‘Go ahead,’ Goth said.
‘I’ll try to give you my sources at the same time. Imad Vahhaji was certain that Alec, the barman, wasn’t damaged in the original fracas, yet Alec’s face definitely showed old bruising when we arrived here. Vahhaji also said that Mr Hollister went away to catch Alec in order to apologize, on the Monday night. Jean Bruce, the landlord’s daughter, pointed out Alec’s car to him. My friend in the house opposite tells me that Alec was in the habit of bringing a dog to work with him and leaving it in his car. He heard a dog yelp just after Alec came out of the hotel. Mrs Walton tells us that her father hated dogs.’
‘From which,’ said Goth, ‘you conclude that Mr Hollister might have fallen out again with the barman over the dog, the previous night’s argy-bargy flared up again and Mr Hollister ended up deceased?’ He seemed amused but not displeased.
‘I wasn’t concluding anything,’ I said weakly. ‘That’s your end of the stick. I just thought that you ought to know the facts.’
‘Quite right,’ Goth said kindly. ‘All along the line. Right that it’s my business to draw conclusions. Right to tell me. You would even have led me to a credible alternative theory but for some facts that I know and you don’t, so you needn’t feel bad about it.
‘The business that got me out of my bed in the small hours was the arrest of the poachers — the same gang that assaulted the ghillie and the water bailiff here last week. They tried it on again below Banchory last night, but this time we were ready for them. Even so, it turned into a major scrap. They made a run for it and there was a fight when we managed to stop them. One of our cars was wrecked and two of my men ended up in hospital — the result of personal violence, not the car smash.
‘However, we nailed the five of them in the act, with the van full of nets and salmon, and in view of the violence to police officers they’ll go down this time and they know it. But their time after the poaching affray on Monday night is accounted for; they were stopped and cautioned for a faulty tail-lamp in Perth on their way back to base, all five men present.
‘They also know the form and they weren’t going to say a word. However, the fiscal’s a wily man and he has a wide discretion as to whether, for instance, the two incidents are tried separately, or together, or the men are tried on one count and allowed to have the other taken into consideration or kept on file. These things can make a big difference at the time of sentencing, especially if the police are prepared to say that the accused had given help on another and bigger case.
‘I don’t know what sort of deal has been struck and, frankly, I’d prefer not to know. The latest word is that they’ve made statements about the Monday night and, of course, once one man starts to talk the rest can only follow on. They haven’t taken us very far, but it’s a start. They are ready to swear that Mr Hollister’s motor-caravan was not in its place when they came past at around midnight. And when they reached the bridge there was an outside light on at the big house and two vehicles at the door. Then both vehicles drove off and the house became dark and quiet. The poachers set to work but the ghillie and the water bailiff arrived almost immediately.’
Eric sat up suddenly and snapped his fingers. ‘And Alec the barman was one of them,’ he said.
‘Correct,’ said Goth. ‘Alec furnished the local knowledge. But there’s not the least doubt that he was with them on the Monday night and that they all went on to commit another poaching offence downstream. None of them transported Mr Hollister to Granton, which makes it very unlikely that they offered him any violence.’
‘And it’s too much to hope that they recognized the motor-caravan outside the ambassador’s house?’ Eric asked.
‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Goth. ‘However, the rest of my news may be considered more promising. I have also spent some time on the phone to the Foreign Office. Sunday or not, the switchboard was manned and I was able to make contact with somebody conversant with the situation in the Middle East.
‘At the time when Mrs Hollister died, it would have been impolitic to proceed against the ambassador. Since then, there has been a shift of power in his country, to a faction of which Her Majesty’s Government disapproves. The new rulers would very much like to mend fences with the West, but our government is rather hoping for an excuse to show signs of its disapproval.’
‘Would they agree to a prosecution?’ Mrs Walton asked quickly.
‘At first glance, diplomatic immunity would seem to hold good. But given some proof of a criminal offence — not necessarily sufficient proof to satisfy a court of law, but enough to make it clear to the world that the action was not taken lightly — they would be prepared to declare the ambassador and his household personae non gratae, or whatever the proper plural may be.’
‘And they get off again,’ Mrs Walton said.
‘You could say so. On the other hand, the ambassador’s family is not favoured by the new regime. They have been stripped of money and power and several of them seem to have disappeared. A return home in disgrace, after doing serious damage to relations which the regime had been trying to improve, would not exactly be greeted with a red carpet. They would be lucky to end up guarding the new emir’s harem, after suitable surgical intervention.’
One tends to forget how primitive some parts of the world remain, even parts which, because of close trade associations, gain an illusion of familiarity. It took a few seconds for Goth’s last few words to sink in. Then I felt a shiver up my back and I saw Eric flinch.
‘I could settle for that,’ Mrs Walton said grimly.
‘At last we have an explanation of why they tried so hard to cover up the killing instead of relying on diplomatic immunity,’ I said.
‘Quite so,’ Goth said. ‘In fact, there had already been some tentative discussions about political asylum. Now consider this for a moment. Faced with the consequences of being sent home in disgrace the ambassador and his men might well prefer to take a chance on political asylum, even if a condition of it were to be that they forgo their diplomatic immunity, retrospectively, and take their chances in a British court.’
‘I would rather see them sent home,’ Mrs Walton said, ‘if you are right.’
Goth nodded, keeping his face impassive. ‘I expect you would. And it may come to that. Happily for them, the decision is not yours. So far, the case rests largely on motive, which has little value as evidence. Millions of people may have a motive for a bullion robbery, but they can’t all be guilty. Now that we know who to ask and what to ask them, we may be able to build up a case and, of course, forensic science may come to our aid. But for the moment we are still far short of the necessary proof.’ He looked past us. ‘Or are we?’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Tony’s voice. At some point while the Detective Chief Superintendent was speaking, he had come into the room and stood waiting. Now he came forward and slipped into the spare chair.
‘This morning,’ he said, ‘when Imad Vahhaji mentioned the all-night filling station, at first I couldn’t think why Mr James was making faces at me. Then it occurred to me. On Sunday, Mr Hollister was asking the way to it. So the motor-caravan was short of fuel. But a few minutes later he became rather preoccupied and he seems to have been fishing for all of the Monday until his death. If somebody wanted to drive the caravan to the Spey on Monday night, they might have found it short of petrol and have had to fill up before going over the Lecht. Of course, they might have siphoned petrol out of another car, but it was worth a try.
‘At best, I hoped that whoever was doing pump duty at the filling station today could give me the address of whoever was doing the same duty on Monday night. Then there was a faint chance that that person might remember the caravan and who was driving it.’
‘And did he?’ asked Mrs Walton.
Tony McIver held up a hand for patience. ‘As it turns out, Sunday afternoon is the time when the proprietor comes in to do his accounts and VAT and so on. And he’s the meticulous type who insists on vehicle numbers being ente
red on credit card slips, just in case the card had been stolen.
‘Late on Monday night, or to be more precise very early on Tuesday morning, Ali Bashari filled up both Mr Hollister’s motor-caravan and the ambassador’s car. And — would you believe it? — he used the embassy credit card.’
‘Wow!’ said Eric.
Mrs Walton broke the ensuing silence with a protracted yawn. ‘I’m going up to my room,’ she said. ‘I think I could sleep now.’
EPILOGUE
The ambassador and his staff accepted political asylum, giving up their diplomatic immunity.
Ibrahim Imberesh and Ali Bashari pleaded guilty to manslaughter and this reduced plea was accepted.
His former Excellency Abdolhossein Mohammed Flimah was defended by a senior silk. His two associates might have ameliorated their own stiff sentences by implicating him but, perhaps out of fear, they did not. Without any direct evidence that he was associated with them in the death and transportation of Mr Hollister, he was acquitted.
The case had attracted the attention of the media. Mr Flimah was telling the Press and television cameras of his delight in having his innocence proved and reaffirming his faith in British justice when he was shot dead by means of a pistol hidden in the dummy camera of a supposed reporter. His killer escaped but was later identified, from the shots taken by genuine press photographers, as a professional assassin more often working in the Middle East. It was therefore assumed that the killing was politically inspired.
Only Mrs Walton could have confirmed or denied that assumption, and if anybody had thought to ask her it is unlikely that her answer could have been relied on.
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