Snare (12 page)

‘Yes, all the places have duplicate keys. The cleaners have one, I keep the other and hand mine to the tenants when they arrive.'

Miss Pink went to the sitting room. There were two main rooms downstairs; the second was a dining room. The others trailed after her. She turned to Coline. ‘You think there's nothing missing, but didn't anything strike you as odd when you came in the first time, on your own?'

Coline shook her head helplessly. ‘I came in the front way because the back door's bolted. Nothing seemed odd until I went to the kitchen and saw the window, then I thought that the weirdest thing was that there
was
nothing wrong. I mean, even the tinned food doesn't seem to have been touched. If it was Campbell or a tramp who broke in, then he didn't sleep or eat here. If it was a thief, he didn't steal anything. Surely a burglar would at least have taken the food mixer for his mother or his girl-friend.' She sounded affronted.

They went outside and she locked the front door, 'I've told Mary to send Sinclair to replace the pane,' she said, 'It's a mystery. Has it given you any ideas?'

Miss Pink shook her head. ‘Not yet. Something may occur to me.'

Coline untied the pony's halter. ‘What do you propose to do now?'

Beatrice said, ‘We thought we'd borrow a dinghy and take a look at the islands.'

‘That's a good idea. His boat isn't around. Damn, it's low tide and we'll never get our boat across the sand. I know – we'll take Sinclair's dinghy; it's on the bar below the schoolhouse. I'll see you there.' She mounted and pushed the pony down a slope so steep he was sliding on his haunches like a dog. They came out on a strip of sand and set off at a canter towards the village.

'I'm glad she's coming,' Beatrice said. ‘She's happy with engines, I'm not.'

‘She took it for granted that she should join us.'

‘The islands are part of the estate. Nothing happens in Sgoradale without the family being concerned.'

* * *

At any other time exploring the southern shore would have been sheer delight; even today, searching for a man in trouble, they couldn't fail to be affected by the beauty of the islands. The water was calm and Coline had no difficulty in navigation. Even underwater reefs appeared innocuous as the boat slipped past submerged rocks and their fringes of waving weed.

From a distance the islands looked like a solid mass, but on approach miniature straits and channels revealed a maze of rock and water. In places Coline cut the engine and they pushed themselves along the rock with their hands. A seal bobbed up and followed them for a while like an inquisitive Labrador. A heron gave an angry croak and flapped away, trailing water across the surface. On a patch of grass at the back of a small bay a group of barnacle geese was grazing. Some of the islands were several hundred yards in length and even the heather was tall enough to conceal a man if he were lying down; the trees would have hidden a tent.

'All the same,' Miss Pink said, ‘he can't hide the boat. It's too heavy for one man to drag into the timber, and we've seen no caves.'

‘There're none on the shore either,' Coline told her. ‘The nearest caves are in the big cliffs under the lighthouse.'

‘There's nothing for it. We have to go ashore.'

‘But if his boat's not here –' Beatrice protested.

‘He could have set it adrift or sunk it.'

‘But that would mean –'

‘Let's start with the islands in the middle,' Miss Pink said. ‘Those most effectively concealed from the mainland.'

It was hot and exhausting work. The heather was full of dust and pollen, and a smell of old honey. Blackbirds fled from them shrieking, eider duck grumbled in the shallows and the three women ploughed doggedly through the undergrowth, more than one of them wondering if this were not a waste of time, merely a show of concern.

They shared their lunch with Coline, sitting on rock slabs across the water from the island where the barnacle geese were grazing. ‘We'll try there next,' Miss Pink said.

The geese padded to the other side of the bay as the women trudged up the sand. On the higher ground there was gorse, then came rock outcrops with the heather and old gnarled birches rooted in the cracks. Miss Pink was in the lead when she stopped suddenly.

The camouflage was almost perfect. It was a dull green pup tent, its ridge descending almost to the ground, and it was closed.

‘Campbell?' Miss Pink called, but no one responded, nothing moved. She unzipped the flysheet to reveal the tent proper, also fastened. She opened the second zip and the sides fell loose. The interior was a green gloom and it was untenanted. She sat back on her heels and the others peered over her shoulders.

The tent wasn't empty; there were possessions: a sleeping bag, a camping stove, a set of dixies and cutlery – clean and stacked – a few tins of food: beans, potatoes, stewed steak. Miss Pink backed out and rose to her feet.

‘Now where did he go?'

They closed the tent and went back to the shore. She looked around and said, ‘This bay is invisible except from the next island. He could come and go unseen by anyone on the mainland. He could take off down the loch and once he passed behind an island he could enter the maze and no one would know where he was.'

‘Who'd be interested?' Coline asked. ‘No one was after him. We agreed that was a fantasy.'

Beatrice said suddenly, 'I'm going to leave a note in the tent. He trusts me and he has no friends; he needs help and he knows I can supply it.'

They agreed that leaving a note could do no harm; it might flush him out, and he had to be located for his own good. Miss Pink found a pencil and they returned to the tent where Beatrice wrote a message on a label from a tin of beans and placed it on the groundsheet under the tin. As they retreated Coline asked what she'd written.

Beatrice said, ‘I want both of you to keep this confidential. I promised him that no one else would be at the meeting and that I'd tell no one the location.'

‘Do you think that's wise?' Coline asked.

'I've been employing him for ten years.'

Miss Pink said nothing. Later, in the boat, she mentioned the bothies on the moors and utilising horses to reach them; she considered her own participation, but thought the lodge ponies too small for her weight. Who did the exercising in Flora's absence, she asked casually; she'd seen someone riding yesterday – Hamish?

‘That would be him,' Coline said. ‘He comes up every day. He's paid, of course, but he has to groom and muck out and everything.'

Miss Pink felt old eyes watching her.

* * *

‘Would you like me to keep you company this evening?' she asked, passing Beatrice the shortbread. They were drinking tea in Miss Pink's sitting room.

Knox had seen them coming in and was waiting below the schoolhouse when Coline put them ashore. They had come to the conclusion that there was no point in looking further for Campbell, at least until tomorrow, by which time it was hoped he would have approached Beatrice. There wasn't much they could do anyway; there were only two or three hours of daylight left. Hamish had ridden to the southern headland and he would come back before dark; Sir Ranald had given up and gone home saying that if Campbell were in hiding four people weren't going to find him, and if he was dead there was no urgency.

Coline took her pony out of Sinclair's paddock and rode back to the lodge, while Miss Pink took Beatrice home for tea and discussion.

'I'd prefer to be alone this evening,' Beatrice said. ‘And I promised Campbell I wouldn't reveal the meeting place, remember?

I feel I have to meet him on his own level. But I assure you I'll telephone as soon as he's gone, if possible.' if possible?'

‘He may ask me to promise not to call anyone.'

‘Then I shall call you.'

‘Don't do that. An interruption could be fatal.'

‘That's an unfortunate turn of phrase. But it's because he is so unpredictable that I feel some precautions should be taken.'

'If he intends harm, a telephone call isn't going to avert it.'

Miss Pink filled their cups and passed the milk. ‘You have firearms.' It was a statement, not a question, but when her guest didn't respond Miss Pink looked at her with deliberation.

Beatrice raised her eyes from her cup. ‘Yes,' she said, without inflection. ‘I have Robert's guns.'

'I'm wondering if you're doing the right thing.'

‘He knows he has nothing to fear from me. He's simple, like an animal. I've always known how to deal with him, and we've never had a misunderstanding. Don't worry about it; I'm quite confident.'

She was adamant and Miss Pink made no further move to dissuade her from being alone when she met Campbell, if he came. Would he return to the tent, and would he accept the invitation if he did so? She pondered these questions when Beatrice had left, and wondered if much hinged on the outcome in any event. It was possible that he would leave his spartan camp, particularly if the weather broke, and return to the village without visiting Beatrice. He had no home, but his van was still outside the cottage. The keys had been in the ignition and Miss Pink had moved it to the verge across the road, close to her Renault where it wouldn't block her view of the loch. She had left the keys where they were.

The sun set, the afterglow lingered, darkness fell. She would have liked to go out and stand on the shore listening for the sound of oars. If he slept on the island last night and Esme heard no outboard motor, then he must have rowed there. By now, if his paranoia were rampant, he would have muffled the oars. But she didn't go outside; he would be watchful as a wild beast and she must leave the field to him and Beatrice. She drew her curtains and switched on the television.

The telephone rang while she was watching the ten o'clock news. She sighed with relief when she heard the familiar voice.

‘I'm all right,' Beatrice said in answer to the inevitable question, sounding exasperated that it should have been asked. ‘And
he's
all right. No problems. He's coming ashore tomorrow and he's agreed to see his doctor on Monday.

We'll keep this to ourselves, shall we? It embarrasses him. I have to call Coline and Knox, of course, but I shall say as little as possible to Knox.'

‘Was Campbell amenable?'

‘Oh, yes, I had no trouble with him at all. He's had a bad time. By the way, he'll be moving his van; don't be surprised when you hear the engine start. You left the keys in it, didn't you?'

‘Yes. Where will he put it?'

‘I didn't ask. Is it important?'

‘I don't know. Are you alone now? Are you quite happy?'

‘Happy?'

‘You wouldn't like me to come along –'

‘No. But thank you for suggesting it. After I've made those phone calls I shall turn in. It's been a tiring day.'

Miss Pink replaced the receiver with a strong feeling of anticlimax. She felt the constraint of her four walls and yet, if the visit had gone off so smoothly, with Campbell agreeing to see a doctor, it would be tempting fate to go outside for a breath of fresh air and risk an encounter with him. She compromised and went upstairs to stand in her dark bedroom at the side of the open window.

The tide had turned, but it was still high; she could hear the water rippling. From the hotel came the faint beat of a jukebox. A dog barked out on the lighthouse road, an owl called in the North Wood to be answered by another from the direction of the islands. There was no moon and only a few stars were visible. The night was mild and still. Campbell's van stood behind her own, their roofs gleaming in the light of the street lamp. There was no sign of the man. She was glad Beatrice had telephoned; without that brief conversation she would not have known he was alive. She wished he would come and drive away and give her proof that he existed, but the van waited mutely and nothing moved.

Dan Butchart was the proprietor of the Isle Chrona, a large sweaty man who, out of season, did most of the work of the establishment. On Sunday mornings he drove to Morvern for the newspapers and, after the return of his white Volvo had been observed, a trickle of people made their way along the street, and the crofters came in from the lighthouse road. Collecting the Sunday paper was a ritual, on fine days an occasion for gossip.

This morning was dry if not exactly fine; there was an onshore breeze, and surf bloomed about the skerries. The islands looked near enough to touch. As people walked past Campbell's van they betrayed no interest in it; only on the quay, standing outside the hotel, did they look towards the vehicle – perhaps feeling that speculation was safe at a distance.

Miss Pink, coming down the steps of the hotel with her
Observer,
noting the sudden silence of a group of crofters about Duncan Millar, wondered what they had been saying, and forgot them as Beatrice approached wearing an ancient Burberry and gumboots. She looked as if she hadn't slept. She nodded and glanced meaningly at the crofters.

‘I'll wait and walk back with you,' Miss Pink said, and went to stand at the edge of the quay. A few boats lay stranded by the ebb tide, but there was no sign of
Blue Zulu.
From this point the house that had been broken into, Camas Beag, was obvious at the head of a small clearing. She was still staring at it when Beatrice said from behind her, ‘Did you hear him at his van last night?'

She turned. ‘You think he couldn't start the engine? I didn't hear anyone at all. He must have changed his mind.'

They started to walk back to the street, Beatrice staring fixedly at Campbell's van.

‘He went back to the island,' Miss Pink said comfortably. ‘That's where he'll be now, having a lie-in. Do you realise that he's rowing? There was no outboard motor running last night.'