Death of a Kingfisher

by M C Beaton

  “I haven’t got it on me,” said Olivia. “If you wait here, I’ll go and fetch it. Charles, you stay with him.”

  Olivia hurried back to the flat, unaware that she was being followed. She felt all-powerful and clever.

  In the flat, she prised up two floorboards in the corner and lifted out a leather bag stuffed full of money and started counting out twenty thousand pounds. She did not hear the door opening. A sudden premonition of danger made her turn her head just as a strong arm came round her neck and a syringe was stabbed into her arm.

  Charles looked at the man uneasily. Olivia had been gone for an hour.

  “I hope nothing has happened to your sister,” he said.

  Charles could not bear the wait any longer. With Olivia around, he felt older than his twelve years. Without his sister, he felt like a lost child.

  “Let’s go and see,” he said.

  It was a sunny day. Hard to believe it was winter. Charles mounted the staircase to the flat, shouting, “Olivia.”

  He stopped in the doorway, aghast at the sight of his sister’s body before a man stepped from behind the door seized him and stabbed him with a syringe.

  The two men who had attacked the Palfour children were in a casino that evening. They knew they would have to get the money they had recovered to Andronovitch, but both were gamblers and they were sure their boss didn’t know the exact amount of the money. “Think they’ll be all right?” asked one.

  “Sure,” said the other. “We’ll ship them out at dawn.”

  Olivia recovered consciousness. She had been carrying a wad of notes taped to her body, so the syringe, plunged into the notes, had only delivered a small amount of tranquilliser.

  She was violently sick. Then she went to her brother and tried to shake him back to consciousness, but without success. She suddenly thought of Scotland, of the security of school, of the fact that if she did not move quickly then the men would be back. She ran to the door. It was locked. She went to the window overlooking the street and screamed for help.

  People stared upwards, then three men came pounding up the stairs and broke down the door. One called the police while another called to women in the street to come up and comfort Olivia.

  They were taken to a hospital in Nicosia where Charles had his stomach pumped out. The news of their rescue went from Interpol to Scotland Yard and up to the Highlands.

  Hamish heard the glad news that the Palfour children would be returning to Scotland as soon as Charles Palfour had recovered. The men who had attacked them had not been found. He wondered what awful fate had been planned for them. Maybe the men hoped to sell them on some sex market.

  A particularly cruel winter released its grip on the Highlands and the villagers of Lochdubh began to look forward to the short but welcome summer.

  The Palfour children had escaped prosecution because Olivia said she knew that Andronovitch would come after them. They denied knowing anything at all about the murders. Hamish was sure they were lying, but they had received so much sympathy from the press that Daviot decided not to charge them. Charles and Olivia were back at school and living again with the Mallards. Olivia was studying hard for her final exams and planned to go to university. Hamish, on going to interview them, found them as flat-eyed and as unchildlike as ever.

  Ivan Andronovitch, travelling as a German businessman called Hans Berger, had endured plastic surgery and by rigorous dieting had lost several kilos in weight. He was now tall, and thin, with a pale smooth face and a shock of grey hair. He wore blue contact lenses. He checked into the Tommel Castle Hotel. His quarry was Hamish Macbeth. He had enjoyed living in London and going to first nights and society parties. Hamish Macbeth was the one who had taken that all away and Hamish Macbeth was going to pay with his life.

  The Russian had dressed in new heathery tweeds “to blend with the surroundings,” as he thought, not knowing that he was the subject of great speculation amongst the staff.

  Word of the stranger reached Hamish Macbeth. He felt a sudden odd feeling of apprehension. In his bones, he had always felt the case was not closed until Andronovitch was found. He had warned the Palfour children to be cautious.

  He decided, without telling headquarters, to take the Palfour children up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to see if they recognised anyone. He said, “If you see anyone who looks like thon Russian or either of the men who attacked you, don’t let it show.”

  With the Mallards’ permission, he collected the children from school and drove them up to the hotel. He couldn’t help hoping that Priscilla had made one of her lightning visits.

  “Now, don’t be nervous,” he said as he drove them into the car park at the hotel.

  Olivia looked at him with contempt. “I am not nervous,” she said.

  Both Palfours had fair hair once more and Hamish thought, as he had before, that with the fairness of their hair and their flat grey eyes and the whiteness of their skin, they looked like visitors from another planet. Olivia at almost seventeen could hardly be thought of as a child any more, although in her school uniform she looked younger than her years.

  Mr. Johnson, the manager, said that no, Priscilla was not visiting, and yes, Mr. Berger was in the lounge.

  Hamish took out a photo of Andronovitch and studied it. He then showed it to Olivia and Charles. “Just to refresh your memories. Now take a good keek round the door of the lounge and then let me know.”

  He waited impatiently in the reception area. Finally they joined him. “No,” said Olivia, “nothing like him at all.”

  “Wait here,” ordered Hamish. He looked into the lounge to where Berger sat by the fire, reading a newspaper. The man looked nothing like Andronovitch.

  “False alarm,” said Hamish, leading them out to the Land Rover. “I’ll drop you home.”

  The Palfours waved him goodbye but did not go indoors. “It is him,” said Olivia.

  “Nothing like him,” scoffed Charles.

  “He must have had plastic surgery.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s got that ruby ring on his finger and that Rolex on his wrist, the ones he always wore.”

  “So why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “Because they’d just lock him up and with his contacts, I bet he would escape. I want to get him.”

  “How?” demanded Charles. “If he’s found dead and we’ve been seen up there, guess who they’re going to suspect?”

  “Not us. We’ll climb out tonight through the window. Mr. and Mrs. Mallard go to bed early and sleep like the dead.”

  “You’ve gone mad,” said Charles. “You mean, we kill him and two of us drag the body out of the hotel?”

  “No, silly. We’ve got to wait until he’s outside. Get him somewhere we can’t be seen.”

  “And he pulls out a gun and says, ‘Bang! Bang! You’re dead.’”

  “Shut up. I’ve got an idea.” Olivia’s eyes flashed with rare animation. “The maids at the hotel are all done up in old-fashioned black dresses and caps. Snob appeal. I’ll get a uniform down in Strathbane. The main thing is to search his room and get rid of anything lethal. Then we’ll arrange a meet. We’ll need to wait until the weekend. We can’t forge another sick note. The school wouldn’t believe us.”

  “But the maids will question you.”

  “So? As long as I keep clear of that manager, I can just say I’ve been newly employed. I’ll disguise myself.”

  Olivia, with her figure padded out under her uniform, her face padded, and wearing glasses, asked one of the Polish maids which was Mr. Berger’s room. She had just seen him leaving the hotel. “It’s thirty-three,” said the maid, “but it’s been cleaned.”

  “He wants me to fetch something. I’ve left my passkey at home. I’ll bring it in tomorrow. Don’t tell the manager.”

  “Here’s mine,” said the maid, “but bring it straight back. It’s my tea break. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “What’s your name?”

 
“Maria.”

  Olivia went up the stairs and let herself into the room. Putting on a pair of latex gloves, she began a quick search.

  She looked in frustration at the safe in the corner. She didn’t dare break into it and alert the Russian. She searched through his wardrobe and found a gun in one of his pockets. She had checked the Internet for instructions on how to unload a gun. She emptied out the shells and put them in her pocket.

  Now all she could hope was that he didn’t have another weapon in the safe.

  She went down the stairs, gave the passkey to the receptionist, and told her to give it to Maria.

  Outside the hotel, she went across the moors at the back to where she had hidden a bag. She changed out of her disguise, packed it away, and put on her school uniform. She then walked to the main road where she had left her bicycle and set out for Braikie.

  She went into a café and sent an e-mail to Andronovitch. “Need money. Meet me at the Fairy Glen tomorrow at midnight on the bridge. Little Flower.”

  Andronovitch cursed when he read the e-mail on his BlackBerry. Those devil’s spawn somehow had penetrated his changed look and were no doubt after him for money.

  He put the gun in his pocket, drove one of the hotel cars to the glen’s parking lot, and made his way to the bridge.

  It was a wild restless night with the wind soughing through the trees. He stood on the bridge and waited.

  It was very dark, and black clouds were piling up against the moon. Two black figures appeared at the end of the bridge. “Come closer,” he said. “Uncle Ivan is here to help you.”

  Charles and Olivia slowly approached. He took the gun out of his pocket, pulled the trigger, and with dismay heard it click uselessly on the empty chamber. With a shout of wrath, he ran towards them—and straight into the long sharp carving knife which Olivia plunged into his chest. He staggered past them, wanting to get to his car with blood pumping out of the wound in his chest. He only managed to reach the end of the bridge before collapsing, slumped over the guardrail.

  “Get his feet and help me heave him over,” said Olivia.

  Together, they tipped the Russian into the pool. The rain began to come down in torrents.

  “That should wash any forensic evidence away,” said Olivia. “Thank goodness, Dad taught me to drive. I only hope he left the keys in the ignition.”

  They hurried through the increasing storm to the car. “The keys are there,” said Olivia. “Let’s go.”

  They left the car in the hotel car park and walked out to a stand of trees on the road where they had left their bicycles. Then they headed off through the storm to Braikie, climbing up to their rooms at the back of the house.

  “Funny,” whispered Charles, calling at her room before going to sleep. “I don’t feel a thing. What about you?”

  “Nothing, either. I washed the carving knife and put it in the dishwasher.”

  Two days later, Mr. Johnson phoned Hamish. “You’d best get up here. Berger is missing. All his clothes and his passport are in his room.”

  Hamish and Dick drove up to the hotel. They inspected the room, Hamish beginning to feel uneasy. He called Strathbane and a search began for the missing “German businessman.”

  Epilogue

  And the shore echoes the song of the kingfisher,

  And the woods echo the song of the goldfinch.

  —Virgil

  Three days later, when a rare spring day of warm sunshine bathed the Highlands, Frank Shepherd, the ornithologist, decided to visit the glen. The gift shop was closed, and there were no cars in the car park. Perhaps the tourists would come back again, he thought, when all the fears of murder had disappeared. But he was surprised there weren’t a few ghouls around, the kind of people who slowed down to relish the sight of bad car crashes.

  He climbed over the turnstile and made his way to the bridge. The peaty water of the pool below sparkled like gold in the sun. And then he caught his breath. There was a magical flash of blue as a kingfisher flew out from under the willow tree. He took out his camera and waited. Suddenly he lowered his camera in alarm, for rising to the surface of the tranquil pool was a dead body.

  It rushed into his mind that he would have to report it immediately. Police and forensics would arrive and all the mayhem of an investigation. He had taken out his mobile phone, but now he put it away and made his way down from the bridge to the pool. At the end of the pool the water swirled lazily over a rocky lip, where it cascaded down into another pool below. It was not a dramatic waterfall like the one on the far side of the bridge.

  He took off his socks and shoes and waded into the water, which was shallow enough near the body and only came up to his knees. With a shudder, he propelled the swollen body to the lip of the waterfall and gave it one almighty push.

  Almost in slow motion, the body hovered on the edge and then disappeared. He scrambled back to the bank. His heart was thudding. He put on his shoes and socks and hurried back to the car park. He looked around. No one was in sight.

  It was only after he had driven several miles out of Braikie that he began to wonder if he had been seized with temporary madness.

  He thought of Hamish Macbeth and his gentle highland voice and had an urge to go to Lochdubh and confess his crime. But that would mean the original crime scene would have to be investigated and the kingfisher might leave.

  Two weeks later, Hamish Macbeth received a call from Mrs. Mallard. “A man has called, a Mr. Templeton, who says he is a distant cousin of Mrs. Colchester. He is an American and wants to take Olivia and Charles to America. The lawyer says he has been checked out and he is who he says he is.”

  “And what do the Palfours say?” asked Hamish.

  “They say they want to go with him.”

  “Is he there now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  Mr. Templeton was seated with Olivia and Charles in the Mallards’ living room. He was a rubicund man in his sixties with snowy white hair and an American accent.

  He rose and shook hands with Hamish, but said, “I don’t know why Mrs. Mallard should call the police. I’ve been vetted and Charles and Olivia are willing to go with me. I’ve a pleasant property in Nantucket. I had been travelling in the Far East and only heard of what these poor children had been through when I got back to the States. I will take them back with me on vacation until any formalities are finalised.”

  Olivia, dressed in her school uniform, still looked younger than her years. She was behaving like a child, smiling shyly and yet showing more animation than Hamish had ever seen in her. Charles was also smiling and holding his sister’s hand.

  Hamish cynically noticed the thick gold watch on Mr. Templeton’s wrist and his expensively tailored suit.

  Still, he asked Olivia, “Are you sure you want to go?”

  “Oh, yes!” they both chorused.

  Mrs. Mallard rushed from the room. Hamish followed her and found her sobbing in the kitchen. “There, now,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

  She pulled herself together and said, “After all I’ve done for them! They won’t even look at me now. Can’t wait to get away. Not a word of thanks out of either of them.”

  “I’ll just be getting Mr. Templeton’s address,” said Hamish. “I’d like to learn how they get on in Nantucket.”

  He obtained the address and left with the sound of the Palfours’ happy laughter ringing in his ears.

  The day after, Callum and Rory Macgregor decided to take their new toy sailing boat to the glen and sail it in the pool. They were delighted when it cruised across the pool like a real yacht, but cried out in dismay as it reached the lip where the pool went down into the lower pool. It sailed bravely right over the edge and disappeared.

  “Quick!” said Rory. “Let’s get doon there afore it goes right away.”

  They scrambled down the edge of the small waterfall and then stood stock-still with shock. A body w
as floating in the pool, revolving gently in the current.

  Callum sat down on a rock and began to shiver. Rory took out his prized mobile phone and with shaking fingers dialled the police.

  The investigation was long and rigorous. A washed-out passport in the man’s pocket identified him as Andronovitch. An autopsy revealed that he had undergone expensive plastic surgery.

  Who had done it? A rival drug baron?

  Hamish began to think of Charles and Olivia. Andronovitch may have threatened them.

  He went to see Mrs. Mallard. “They’ve left!” she cried. “He took them off to an apartment he keeps in London for a holiday. They went off, hanging on to him, and never looked back once.”

  “Did he leave you a London address or phone number?”

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  Hamish phoned Jimmy and suggested that Scotland Yard should send someone to interview the Palfours.

  Jimmy agreed. Hamish waited impatiently all day for a result.

  He phoned in the evening. “They said they had never been near the glen at all. Hamish, since we can’t tell exactly when he was murdered although it probably was on the first day he went missing, they were asked what they were doing during the days and nights he had disappeared. It seems they can account for every minute of their time. Mr. Templeton appears to be very rich. He had been winding up his businesses in the Far East, mostly clothes factories in Taiwan. Those kids are going to have a life of luxury.”

  The Palfours arrived in Nantucket two weeks later. Olivia had asked if she could go to college and was told she could.