Thin Air

by Gerald Hammond

  The excitement seemed to be over. After some mutterings which might have been of excuse or apology, and before Miss Mather could find adequate reply, we turned away and started back towards the valley, walking quickly.

  ‘They hate each other, the two daft buggers,’ Ronnie said, ‘but they needn’t take it out on the youngsters. It’s no’ right. Yon Sheila’s a good lass. Some day, that two could be well suited.’

  I looked over my shoulder to see Miss Mather drive off. The car was deformed. It travelled slightly crabwise, leaving behind it a trail of dung and pulling a comet-like tail of flies, but it seemed to be running adequately. I wondered how Miss Mather’s partner would react to being met with it.

  *

  We moved on. Beyond the bridge, we arrived at the last of the heaps of stones. When shooting finished, we had another dozen or so rabbits and only three or four more to clean. The other men had their knives out. I hung the already legged rabbits over my thumbstick and put it on my shoulder. ‘I’ll start back to the car with these,’ I said.

  Ronnie raised a bloodstained thumb to me.

  The head of the gully was only a hundred yards or so from the nearer farm buildings but part of the rape-field lay in between. I could have returned to the bridge but, rather than face the smell and be reminded of the tragi-comedy when Miss Mather’s DAF had taken its swim, or of the even less savoury behaviour of the two farmers, it seemed preferable to cross the pasture and rejoin my morning’s route.

  I could hear Duggie Bracken banging away. As the farmyard came into view Old Murdo appeared from the direction of the house. He seemed to have found another stick to walk with. He gave me a glare which I could feel from a hundred yards away and checked in his stride, but he could see that Boss was tight at my heel and the sheep were quite undisturbed, so he walked on in the general direction of the jeep and passed out of my sight.

  The day had become still and more humid and the sun seemed to be focused on me. I was sweating and beginning to hobble under the weight of the rabbits. Flies were determined to sample the rabbits’ blood on my hands. Miss Mather and her car were out of my sight behind the house, but I could hear the whirr and swish of the power-hose and see an arc of rainbow. The spray looked invitingly cool and I decided, at the risk of being made the recipient of Miss Mather’s complaints and tears or even being pressed into service, to bathe my hands and face.

  I had almost made it to the corner of the barn when Mrs Heminson erupted from the back door of the house. She was the one member of the family whom I had not met, but I knew her by sight – a mountainous woman, a foot taller than her husband and twice his girth, with a face that had once been handsome but now sagged with jowls. By reputation, she had a tongue like a whip dipped in acid, but it was said that despite, or perhaps because of, their common mistrust of the rest of humanity, not excluding their own sons, they were a united and even devoted couple.

  Her usual pace was a ponderous plod, but I saw that she was moving for once at a rapid trot. I could almost believe that I felt the ground shake. As she vanished beyond the barn, she uttered a cry that made the hairs crawl up the back of my neck. I nearly turned back, but curiosity spurred me on.

  I rounded the barn.

  Beyond the further end of it, not far from the jeep and only a few yards from the gate to the walled garden of the house, Old Murdo was lying on his back on the hard ground. His wife was down on her knees, pulling at him and slapping at his face. Then, quite suddenly, she collapsed across him.

  I dropped the rabbits, half glad of the excuse to get rid of the stick which was digging into my shoulder, and hurried closer. Old Murdo showed no signs of life. If he was not already dead, he was unlikely to last long with that weight across him. I tried to pull her off him but for such a substantial woman there seemed to be very little to get hold of. Boss sniffed once, walked away and lay down in the shade of the barn. His business was with dead or wounded birds and animals. Human casualties were of no concern to him.

  Duggie Bracken’s boots appeared beside me. ‘What’s adae?’ he asked.

  ‘Heart attack, I think.’ He pulled his ear protectors off his ears and I repeated it. ‘We’d better roll her off before she crushes him flat.’

  Together we laid hands on Mrs Heminson. The limp weight was almost unmanageable but we contrived to roll her off him. Her breathing was punctuated by grunts and snorts but Old Murdo did not seem to be breathing at all.

  In one of my novels I would have known exactly what to do when confronted by two inert bodies, but meeting them in reality I could only think that I needed lots of help. I looked around. Wallace and Ian were approaching along the track by the rape-field, with Ronnie, burdened by the ferret-box, on their heels. I waved to them. I must have managed to convey some sense of urgency because they broke into untidy runs and arrived winded. Ronnie paused to put down the ferret-box in the shade of the jeep.

  Duggie, meanwhile, had kept his head. He had rolled Old Murdo onto his face and was applying artificial respiration in a manner which, to me, looked highly skilled.

  For a second time, tragedy was drawing people like flies to blood. I could hear the tractor approaching. The sound of the power-hose was cut off and Jean Mather arrived from the direction of the house. She was splashed with mud and water, and traces of dung hung about her, but at least she was to some degree medical. Duggie sat back on his heels and made room for her. She was a different person when her profession was invoked, brisk and efficient.

  ‘He’s dead,’ she said after a few seconds. ‘We can’t do anything for him now.’ She turned to Mrs Heminson and raised one of the unconscious woman’s eyelids, leaving a brown smear behind. ‘Fainted. Shock, I suppose. Possible slight stroke. We’d better get her indoors and out of the sun.’

  Guns were carefully laid aside. Ronnie and I took an arm each, Wallace and Ian laid hands on the thick legs but, limp and heavy, she was an almost impossible load.

  ‘There’s an old door off the house in the barn,’ Duggie said helpfully.

  ‘There’s the fork-lift an’ a’,’ said Ronnie. Jean Mather tutted at him in reproof but, having already experienced the woman’s dead weight, I could see some sense in the suggestion.

  The tractor had stopped nearby. While Ian broke the news to Brett, Duggie fetched the door from the barn. With Ronnie’s help we managed to lift and roll Mrs Heminson onto it.

  Brett broke away from Ian and joined us. His face was already badly swollen and discoloration was beginning to contrast with a new pallor. Tenderly, he smoothed down his mother’s skirt and then glanced once at his father without speaking. I was preparing to become one of a stretcher party, but Brett and Ronnie stooped to an end each, lifted the door without apparent effort and started towards the house. ‘I’ll come and see to her,’ said Miss Mather. ‘And you’ll need doors opened.’

  Through the ironwork of the gate, the bright flowers in the garden formed a backcloth which already suggested a funeral. For want of anything more useful to do, I began to tidy up the scene. I picked up Old Murdo’s stick, which was lying a few yards away, laid it neatly beside him and then gathered up the three shotguns and stowed them in the jeep.

  ‘I’d better phone for a doctor,’ Ian said. I could see the policeman in him beginning to take over. ‘I just hope that he’s prepared to sign the certificate.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on any sic thing,’ Duggie said. ‘Yon’s no heart attack. There’s blood in the mannie’s hair.’

  We each took a step towards the body but Ian held up his hand. ‘Stand where you are,’ he said. He stooped and stared at the dead man’s head without touching it. ‘Where?’

  ‘Abune his left lug,’ Duggie said.

  ‘It’s only a spot,’ Ian said. ‘But there seems to be a puncture wound half hidden by the hair. Above and behind the left ear. I want everyone away from the body. Over by the barn, please.’

  ‘He could have jabbed himself on something sharp as he fell,’ Wallace said as we moved. ‘Loo
k at his stick. It has a horn handle with a sharp point.’

  ‘He was using his stick with his right hand when I saw him,’ I said. ‘If the wound’s on his left . . .’

  Ian left us standing by the barn and went back to the body. He squatted down and looked again at the body and then at the stick. He picked up a straw and parted the thin hair. He was shaking his head as he came back.

  ‘The wound’s too deep. And I can’t see any blood or hairs on the stick.’ He looked at me. ‘You didn’t wipe it when you moved it?’

  ‘God, no!’ I said.

  Ian’s eyes shifted to Duggie. ‘Did you see what happened?’

  Duggie shook his head. ‘I was diddlin’ awa’ at my work and I’d these on my lugs.’ He lifted the ear protectors which now hung around his neck. ‘I’d no idea a’thing was wrong until I saw Mr Parbitter cross the yard at the double.’

  Ian switched his attention back to me. ‘You were first on the scene, unless we count Mrs Heminson. What did you see?’

  ‘Not much,’ I said. ‘I was coming across the grass field where the sheep are. I saw Old Murdo heading this way. Half a minute later his wife ran after him. They each went out of my sight. When I got round the corner, she was down beside him and trying to rouse him. Then, before I could get to them, she fainted and they were both lying as you saw them except that she was on top of him. Duggie and I managed to roll her off.’

  ‘Right,’ Ian said. He hesitated in thought.

  ‘Could the wound have been made by a two-two bullet?’ Wallace asked.

  Ian looked at him sharply. ‘For all I can tell at the moment. Why? Do you know something?’

  ‘Not a damn thing,’ said Wal. ‘But small-bore bullets can travel a long way and still have enough energy to kill. It could have been an accident. Mr Mckee said that he’d been shooting crows. He mentioned a rifle. Well, you wouldn’t use a full-bore rifle on crows, but I know that he has a two-two because I sell him his ammunition.’

  ‘Good point,’ Ian said. ‘Would you fetch him for me?’

  ‘I suppose so. Though it needn’t have been him. Anybody being careless with a small-bore rifle within a mile of here could be responsible. Is it all right if I take the jeep?’

  ‘I’ll take a look at it first.’

  ‘You won’t find a rifle in it,’ Wallace said. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Nor a humane killer,’ I said. They looked at me in surprise. ‘I don’t know why I said that,’ I went on, ‘except that we’ve been hearing about a humane killer this morning and you referred to a puncture wound—’

  Young Murdo came tearing along the track. Before Ian could stop him he had knelt down beside his father. He looked back at us over his shoulder. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? What’s happened to him?’

  Ian took him gently by the arm, lifted him to his feet and pulled him away to where we were grouped by the barn. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ Young Murdo looked ready to faint. With a visible effort he pulled himself together and stooped to brush the earth off his jeans with a shaking hand. ‘Does Mum know?’

  ‘She knows,’ Ian said. I suppose in a sense that it was true.

  ‘How’s she taking it?’

  ‘Not very well. She’s in the house.’

  ‘I must go to her.’ He rushed off in the direction of the house, almost colliding with Ronnie, who was returning in the opposite direction.

  Ian sighed. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well,’ he said. He saw that our eyes were being drawn unwillingly to Old Murdo’s body lying in the sunshine. ‘You go and fetch Ken McKee,’ he told Wal.

  ‘And if he doesn’t want to come?’

  ‘Tell him that Old Murdo’s met with an accident. He’ll come, if it’s only to gloat. You others, go into the barn. See if you can find some stakes and binder twine. Do not go near the body or let anybody else near it until I come back. I must go and phone.’

  Jean Mather had followed Ronnie. ‘Mrs Heminson’s shown no signs of coming round,’ she said. ‘She’s in deep shock. I think she should be hospitalized.’

  ‘All right,’ Ian said. ‘All right. I’ll see to it. Now, all of you go into the barn and stay there while I use the phone in the house.’ He strode off towards the farmhouse. Wallace walked to the jeep and drove off along the track by the rape-field.

  ‘Really!’ Miss Mather said. ‘What a way to speak to a body!’

  ‘He is the polis,’ Duggie said apologetically. ‘A whole detective inspector!’

  In the barn we found some of the metal stakes for an electric fence and a ball of binder twine. After that, there was nothing to do but find seats and wait while, for me, Old Murdo’s death changed from an event to a permanent shift in the stable local scene.

  ‘You really think it could have been an accident?’ Ronnie asked nobody in particular.

  ‘It’s hard to think it could have been anything else,’ said Duggie. ‘God knows, there’s few enough will be sorry he’s dead. But if there’d been anybody near the man, Mr Parbitter’d’ve seen him, or I would.’

  ‘You don’t have to be near a man to shoot him,’ I said. ‘But I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Duggie looked up at the planks from which he had been working. ‘I could maybe be getting on wi’ the job now.’

  ‘Better not,’ I said.

  ‘Whit way no’?’

  ‘Look at it from the viewpoint of the police,’ I said. ‘We don’t know that he was shot. If anybody got at him from close to, it was his wife or you or me.’

  Duggie blinked at me from his seat on a straw bale while he took in the idea. ‘If it was you I’d’ve seen you,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think it was me.’

  ‘I don’t think it was either of us,’ I said. ‘But if I were you, I wouldn’t go near that nail-gun until the police have had a chance to examine it.’

  Duggie started to say something, glanced at Miss Mather and checked himself. ‘For Pete’s sake!’ he substituted.

  Ronnie had seated himself on the packed earth floor. ‘Just for the minute,’ he said, ‘we don’t know if the mannie was shot or stabbed or if he landed on a spike when he fell. Half the world’s troubles come from folk trying to think when they don’t know what the hell they’re thinking about.’ He leaned back against the wall of the barn and closed his eyes.

  Ten more minutes dragged by in silence before Ian returned. He stood against the light and looked at us. ‘I may as well explain the position,’ he said. ‘If nothing else, it may help you to understand why you’re going to be kept hanging around for some time yet. If any of you wants to phone somebody to say that you’re delayed, that can be arranged.’ He looked at Miss Mather.

  ‘I used the phone while I was in the house,’ she said.

  ‘Very well.’ Ian was looking harassed. ‘I’ve made a few calls myself. My sergeant is on leave and one of my constables is off sick, so the other DC is all the skilled help I can call on in Newton Lauder.

  ‘I’ve spoken to my bosses in Edinburgh. They’re desperately short-handed – the Festival fetches every thief and con-man into the city. They’re sending me one more DC, a forensic science technician and two SOCOs. SOCOs,’ he added in explanation, ‘are specially trained Scene of Crime Officers. That’s all the manpower they can spare. A caravan – a mobile Incident Room – is also promised. The police surgeon should be here any minute and an ambulance is coming for Mrs Heminson. A pathologist is also on the way.

  ‘But, for the moment, and for at least as long as the possibility of an accident remains open, it’s my case. I’m to report to a detective chief inspector in Edinburgh and he’ll come through when he can.

  ‘And that’s all the skilled help I can count on,’ Ian said grimly. ‘It may sound a lot, but it’s less than half what I’ll need for an unexplained death. For the rest, I’m trying to make up numbers by borrowing uniformed officers locally. The local super is going to send me out some bodies. They’ll be policemen, and possibly pol
icewomen, but they won’t be trained detectives. In short, it has all the makings of a guddle. So please be patient and don’t make my life any more difficult than it has to be.’

  ‘We can hang on,’ Ronnie said gruffly. He knew as well as I did that Ian’s was only a token presence in Newton Lauder, his office little more than a pied à terre for the officers from Edinburgh who usually came to deal with any crime more serious than flashing or minor theft, giving the local man no more than a patronizing nod on the way by. Ian was being thrown off the deep end and we, his friends, would catch him if we could.

  ‘Until skilled help arrives,’ Ian said, ‘does any one of you know shorthand?’ He was looking at me.

  ‘It’s rusty but it still works,’ I said. ‘Can’t your single DC do that for you?’

  ‘He’s only just been transferred from Traffic. He’s only had one lesson. Until somebody more skilled turns up, you’re it.’

  Something else was bothering me. When I’m not writing, I get hungry. ‘It’s already past lunchtime,’ I pointed out. ‘Unless we have the run of the kitchen here, I suggest that somebody goes and explains to Alice and brings back some sandwiches.’

  ‘You can do that,’ said Ian, ‘if you promise to come back. I won’t need you for the next half-hour. I have some preliminary searching to do.’

  ‘You are not searching me,’ Miss Mather said loudly, but there was a hint of challenge. Ronnie stirred, apparently about to offer his services, but lost his nerve.

  ‘Not you,’ Ian said. ‘Your car. And Duggie’s toolbox.’

  At the mention of her beloved car, a cloud passed over her face. ‘I wish you joy of my car. What do you hope to find in it?’

  ‘Your humane killer. You used it this morning?’ That silenced Miss Mather. She nodded. ‘And cleaned it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘A pity.’