Malice in the Highlands (17 page)

“Where to begin?” Warburton shook his head sheepishly. “You know, it's funny. One always supposes, rather immodestly I daresay, that if one were ever placed in a situation like this, one would give one's statement clearly and succinctly and without emotion. But to be honest, Erskine, my mind is in complete turmoil.”

Powell said reassuringly, “First off, Pinky, you are not being cross-examined. Secondly, you've just been
through a terrible ordeal, so take your time and do the best you can.”

Warburton smiled wanly. “Thanks, old chap.” He closed his eyes momentarily, as if to distill his thoughts. “We'd drawn the bridge beat,” he began slowly. “The water was fishing well and we'd each had a fish in the morning. When we returned to the beat after lunch, poached plaice and a rather respectable hock—” he digressed a trifle wistfully “—I elected to fish the Bridge Pool, and John decided to try his luck down by the birch spinney. After an hour or so, I stopped for some refreshment. John joined me presently and said he had to pop into town to run some errands.”

“Before you continue, Pinky, tell me how you got to your beat today.”

“We've been taking turns driving. It was John's turn today, so we took his car in the morning. But after lunch he suggested that we each take our own vehicle, which suited me fine.” He grimaced. “John has hired one of those cramped little tin cans like Alex's and one feels a bit like a sardine. At any rate, where was I? Oh, yes— after John had gone I fished through the pool once more and then decided to move a little farther downstream. I was bringing in my line when I hooked on to something. At first I thought I'd snagged bottom, but when I pulled hard the thing came loose and eventually I managed to get it in.”

Warburton lapsed into another coughing fit. Waving Powell off, he took several deep, ragged breaths and then clutched Powell's sleeve. “It was the rod!” he whispered hoarsely.

“What?”

“The one left behind by Arthur's poacher. It must have
been. It was a double-hander with the reel and line still attached. There was no sign of corrosion, so it couldn't have been in the water very long.”

“That was a bit of luck,” Powell said distractedly. The police divers had combed the river for two days and hadn't come up with a thing. Still, it was the same with drownings—the bodies often turned up when you least expected them. An article like a fishing rod could, he supposed, get lodged in various places in a large river where it would be difficult to spot. First Murray's corpse and now this. It seemed that the salmon rod would soon replace the grapple for dredging up clues from the deeps. “Did you happen to notice the make?” he asked.

Pinky smiled. “You know I always notice that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, it was a very nice custom job by that local maker, Peter Grant.”

Powell felt his jaw tighten. That drink with John Sanders had suddenly shot to the top of his social agenda. “Are you certain?”

Warburton looked mildly surprised. “Of course. His name was on it, signed in India ink just above the grip.”

Powell nodded. “Go on.”

“I was sitting on that big rock at the bottom end of the pool examining the rod when, without any hint of a warning, someone pushed me from behind. The next thing I knew, I was in the drink and it was bloody cold, I can tell you.” He shivered convulsively.

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Afraid not, old man. I was too busy swimming for dear life. The current was faster than it looked and there was a strong undertow. All I can remember is a loud roaring
sound in my ears. The next thing I knew, I was being revived by Preston and young Crawford.”

“What happened to the rod?”

Warburton shrugged. “It's at the bottom of the river again, I expect.”

“Do you have any idea what time all this happened?”

“I'd only be guessing, but I'd say near enough three.”

“How long after Sanders had left for town would that be?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes, I should think.” Warburton tossed Powell a curious glance. “Why do you ask?”

“Force of habit. By the way, have you heard from Sanders?”

Warburton shook his head. “I'm a bit puzzled about that, actually. When he got back he must have wondered what had happened to me. I've been expecting him to pop in.”

“Bloody peculiar, I'd say. You wouldn't happen to know what he does by way of earning a crust, would you?”

“I haven't the faintest idea. He seldom talks about himself, and one doesn't like to pry.”

“Pinky, did you happen to mention Arthur's run-in with the poacher to Sanders?”

Pinky looked guilty. “Shouldn't I have?”

“It's not important.” Powell tried to think. Something was nagging away at the back of his brain, but for the life of him he couldn't put his finger on it.

On his way back to the Salar Lodge, Powell paid a visit to the Ravenscroft Guesthouse. The proprietor, a Mrs. Blakey, informed him that, yes, Mr. Sanders was staying
there, but, no, he was not in at the moment. And, no, sir, not a word to the gentleman. Powell had created the impression that he was an old friend who wanted to surprise Sanders.

Barrett rang as usual that evening and after Powell had brought him up to date, the Scot described in minute detail what he would do if he ever got his hands on Pinky's assailant.

“The main thing is he's all right,” Barrett concluded, “but this certainly puts matters in a different light. I can finish up here tomorrow and—” He hesitated. “Look, Erskine, why don't I call in someone from Division to help out?” He left the rest unsaid.

“Thanks all the same, Alex, but I can manage.” Powell's tone left no room for argument.

Barrett was about to say something about the hazards of getting personally involved in a case but decided that it wasn't necessary. He had to assume that Powell knew what he was doing. “Right, then,” he said. “Why don't you review what we have so far?”

Powell summarized the facts of the case, scrupulously avoiding any hint of subjectivity.

“Cagey, aren't we?” Barrett observed. “I take it you'd like to hear my views before committing yourself. Well, for what it's worth, my money's still on Pickens. The man seems unwilling or, more likely, unable to provide a proper alibi, and he's admitted that Murray diddled him when they were in business together. So there's both opportunity and motive. And let's not forget that he was, as far as we know, the last person to see Murray alive. But proving it is another thing.”

Powell shook his head doubtfully. “I don't know. There's
something about Pickens that rings true. When I was interviewing him I got the distinct impression that he was more interested in his latest business deal than the possibility of a murder charge.”

Barrett was adamant. “That's not inconsistent with the type of character we're dealing with. No, as far as I'm concerned, he's still our best bet.”

Powell sighed heavily. “Point made.”

“Moving down the list,” Barrett said carefully, “we are bound to consider Nigel.” He paused to give Powell the opportunity to protest, but when there was no reaction he forged ahead. “Murray threatened to put Nigel out of business mere hours before he was murdered, by reneging on the Salar Lodge's fishing rights. There's a lot of Maggie Whitely in the Salar Lodge, and I'm convinced that Nigel would do anything in his power to protect what they'd built together.”

“Including murder?” Powell asked incredulously.

“I know the idea seems ridiculous, but, as you yourself have pointed out, Nigel's been behaving very strangely of late. He'd been through hell with Maggie and now there's the prospect of Bob leaving; perhaps he'd reached the end of his tether. There's another possibility, of course. Nigel may have a good idea who did kill Murray and is profoundly disturbed by the prospect.”

“You mean Bob, I take it.”

“Murray stood between the lad and his true love, a rather precarious position, I'd say, considering Bob's penchant for going off half-cocked. And putting it bluntly, one must also consider the fact that Heather Murray's, em, dowry has increased substantially as a result of her father's death—rather sweetening the pot, in a manner of speaking.”
He paused significantly and the silence stretched out awkwardly. Once again, he decided it best to soldier on. “While we're on the subject, it seems to me that Miss Murray, herself, is no small enigma. Her devotion to her father seems rather odd when you consider that he could apparently be such a bastard. She's admitted they'd had a major row, quite possibly over her choice of boyfriends, and she strikes me as the type who's used to having her own way.”

“What are you implying?”

“I am simply drawing your attention to the rich tapestry of possibilities that confronts us. Did you know that ninety percent of all violence in Britain involves family members?”

Barrett could be a royal pain in the arse at times.

“And finally,” he continued with exasperating precision, “there's John Sanders. Now I'll admit that this fishing rod business is suggestive, but it just doesn't stand up to scrutiny. If Sanders had committed a murder, why in heaven's name would he stick around? The natural reaction would be to put as many miles between himself and Kinlochy as quickly as possible. Being a tourist, he could have slipped away without drawing the slightest attention to himself.

“Let's assume for the sake of argument that Sanders did kill Murray and then decided for some inexplicable reason to linger at the scene of the crime. And let us accept, moreover, that it was in fact Sanders whom Arthur encountered a few days later, poaching, cool as a cucumber, on his victim's water. The fact remains that the rod found by Pinky, even supposing it did belong to Sanders, in no way links him to the murder. A possible conviction on a minor
poaching offense hardly seems a sufficient motive for attempting to kill Pinky.”

“That doesn't alter the fact that somebody tried to.”

“Well, what do
you
suggest?”

“The one thing consistently lacking in this case is hard evidence. So, first off, we need to get the boffins combing the ground around the Old Bridge.”

“Right.”

“And I'm going to have a little chat with Sanders. I'm still convinced that there's more to our Canadian friend than meets the eye. In the meantime, why don't you punch him into your computer and see what you come up with.”

“Anything else,
mein Kapitän!”

“That should do it. Oh, yes, we'd better have another go at Pickens. I'll have Sergeant Black pull him in again and wring him dry. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm going to repair to the bar for a nightcap.”

“First things first. You didn't think that I was going to let you off the hook that easily, did you?” Barrett prodded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I stuck my neck out. Now it's your turn.”

Powell sighed. “Well, I won't quibble with anything you've said, but there is one person you haven't mentioned.”

“And who might that be?”

“Ruby.”

“You're joking, surely.”

“I'm convinced that she's trying to shield one or both of the Whitelys. Think about it. Her first reaction after learning of Charles Murray's disappearance was to report
it to a policeman. Then she seemed to go out of her way to imply, without actually saying so, that Murray was something of a lush, someone who might be expected to get into a bit of trouble now and then. Yet according to his daughter, he was on the wagon.”

“It's obvious that somebody's not telling the truth.”

“On the contrary, I think both statements are entirely consistent.”

“What exactly are you driving at?”

“Simply this: When Ruby first heard about Murray's disappearance, I think she suspected the worst. Furthermore, I think she had some reason to speculate about the identity of his killer. To ease her conscience, perhaps, she made a token effort to bring the matter to our attention, but once she'd done her duty she did her best to suggest an alternative explanation for Murray's disappearance. I believe Ruby knew through her friendship with Heather Murray that Charles Murray had once been a hard drinker; I think she wanted desperately to believe Murray had reverted to his old ways and had met his end as a result of some sort of accident.”

“But aren't you forgetting that Murray
had
been drinking on the night he was killed?” Barrett protested.

“Pure coincidence. Look, we know he was considering chucking it all and returning to Canada. He'd just had a row with his daughter when his old mate Oliver Pickens drops in to reminisce about the good old days. It's hardly surprising he fell off the wagon.”

Barrett grunted irritably. “This is getting us nowhere fast.”

“You asked.”

After disconnecting, Powell rang up the Ravenscroft
Guesthouse and learned from Mrs. Blakey that Sanders had still not returned. Next he called Shand and arranged to have the guesthouse placed under surveillance, leaving strict orders to be notified the moment Sanders put in an appearance. Best not to set the cat amongst the pigeons just yet.

Having fulfilled his professional obligations, he made a beeline for the bar, where he spent the remainder of the evening debating the merits of the dry fly for Scottish salmon with George, the bartender. At ten forty-five he received word that Sanders had returned to the guesthouse. A quick call to Mrs. Blakey revealed that Sanders had already retired. “Without even taking his tea,” she added significantly.

“I'll surprise him tomorrow morning, then, Mrs. Blakey.”

“Och, you are a one, Mr. Powell,” she chortled.

“Not half, Mrs. Blakey, not bloody half,” he muttered after he'd rung off.

CHAPTER 13

When Powell arrived at the Old Bridge the next morning, the scene-of-crime lads were already hard at it. As he walked down to the river he made a mental note to have Pinky's Land Rover driven back to the hotel. PC Shand introduced Powell to Inspector McInnes, who was in charge of operations. McInnes was a wiry man with restless blue eyes that didn't miss a thing. He exuded an air of quiet competence and Powell liked him immediately.

“Anything, yet?” Powell asked.

“We've found a fishing rod, sir,” McInnes replied smartly. “Lying on the shingle, over there by the big rock.”