by Gwen Moffat
He stamped the back of the print with his name and phone number, but I can’t get any reply. It must be an old stamp.’
The receptionist was turning back the pages of the register. ‘August 4th, you said? Here it is: Hedley Osgood, Aberdeen. That doesn’t help you much.’
Miss Pink thanked her effusively and drove south. It was six o’clock before she managed to get Hedley Osgood on the end of a telephone line. The number Directory Enquiries had given her was for his home address and she’d tried it three times, shivering in desolate call-boxes on the open road. Finally she booked a room in the Caledonian at Inverness, not wanting to go further until she had spoken to Osgood. When she did reach him he was offhand at first, but intimidated as soon as she adopted an exaggerated air of authority. Her voice, naturally deep, could pass for a man’s when she chose. She was, she told him, a detective inspector involved in the Sgoradale murders. He was amazed to find that his own odd experience could interest the police, but he agreed to meet her the following lunchtime. There was a pause while she pretended to note down the address of a city bar. ‘One other thing,’ she said before ringing off, ‘What kind of car was he driving?’
‘AVW Golf. White.’
‘Why do you remember it so well?’
‘I took a picture. It’s pinned up over my desk. I’m a supermarket manager.’
‘You didn’t happen to get the registration number?’
‘No. I can let you have a print though.’
‘I’d be obliged.’ She rang off. He might contact Pagan when the mythical detective inspector failed to materialise in Aberdeen, but she wasn’t bothered. By that time Pagan should have more important things to think about.
The Yellow Pages gave her the Volkswagen garages in the area and by mid-morning next day she had the information she needed. This time she posed as an insurance agent, but it was the confidence of her bearing as much as the bogus occupation which persuaded the manager of the relevant garage to produce his records. She was in luck; the motorist with the smashed window had paid his bill by cheque and the office had his address: ‘We always ask for it in the case of a cheque.’ The driver’s name was J. P. Geddes and he had given an address in Stirling.
* * *
Montrose Gardens was a fairly new estate on the outskirts of Stirling and No. 16 was what agents refer to as ‘ranch style’. A picture window gave a bleak view of a room that extended the depth of the house to another wall that was mostly glass. The room was sparsely furnished in grey and pale yellow, with a lot of bare shelves and a music centre. There was a light over the doorbell but no one came to Miss Pink’s ring. After some minutes a woman in her thirties came out of a house opposite and crossed the road.
Are you looking for Mr Geddes? Can I help you?’
Miss Pink looked confused. ‘Not Geddes. Jameson – Mr and Mrs Jameson. She’s my niece.’
‘You must have the wrong address. Have you got it written down anywhere?’
‘I have it committed to memory. 16 Montrose Gardens.’
‘That’s the address, but Mr Geddes lives here and he’s not married. He’s all on his own.’
‘Geddes,’ Miss Pink repeated, ‘It doesn’t even sound like Jameson.’
‘And your niece is married, so you’re looking – hold on! Are you all right?’
Miss Pink’s eyelids drooped as she swayed on her feet. ‘Just a little dizzy,’ she breathed, ‘I’m not as young as I was.’
‘Look, come into my house and let me make you a cup of tea.’
She was helped across the road and into another bleak living room, this one in beige. Beyond the window No. 16 returned her stare enigmatically. When the tea was brought she had a story ready about being homeward bound to Berwick from a visit to an old friend in Dingwall. Her hostess’s name was Jefferies and she was good-hearted but not over-intelligent. Miss Pink invented a brother in Falkirk who would disentangle the mistake in the address, then she looked back at No. 16. ‘Who lived there before him?’ she asked.
‘Now that I don’t know. We’ve only been here eighteen months and he’s been in that house at least three years. He bought it when he started at Earl’s Hill – that’s the local school; John is a schoolmaster. But wouldn’t you have known if your niece left Montrose Gardens three years ago?’
Miss Pink looked embarrassed. ‘She could have given me her new address and I remembered the old one. You know how it is.’
‘Never mind. Have another tea-cake.’
Miss Pink ate greedily as old people do, mesmerised by the huge window. ‘So sad,’ she said. ‘A young man living alone.’
Mrs Jefferies smiled indulgently. ‘He has interests – hiking and mountain climbing, and he takes kids on trips. This weekend he’s youth hostelling in the Trossachs with a group and he won’t be back until Sunday night.’ Miss Pink listened with polite interest, visibly recovering her energy with the tea.
She drove away hoping that the woman didn’t have the wit to wonder why her doddery old visitor should own a sporty Renault GTL. The last thing she wanted was for Geddes to come home to the news that someone was making enquiries about him. What had terrified the man two months ago might have even more power to terrify him now.
* * *
Neil Fleming, the barrister, lived in a Georgian terrace north of Princes Street in Edinburgh. The door was answered by a middle-aged person who showed Miss Pink into an airy room overlooking a walled garden. After a few minutes an attractive woman entered. She was a slim blonde and, like Coline MacKay, looked far too young to have a grown daughter.
‘I’m Sidonie Fleming,’ she said, none too warmly. ‘Did you have an appointment with my husband?’
‘Perhaps you can help me,’ Miss Pink said, ‘It’s about Flora MacKenzie. I’m from Sgoradale.’
The woman caught her breath and her eyes blazed. ‘Coline sent you?’
‘No one sent me,’ Miss Pink said quietly.
Mrs Fleming made an obvious effort to pull herself together, nevertheless her response was menacing. ‘You’ve come on behalf of the MacKenzie girl?’
‘I’m a friend of Beatrice Swan, the old lady who shot Flora. My name is Melinda Pink.’
‘Ah, that could make a difference. And Coline MacKay doesn’t know you’ve come to see me? So why did you?’
‘Neither Coline nor anyone else had any idea of what was going on. Flora appeared to be a healthy captivating girl, a little young for her age perhaps –’
Mrs Fleming gave a sardonic laugh, but her eyes were furious. ‘Captivating is not the word I’d have chosen. Flora was a slut, and the only thing that surprises me is that she was shot by accident. If I’d been here, I’d have strangled her with my bare hands.’
‘Why did you invite her here?’ Miss Pink was the picture of innocence.
‘I didn’t! I was in the Seychelles and she invited herself in my absence. I’d never have left two young girls alone in this house without adequate supervision. I’d be thinking in terms of loco parentis, my God – and I’d have been a world away from the reality of the situation. You think I’m exaggerating; you imagine she just – what? Made a pass at my husband? Held all-night parties in the house with hard drugs? All right, you haven’t come from Coline but when you go back to Sgoradale, you can tell her about what I’m going to show you. Unless you see it you won’t believe it. I didn’t; my daughter had to show me.’
Miss Pink was driven to another Georgian terrace, to a house that was less immaculate than the one she’d left and where the hall and lift held an air of seedy transience. They rode to the third floor and Mrs Fleming produced a key which opened the door of a large room. Inside was a double bed, a dressing table and easy chairs either side of an old-fashioned gas-fire. There was a glass ash-tray on a bedside table, under a lamp with a dingy shade. On the dressing-table were a bottle of whisky half-full, one of gin unopened, and several bottles of tonic water and bitter lemon.
The room’s proportions had been spoiled by a partition tha
t boxed off one corner. A flimsy door was open to show a bathroom, some towels, a tablet of soap and a toothbrush.
‘Utilitarian,’ Miss Pink murmured. ‘Not a joyful place. Who pays the rent?’
‘The keyholder was an F. MacMasters but there’s no such person. The rent was paid by my daughter and Flora MacKenzie, in advance, which is how I come to have the key. I got it from my daughter and I was waiting for Flora to come back and claim it.’
‘What would you have done then?’ Miss Pink asked, opening a wardrobe.
‘I hadn’t thought. I was looking forward to it actually. Maybe your friend’s saved me from a murder charge.’
‘I see your point.’ Miss Pink was shifting clothes along a rail: a mini-skirt and long jacket in thin red leather, a jumpsuit in black lace, a kind of mock trench-coat in a dark silky fabric. There was a similar fur to the one which Flora had been wearing when she was picked up at Buffy MacLean’s: long-haired, but this was white. On the floor of the wardrobe were shoes with very high heels or huge platform soles, ‘It’s sad rather than depressing,’ Miss Pink said. ‘One wonders why they had to do it.’
Mrs Fleming answered promptly. ‘Flora needed the money; she was an heiress, but Coline kept her on a very short rein. But basically, she did this for kicks. She wasn’t into drugs or drink; she took care of her body.’ A spasm contorted the woman’s face. ‘There are condoms in the bedside table. Can you believe that? A sixteen-year-old tart frightened of Aids. Not many have been used. According to Charlotte, my daughter, Flora quickly got bored with this –’ she gestured at the room – ‘and said there were easier and safer ways to make money. They’re supposed to have used this place only a few times. And now you’re wondering why my daughter did it. Well, it was partly because Flora is ... was the stronger character, but mostly because she’s evil: seductive in every sense of the word. She made mincemeat of my husband. And shall I tell you why she had to seduce him? Of course he wasn’t interested in her, he’s a workaholic anyway, but he was a challenge to her and she broke him down. But she got more than she bargained for. She’d be used to married men keeping quiet, but Neil had to tell me: no way was he going to let Charlotte see her again. He said he’d never met anyone so corrupt – and he’s a criminal lawyer. And he didn’t know about this place.’
Mrs Fleming lit a cigarette with a gold lighter, pacing the room like a dog, stiff with hatred. She went on, it was through my husband that I was able to get the truth out of Charlotte. The girls had spent hours away from the house and it was essential to me that I found out what they’d been doing. When I told Charlotte that her friend had been in bed with her father, she told me everything. They used to pick up men in bars. In good hotels they wore long coats over those ridiculous clothes. Those in the wardrobe are Flora’s; Charlotte’s were thrown in a skip.’
‘How can I find out where Flora was on Saturday and Sunday of last weekend?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘You knew Flora was dead. Don’t you know of the other events in Sgoradale?’
Mrs Fleming was still, the only movement the smoke from her cigarette. ‘There have been two other deaths: the policeman’s son and the MacKays’ handyman. They had something to do with Flora? Why should I be surprised? She was capable of anything.’
‘Those two nights,’ Miss Pink pressed.
‘Let’s go home. Charlotte should be back from school. She’s very subdued; I’ve put the fear of death into her – and that’s a remark in bad taste if ever there was one.’
Charlotte Fleming was a pretty and very frightened girl. Under her mother’s eye she agreed to tell Miss Pink what she could remember of Flora’s movements, but even the first question was unwelcome. When asked where Flora had been the previous Saturday evening, her mouth opened and closed and her eyes were anguished.
‘You can’t do her any harm now,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Promises are annulled by death.’
‘She never asked me to promise.’ The girl picked at the piping on the sofa. ‘She spent the night at the flat.’
‘Did you see her there?’
‘No.’
‘So how do you know that’s where she was?’
‘Because she told me.’
‘When did she go to the flat?’
‘Saturday afternoon. About three o’clock.’
‘And when did you see her again?’
‘Breakfast time – about eight o’clock.’
‘She came down for breakfast at eight on Sunday? And when did she go away again?’
‘Monday evening.’
‘Monday? Where was she on Sunday?’
‘With me.’
‘Are you quite –’
Mrs Fleming interrupted sharply. ‘You want to find out where Flora was on Sunday? Or where she wasn’t?’
‘I need to know if she could have been in Sgoradale between Sunday breakfast time and Tuesday morning.’
‘How much time did she spend with you on Sunday?’ Mrs Fleming asked her daughter. ‘There’s no need to say what you were doing-just where, and was she with you?’
Charlotte looked at her shoe. ‘We were at the flat or ... or together until Sunday evening. Then Daddy took us to the Rendezvous.’
‘They came straight home from the restaurant.’ Mrs Fleming held Miss Pink’s eye. ‘That is, the girls split up. Flora returned to this house, Charlotte went to visit a friend.’ Miss Pink said nothing. ‘Go and help Jeannie with the tea,’ Mrs Fleming told the girl. She turned back as the footsteps receded. ‘Flora was with my husband until late that evening,’ she said bitterly. ‘And Charlotte had gone to that ghastly place to meet – oh, let’s forget why she ever went there, can we? Anyway, she came home some time after midnight and looked in on Flora, who was in her own bed – for a change. So she couldn’t have been in Sgoradale. Charlotte can fill you in on the rest.’
‘It’s possible that, in telling me this, you won’t have to talk to the police.’
‘And you’ll keep it to yourself – the details, I mean; you’ll consider my family, not to speak of my husband’s career?’
‘I’m also considering Coline and Ranald.’
‘God! Those poor things. How was Coline to know?’
‘And I want to clear Beatrice Swan.’
‘How can you? She shot the girl.’
‘If Flora can be shown to be responsible for the two murders, Beatrice is in the position of a householder defending herself against a killer who almost certainly intended to kill her. She’ll have everyone’s sympathy.’
‘She must have a good deal of that now.’
‘There’s an element of public opinion that disapproves of people defending themselves with firearms.’
Charlotte and the housekeeper came in with afternoon tea. When the woman had left, Miss Pink returned to her questions, obstructed by a mother determined that her daughter should not say in as many words that she’d been dabbling in prostitution. Despite this, and the emotional state of mother and daughter, it seemed that Flora couldn’t have left Edinburgh between Sunday breakfast time and Monday evening, when the girls met Buffy MacLean in the bar of the North British Hotel and Flora asked him for a lift to Slaggan. ‘Lady MacKay called on Monday and told her she’d got to go home,’ Charlotte explained.
‘And you had to go back to school,’ her mother said meaningly. ‘And I was due back from the Seychelles. So when was the boy killed? Sunday night, I take it.’
Miss Pink looked at Charlotte’s blank face and shook her head. The mother was more concerned with her hatred for the dead girl than the state of mind of the living one. She sipped her tea and wondered how Flora had engineered Hamish’s death.
There was still an hour of daylight remaining when she left the Fleming house and the weather was fine. This was Friday and if she were to wait until Geddes returned to Stirling on Sunday night, she was faced with the daunting prospect of a weekend of idleness. On the other hand, the Trossachs were only fifty miles away and she should have no
difficulty in locating Geddes. The atlas showed only two youth hostels in the area.
She struck lucky at the first attempt: a minibus from Earl’s Hill School was obvious among the vehicles outside the hostel. This was a Victorian country house, brilliantly lit and packed with youngsters. She felt a surge of confidence; the journey had been uneventful and, in order to give her quarry time to get supper out of the way, she had stopped in Callendar for a meal. Fresh and alert, she emerged from the Renault, smoothed her skirt and advanced on the youth hostel.
A girl with spiky hair took her to Geddes, who was supervising washing-up: a gangling man in his late thirties with a large nose, thinning hair and worried eyes. He regarded Miss Pink with an astonishment that was quickly suppressed, but not before she had seen the alarm in his eyes. She retreated to the empty hall and he followed. ‘What is it?’ he asked and then, carefully, ‘What can I do for you? Have we met?’
‘My name is Pink.’ She gave him an old card, one with JP after her name. He turned pale. ‘Shall we sit in my car?’ she suggested. ‘It’s a pleasant evening.’
‘Do you mind telling me what this is about?’ he asked stiffly as the doors closed on the outside world.
‘Does the name Flora MacKenzie mean anything to you?’
‘I ... don’t think so. I’ve taught a lot of children.’
‘Or Hamish Knox?’
She was turned towards him and he must have been aware of her scrutiny, but he made no attempt to speak. The silence stretched agonisingly. At length she broke it. ‘You weren’t the only victim.’
He looked at her then, but in the refracted light neither could read the other’s expression. ‘I wasn’t?’ he breathed and, in the same dull tone, ‘I haven’t the remotest idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The girl was called Flora MacKenzie.’
‘What girl?’
‘You were photographed as you were trying to get into your car.’
After another silence he gave a small sigh. ‘So that card was a hoax. Clever though; you look just like a JP’
‘I was a JP’
