Hook or Crook

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘He might,’ I said.

  ‘That combination of factors is possible. If we think that he might have got hooked during a quarrel and a fight and have been hit over the head a moment later, it makes just as much sense and rather less demand on coincidence. Now take it a stage further. Assume that he’d landed a fish, then got into a fight during which he hooked himself in the cheek, then was hit and, accidentally or deliberately, killed. Or else he was killed and somebody else reeled in his line and hooked him. Assume that those events took place somewhere else. Assume that somebody then moved the body here in order to disassociate the death from himself. That demands no coincidence at all. Right?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Aye,’ the Chief Inspector said irritably. ‘You’re not going to do my reasoning for me. And you’re right. But that’s the way your own mind was working. Be honest, now.’

  ‘True,’ I said. ‘It sounds unlikely but it’s the explanation that best fits the facts.’

  ‘Well now. Maybe we’re both being a little too fanciful. But if not, if he was moved, where would you say he was moved from?’

  The Chief Inspector had come round from treating us as suspicious characters to making a reasonable request for help. I could hardly refuse. ‘There should be enough water in his lungs for your forensic scientists to make a good guess,’ I said.

  ‘In about a fortnight’s time. Science moves at its own pace.’

  ‘Well, I can’t speak for every river. But from here north has been very dry. On the other hand the Cairngorms, where the Aberdeenshire Dee rises, had heavy rain within the last week or two. I hear that the Dee’s full of fish. Deeside isn’t so far from here, going by Tomintoul.’

  The Chief Inspector let out a deep breath. ‘It was like pulling teeth,’ he said, ‘but at last I’ve got it out of you. If we don’t get somewhere quickly I’ll have to ask Grampian Police for help. Give the Sergeant your details, home addresses and where you’re putting up and there’ll be statements for you to sign in due course.’

  ‘One moment,’ I said.

  He had again been on the point of turning away but he checked. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did he have car keys on him?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Fergusson looked at Lennox who nodded.

  ‘It’s a long shot,’ I said, ‘but I may be able to help a bit more — assuming that I’ve helped at all and not sent you on a wild-goose chase. Coming here this morning, I noticed a vehicle tucked away behind some bushes. If I could borrow PC McIver and the keys, we could check it out.’

  Fergusson nodded. ‘You’re not to interfere with anything,’ he told McIver. ‘Just see if they fit.’ And to Lennox, ‘Give McIver the keys.’

  He walked off without another word, followed by Lennox.

  Chapter Three

  As we trudged back towards the bridge I could see that, up on the road, several more cars and an ambulance were now parked along the verge. Young McIver had been playing the part of the calm, dispassionate police officer for the benefit of his superiors but he allowed himself to relax, bouncing ahead with puppyish enthusiasm. An inquiry into a sudden death, we gathered, was a welcome change from more humdrum duties.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You might not have agreed with me. Not that I wanted there to have been any foul play, you understand, but . . .’

  ‘You’d stuck your neck out?’ I suggested.

  ‘That is just about it.’ We climbed the embankment to the car and stowed our rods in the outside rod-holders. ‘And when the neck of a humble PC is stuck well out, DCI Fergusson is just the man to administer the chop.’

  ‘We could both turn out to be wrong,’ I said.

  ‘Then he’ll have his knife into me for ever after. He’s a tough nut is Mr Fergusson.’

  I kicked off my thigh waders and put on shoes. Eric was preparing to struggle out of his chest waders. ‘Keep them on for another minute or two,’ I told him.

  Eric waited while I tied my laces. ‘Quite right,’ he said after a moment. ‘Never explain.’

  ‘I’m going to explain. Come onto the bridge.’ We walked the few yards and leaned on the sun-warmed parapet, facing downstream. ‘If he was brought from somewhere else — and it’s still a big if — he was probably dropped from here. After all, it’s the nearest point to which you could bring a vehicle, upstream of where we found him. I can’t see anyone carrying a body along the bank, where the water bailiff might be lurking, when they could stop the car and roll him over.’

  ‘The whole area will be searched, as a matter of routine,’ McIver said.

  ‘Let’s consider a short cut. Where’s his rod? It would make no sense to drop him in here and leave his rod somewhere else. And if it had been carried down by what little current there is, it would have caught up in the rocks before going any further down than we’ve fished. We’d have seen the handle. But take a look down at the weed.’ The river-bed was clean and stony under the clear water, but downstream of each of the two supporting piers was a triangle of thick water-weed. ‘If a rod was dropped butt-first and it landed in the weed, it might easily stay caught up underwater.’

  We peered down hopefully. Small parr were darting in and out of the weed.

  ‘I think I see something,’ Eric said. ‘It’s in the shadow, but there seems to be a thin line sticking out of the weed. We could fish for it from here.’

  ‘Easier waded for,’ I said. ‘With the water as low as this, you could wade out and take a look at it. If that’s in order?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ McIver said slowly. ‘You would not be spoiling any evidence, underwater on bare stones. Go ahead.’

  While Eric took the well-worn path down from the bridge and waded cautiously into the deeper water cut by the flow through the arches, McIver looked down into the grass that had sprouted between the tarmac and the stone of the parapet. ‘Don’t touch,’ he said suddenly, ‘but look at this.’

  ‘This’ was a fisherman’s folding knife, complete with scissors and descaler. ‘I wondered why he did not have such a thing in his pocket,’ McIver added.

  Eric was making plaintive noises down below. We looked down into his moon-face. ‘It’s a rod all right,’ he said. ‘Carbon fibre, about a twelve-footer. Shall I bring it up?’

  ‘If it’s secure there, leave it,’ said McIver. ‘Keep an eye on our finds while I go and tell the Chief Inspector.’

  He hurried back the way we had come. Eric climbed up to the roadway. I showed him the knife.

  ‘Could be anybody’s,’ Eric said. ‘And it’s stainless steel, it wouldn’t rust. It could have been there for weeks. But it begins to add together. A knife’s easily dropped, but you’d miss it and go back. But if it fell out of a dead man’s bag or the pocket of his chest waders . . .’

  ‘And that’s as much as anyone can say for the moment.’

  I finished the coffee and Eric had a can of beer while we waited. Constable McIver returned at last. ‘They’re just coming,’ he said. ‘We can go and look at the car.’

  ‘It wasn’t a car,’ I said. ‘I think it was either a van or one of those campers, a motor-caravan.’

  ‘Not a proper caravan for towing?’

  ‘I doubt it. The roof was the wrong shape. It was at least half a mile away. We’d better drive.’

  Eric began to struggle out of his waders again, while looking with disfavour at the small panda car. ‘I could wear that thing for a roller-skate,’ he said. ‘We’ll take mine.’

  ‘You can stay and stand guard,’ I suggested. We had an understanding that once the wine had begun to flow I would do the driving, but I had no desire to turn his monster in a narrow road which was becoming as cluttered as a municipal car-park.

  ‘You’re not leaving me out in the cold, so don’t try,’ Eric said. He heaved himself into his own passenger seat. ‘Anyway, stand guard over what? Here they come.’

  The Chief Inspector and another man were approaching along the river bank. I climbed resi
gnedly into Eric’s driving seat, which had begun to settle under his considerable weight, and started the engine. There was room for three in the front, but not if one of the three was Eric. McIver got up into the rear. The interior was uncomfortably hot after a morning in the sun.

  I drove on, reversed carefully into the mouth of a farmroad and came back. The Chief Inspector was already crouched over the knife in the grass. I slowed, ready to stop beside him, but he straightened up, more to get his backside out of the way than for any other reason, and waved us on. ‘Don’t take long over it,’ he called to McIver as we went by. ‘Touch nothing. Look and report.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ McIver said. ‘Three bags full,’ he added as soon as we were clear.

  Now that I was driving, I had less attention to spare for the few landmarks that I had noticed earlier. I had a vague recollection of bushes in the foreground and tall trees further back, all near a slight bend in the road. I rather thought that the open fields on the other side had held cattle. At the second such place that we came to, I spotted the roof of a vehicle and turned into a broad but rough track which zigged and then zagged, widened where heavy traffic had been manoeuvring and then disappeared in the direction of the trees. A stack of logs suggested that foresters had been at work.

  The motor-caravan was parked at a tilt on the uneven ground. I pulled up some yards away and McIver got down. He walked with care, watching his feet, although the ground was baked too hard to show any recent tracks. I followed him and Eric came lumbering along behind.

  ‘Look but don’t touch,’ McIver said, paraphrasing his superior.

  ‘You sound like a girl I used to know,’ Eric grumbled. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. He never slept here. Look at the slope. He’d have rolled out of the bunk.’

  The curtains were drawn back and the interior looked very tidy. A tube with a lockable cap on the end was bolted to the roof, presumably for the safe storage of fishing rods. McIver unlocked the driver’s door and quickly locked it again. ‘The key fits,’ he said. ‘That’s all we came to find out. Back we go.’

  We set off back. At least one more car had arrived but I managed to park Eric’s vehicle where other traffic would be able to squeeze by.

  Two men were now picking with great care through the fringe of grass, collecting ring-pulls and chocolate wrappings, while the Chief Inspector stared glumly down into the water. McIver hurried to report. We followed more slowly.

  ‘You noted the registration number?’ the Chief Inspector was asking McIver. ‘Then get on to Swansea. See what they can tell us.’ He turned his attention to us. ‘You seem to have been helpful,’ he said, as though the fact would be taken down and might be used in evidence against us. ‘Perhaps you can help once more. You were wearing full-length waders earlier,’ he said to Eric.

  ‘You want me to fetch that rod for you?’

  The Detective Chief Inspector looked scandalized. ‘That’s not how evidence is collected. And one of my men will have to search the bottom to see whether anything else came out of his pockets or was deliberately dropped to mislead us. Will you lend us those waders?’

  ‘If you think they’d fit any of your men,’ Eric said.

  The Chief Inspector measured Eric with his eye. ‘You have a point.’ He turned his glance towards me.

  ‘My chest waders are back at the hotel,’ I said. I would have liked to see the lean McIver trying to paddle around in Eric’s vast waders. He could easily have fallen into one leg of them and become lost. But in all honesty I had to point out another snag. ‘If you want somebody to see the bottom in detail, he’ll have to put his face in the water. If you do that in waders, you fill them. So he might just as well start off in swimming trunks — the water’s warm enough — or a wetsuit and with a face mask.

  ‘And now, if we can’t be of any more use, can we get back to our fishing?’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Fergusson, looking more cheerful. ‘My men will have to search the river banks. You’ve done quite enough tramping around and interfering with evidence.’

  Eric’s placid face showed signs of an approaching storm. ‘Now, just a minute,’ he said. ‘Do you know how much I’ve paid for this beat?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said the Chief Inspector with relish. I guessed that he was taking his revenge for Eric’s remark about the tape recorder. ‘Nor do I care very much. However it may look at the moment, there are a dozen possible ways that the man could have arrived here, alive or dead. It’s my job to find the truth and prove it. To do that, I have to have exclusive rights,’ he smiled grimly, ‘fishing rights if you like, to this stretch of the river. And any court in the land will back me up.’

  Eric seethed for a moment but none of those present was in any doubt that his argument was already lost. ‘How long?’ he asked.

  ‘Today and tomorrow should do it. We’ll be closing off this road, so don’t try to sneak back. And don’t leave Granton without clearing it with me.’

  ‘Two days? And who,’ Eric demanded bitterly, ‘do I see about recovering my wasted money?’

  ‘The police authority might reimburse you if the death turns out to have been accidental, but I wouldn’t count on it. Otherwise you could try suing the murderer,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Fergusson.

  I stepped in quickly before Eric could blow his top. ‘Come along,’ I said. ‘At least you’ve caught a salmon today, and I’ll bet that nobody else can say that. The hotel will be serving afternoon tea soon. That will leave nice time for a bath and a drink before dinner.’

  ‘That part of the programme I could go along with. But,’ Eric drew himself up to his full height and glared down at the Chief Inspector, ‘if I don’t get back on the water by dawn on the day after tomorrow, I’m heading straight for the nearest sheriff.’

  A small group was approaching along the river bank, two of them carrying a covered stretcher. ‘You do that,’ agreed Detective Chief Inspector Fergusson. ‘Now go.’

  I coaxed the fuming Eric into his vehicle and headed towards our hotel in Granton on Spey. Eric insisted on calling, without an appointment, to see a local solicitor, who told him to leave the Detective Chief Inspector to get on with it and charged him stiffly for the advice.

  It took several drinks, a good dinner and the pleasure of exhibiting his catch around the hotel and receiving the envious congratulations of the anglers in residence before Eric was once again his usual self.

  Chapter Four

  In the morning, when Eric’s fish had been safely dispatched to Aberdeen for smoking, we bought day tickets for the Association water and spent much of the next day, the Wednesday, fishing close to Granton. Conditions were still unpropitious, the weather bright and breathless and the water low, but Eric was buoyed up by the memory of his triumph. His enthusiasm was brought back to fever pitch by a pull that stripped several yards of line off his reel, but without the fish being firmly hooked.

  Back at the hotel, Eric was thoughtful. I had long passed the stage of being fish-hungry. Fresh air, beautiful scenery and the genuine pleasure that I found in the act of casting a line were enough; the thrill of a fish fighting against me and coming at last to hand was a bonus. But to fish all day at great expense for no return was not what Eric had come most of the length of Britain to enjoy.

  I left him moodily working his way through the many courses available at dinner while I adjourned to the bar. I was having a quiet pint and a chat about trout tactics with one of the locals when I realized that a figure was standing patiently beside me. It was Constable McIver, looking, in slacks and a sports shirt, almost as schoolboyish as he had when I first knew him. He was carrying a large envelope.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see you, hiding behind my shoulder. You want a word with me?’ I asked unnecessarily.

  ‘I was enjoying the respite and learning a lot just from listening to the two of you,’ he said. ‘But yes. I know you, don’t I?’ he added to my companion.

  ‘And I know you,’ said the other. I gathere
d that any previous encounters between them had not been social.

  Tony McIver was not one to hold a grudge. ‘I’ll get back to you some time about dapping,’ he said.

  I made my excuses and we slipped away to a table in a corner of the almost empty lounge. A waiter came and I offered McIver a drink. This was no more than a sociable gesture on my part, but to my surprise he accepted a small dram. Either he considered his shift to be over or else whisky is so much a part of life in the Highlands, and particularly on Speyside where many of the better malts are distilled, that an occasional dram is not counted as drinking.

  He laid his envelope carefully aside. ‘Mr Fergusson told me to find out whether you and Mr Bell can alibi each other for the whole of Monday and Monday night. Tactfully, he said. The most tactful way I can think of is to ask you straight out.’

  That seemed to be a reasonable way of looking at it. ‘Monday, yes,’ I said. ‘Monday night, no. Our rooms are as far apart as I could arrange. Eric is a mighty snorer,’ I added quickly before McIver could jump to any more sinister conclusion. ‘I don’t think we were out of each other’s sight for more than a few seconds until about eleven. Then I phoned home as usual and went to bed. Knowing Eric, he was probably in the bar until dawn swapping drinks with anybody who could keep up with him. Does Fergusson suspect one of us? Or both?’

  He produced a small notebook and made a note. ‘For the moment,’ he said in his careful, Highland diction, ‘the Detective Chief Inspector has only your advice plus evidence found by yourselves to suggest that the body was ever moved. Sergeant Lennox supports your view of it. Otherwise Mr Fergusson might be readier to accept it. Those two have never agreed about anything.’

  ‘So he thinks that one of us went back to the river late, hoping perhaps for a sea-trout or two, and knocked a complete stranger on the head?’