilian edition of her current book. After twenty minutes the telephone rang.
‘It was the police,’ Beatrice said. ‘They wanted to see Robert’s guns – to make sure they hadn’t been “interfered with”, they said.
Could they be implying that I’m so old I wouldn’t notice someone had been in my bedroom and broken into the cabinet?’
‘It’s more likely they thought that the reason Campbell came to you on that last night was to borrow – or indeed to take – a gun.’
‘That sounds more reasonable. But of course all the guns are there and the cabinet was locked. Melinda, they actually smelled the barrels! I told them some would have Campbell’s prints on them because he was helping me clean them on Friday. But they didn’t dust them – is that the term?’
‘Yes. Did the results of the autopsy come through?’
‘Pagan said nothing. Why?’
‘I wondered if Campbell had been shot.’
‘Surely not, with those injuries. Pagan was acting rather brash this morning; perhaps he’s been upset by the reporters. By the way, did you tell him about my telephone calls?’
‘Which ... ? Oh, the
heavy breather. Certainly not. Why?’
‘He knew about them. It followed on from the guns, d’you see; he said he appreciated why I’d been shooting; it would remind the villagers that I had firearms in the house. He said: “I mean the person who was making the telephone calls.” So I thought you must have told him last night.’
‘Who did you tell besides me?’
‘No one. But Esme had the same problem – perhaps she told them.’
‘Cross-checking,’ murmured Miss Pink. ‘And he tricked you into revealing you’d had heavy breather calls.’
‘He wanted to know who I thought was responsible. Surely Esme wouldn’t have told them she suspected Hamish?’
‘She made no bones about naming him to us. In fact, she maintained his activities went way beyond nuisance calls.’
‘Why would he want to frighten old ladies and lonely spinsters? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Perhaps the caller, whoever it was, wanted attention. Or it could have been the thrill of power, and that’s heady stuff. Look how he played on your emotions, and Esme’s.’
‘Not to speak of his own fa –’ Beatrice broke off, and resumed in a different tone, ‘There’s too much psychology in this for me. It started as mischief and got out of hand. I’m only glad the calls have stopped; now perhaps we can get back to our old routine.’
Miss Pink wondered if Beatrice had achieved the blinkered attitude of some old people who block out the more negative aspects of modern life, at least when not personally involved. Her telephone calls had stopped, so she was unconcerned about heavy breathers. And although she was aware of murder, the fact that the killer could be one of her neighbours seemed to have escaped her. Miss Pink suggested a drive, luncheon in Morvern or Ullapool, that she come to Feartag for coffee – all of which the old lady declined on the excuse that she was going to redecorate her guest room.
The telephone rang soon after Miss Pink replaced the receiver. It was Coline, ‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ she said hurriedly when Miss Pink, not wanting an invitation to the lodge, said she was on her way to Morvern. Coline said this was perfect: ‘I had a call from Flora. Buffy MacLean’s brought her back as far as Slaggan. D’you know it – Invermarsco House, a few miles beyond Morvern? Would it be too dreary to go out of your way a mile or two and pick her up? I’d be most grateful; we’ve got the police here again this morning. They were here last evening too: a fellow called Pagan with his sidekick, Steer, who looked very virile; both names highly inappropriate if you ask me. They wanted to know all about the fire, among other things, and this morning the forensic people are down there sieving ashes. They wanted us on hand, but I removed myself after a while. When you’ve seen one sooty milk bottle you’ve seen them all. Did you know petrol bombs were used?’
