Malice in the Highlands (11 page)

As he was preparing to tear himself away, the lovers shifted position slightly, presenting themselves to him in full profile. Recognition struck him like a thunderbolt.

CHAPTER 8

Powell drove abstractedly down the A95, his mind awhirl. He often felt a little overwhelmed at the point in an investigation where enough information was available to make things interesting, but no pattern had begun to emerge. In this case, however, even the most basic facts were few and far between. He inserted a cassette into the tape player and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the Pogues.

He went over it all again. Charles Murray, Canadian stock promoter and the new owner of Castle Glyn Estate, had been murdered last Monday night and fished from the River Spey some ten miles downstream of Kinlochy the next morning. Murray had last been seen alive in the company of one Oliver Pickens, another Canadian and a former business associate, on Monday afternoon en route to Aviemore, where Pickens, who had not been seen or heard from since, was thought to have boarded a train. And then there was the mystery fisherman whom Powell had seen on the estate water Monday evening only hours before Murray's murder, not to mention the inept poacher
interrupted by Ogden in the same general vicinity this very morning. The possibility that they were one and the same person had not escaped him. And what about John Sanders, the Canadian tourist, who was surprisingly well informed about Murray and his affairs? Most troubling of all was the reaction of Ruby and the Whitelys whenever the subject of Charles Murray was raised. All things considered, Powell concluded uneasily, the elusive Mr. Pickens still remained the most interesting prospect.

There was little traffic on the motorway and Powell allowed his gaze to settle on the bare hills, pale amethyst and green, which rose abruptly ahead. High on a boulder-strewn slope he could make out a great tree bent and twisted into a fantastic bonsai by the elements: a relic of the ancient Caledonian pine forest and a monument to the stubborn persistence of nature in the face of civilization's onslaught. He squinted as if to etch the image in his mind. He felt a kind of kinship with the old tree.

It was in this cheery frame of mind that Powell crossed over the new Spey bridge at the picturesque village of Dulnay Bridge and turned off onto a narrow road that immediately doubled back upstream. Several miles and countless twists and turns later, he passed through the rusted wrought-iron gates of Castle Glyn. As he drove up the long drive that curved smoothly through a dense wood, he could not help thinking about the shareholders who had invested their hard-earned savings in one of Charles Murray's gold mines.

Castle Glyn, which had once encompassed some several thousand acres, had reached its zenith as a sporting estate before the Great War. Over the years its deer forests and grouse moors dotted with trout-filled lochs
and miles of salmon fishing on the Spey had provided pleasant diversion for a succession of wealthy owners. After the war, however, the new economic realities had begun to intrude and the estate had fallen into a period of gradual decline. Although its fertile farmland still supplied barley to the local distilleries, most of the agricultural holdings had been sold off to the tenant farmers and, with the exception of the Spey fishing let to the Salar Lodge and a stretch upstream reserved for the laird, the sporting rights had been acquired by a London syndicate, which in turn had sold them on a time-share basis for an exorbitant profit.

For all that, the estate retained a modicum of its former glory and, after an initial twinge of disappointment at discovering that Castle Glyn was not in actual fact a castle, a visitor could hardly fail to be impressed by the first glimpse across rolling lawns. Its magnificent stone facade was well fenestrated in Georgian style, taking full advantage of a commanding view of the Spey Valley and the blue Highland hills beyond. The house was fronted by a rambling and overgrown garden of rhododendrons and giant azaleas, which one might fancifully suppose was a colorful moat to deter rival clans.

Powell parked his car, mounted the broad stone steps, and rang the bell. While he waited, he took in his surroundings—the cracked masonry and sprouting weeds. Sign of the times, he supposed. Eventually the door swung open, revealing an ancient and decrepit butler. Ross, presumably.

“Good afternoon. I'm Chief Superintendent Powell. I believe Miss Murray is expecting me.”

“Please follow me, sir,” the butler croaked.

Powell was shown to a large room that had obviously served as Murray's study.

“I will inform Miss Murray, sir.” And with that, Ross tottered precariously out.

Powell examined the room with interest. He took it as axiomatic that the things with which people chose to surround themselves revealed much about their personalities. The high walls in dark oak paneling were hung with the usual stags’ heads and sporting prints, and dominating the room along the right wall was a massive stone hearth, above which was mounted a very large salmon. Remnants of the previous laird's tenure, he surmised.

On either side of the hearth, tall shelves overflowed with old books and on the wall opposite stood a magnificent French walnut cabinet, which revealed through leaded glass doors a collection of shotguns and rifles. The parquet floor was covered with a slightly tatty Persian carpet and in the center of the room stood a large mahogany writing table surrounded by three well-worn smoking chairs. Powell noticed that there were a few scraps of feather, tinsel, and other fly-tying paraphernalia scattered across the table's cracked leather top. At the rear of the study a French window opened to a large flagstone courtyard, in the center of which stood a rusty fountain, now dry, which represented, Powell fancied, some sort of mythical spouting beast.

He turned his attention back to the room. A little grandiose for his taste, but there was no denying that the place possessed a comfortable, lived-in sort of ambience. As he was perusing the titles in the bookcase, mostly country life and nature subjects, he heard the door open.

“Mr. Powell, I presume.”

Powell turned and was presented with a young woman whose singular beauty left him momentarily speechless.

“I'm sorry I kept you waiting.” She smiled, making any reply superfluous.

“Ah, yes, well, thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Miss Murray,” he said quickly. “This must be a difficult time for you.”

“Yes, it is.” She regarded him with apparent interest and then turned and walked across the room to the writing table.

To his acute embarrassment, Powell found himself having unchaste thoughts. He would have been hard pressed, however, to put into words exactly what it was about the young woman that he found so attractive. Her ginger hair was cut short, making her seem taller than she was, and she had striking green eyes that seemed both expressive and somehow unfathomable at the same time. Even the plain wool skirt and loose Fair Isle jumper she wore seemed inexplicably provocative. Powell concluded that Heather Murray's appeal was uncontrived and more an expression of her personality than of any particular physical attribute.

Reluctantly bringing his mind back to the business at hand, he composed his thoughts as he waited for her to sit down. At her invitation he selected a chair opposite. He tried not to think about it as she crossed her legs.

“Miss Murray, as I explained to you on the telephone, I am assisting the Scottish authorities with their inquiry into your father's death. Information has recently come to light suggesting that foul play may have been involved and, while I realize that it may be difficult for you, I'm afraid I have to ask you some questions.”

“I understand, of course; it's a policeman's job to be difficult, isn't it?” Her eyes sparkled.

“We endeavor, Miss Murray, to inconvenience only the criminal element,” Powell rejoined, beginning to feel more at ease.

Suddenly her expression, without seeming to change outwardly, was serious. Powell decided that it had something to do with her eyes.

“You must know that I've already spoken to your Mr. Barrett.”

“Yes. But if you'll bear with me, I'd like to cover some of the same ground again. I'm a bit of a plodder, you see.”

She looked skeptical. “You don't look like a plodder to me, Mr. Powell.”

He coughed. “Yes—well—now, Miss Murray, I understand that your father was involved in the mining industry back in Canada. Perhaps you could begin by telling me something about his work?”

She did not reply immediately and Powell got the distinct impression that she was in some way evaluating him.

“My father was a geologist by training,” she began in an even voice. “After the war he worked for several large Canadian and American mining firms in the mineral exploration field. Eventually he struck out on his own with a small exploration company. In the late seventies he staked a number of claims at Ptarmigan Mountain near the Alaskan panhandle in northwestern British Columbia. He sank everything he had into the venture. It was mostly moose pasture, as he was fond of saying later, and the initial drilling results were not very promising. But my
father was a stubborn man and he somehow managed to raise enough money to continue the exploration work. There were numerous disappointments and setbacks, but he persevered and eventually discovered a large gold deposit.”

She smiled faintly. “It was a real family affair in those days. My mother cooked for the men in the drilling camps. I remember her telling the most harrowing stories of life in the bush, fending off giant mosquitoes and grizzly bears. It may seem hard to believe now, but I was born in a log cabin surrounded by glaciers. They had to fly the doctor in by helicoptero

Powell grinned. “With a background like that, we Brits must seem a boring lot.” He paused to give her an opportunity to dispute this suggestion, of which she chose not to avail herself. He cleared his throat. “Ah, please continue, Miss Murray.”

“There's not much more to tell, really. My mother died when I was ten and my father never really got over it. I think he compensated by putting even more time and energy into his business, until his retirement two years ago.”

Powell had listened to Heather Murray with growing interest. He had come to Castle Glyn with a notion of Charles Murray as a rather questionable character, a man with a checkered past at the very least, but he had just been given a glimpse of someone more complex, someone he could perhaps begin to understand. Still, she had not told him what he really wanted to know.

“Miss Murray, I'm curious about the financial side of your father's business—how he raised the necessary capital to carry on his exploration work, for instance.”

“I was wondering when you'd get around to that,” she said matter-of-factly. She explained patiently, giving the impression that she'd done it many times before, “Mineral exploration is a very risky and expensive business, Mr. Powell. Basically, you have to find a way to finance the work with no guarantee of any return. Funds are normally raised by offering shares to the public or to private individuals and, obviously, prospective investors need to be convinced that they stand a reasonable chance of making a profit. Money and hope, Mr. Powell, are the twin currencies of the mining business. That's where the promotion comes in. You need to sell the story and downplay the risks. Nine times out of ten you'll miss the mark completely, and even when you find something, the reality is that very few properties will ever support economically viable mines. So there is no doubt that the majority of investors in small exploration companies will lose money in the long run. On the other hand, if one is astute and not too greedy, the profits can be enormous. A little luck doesn't hurt either.”

She regarded him steadily. “Please don't misunderstand me, Mr. Powell. I am not naive. But I refuse to believe that my father was dishonest, if that's what you're wondering about.”

“I have no reason to doubt you, Miss Murray, but given the nature of the business, wouldn't it be fair to assume that he might have made some enemies along the way?”

She appeared to consider this suggestion carefully. “I suppose it depends upon what you mean, exactly, by enemies.”

“People who lost money investing in his various projects, for instance.”

“Like fish in the sea.”

“Miss Murray,” Powell said patiently, “I understand from Mr. Barrett that your father had been the target of various threats over the years. Now, I want you to think about this very carefully. Do you know of anyone in particular who might have had a score to settle with him?”

“No one with sufficient reason to murder him, if that's what you mean. Look, Mr. Powell, the majority of people who invest in the sort of companies my father promoted are basically looking to make a fast buck. Some undoubtedly underestimate the risks involved, others are simply greedy. Either way, when they make money they crow about how smart they are; when they lose they bitch about it. It's human nature.”

“That's a bit cynical, isn't it?”

She laughed unaffectedly like a schoolgirl. “That's an interesting observation, coming from a policeman.”

Powell smiled. “Touché.” Their eyes met, and he had to make a conscious effort to continue. “Miss Murray, I understand that you called Ruby MacGregor at the Salar Lodge on Tuesday morning.”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind telling me why?”

She hesitated. “I told Mr. Barrett that I'd spent the weekend with a friend in Pitlochry. I neglected to mention that I'd quarreled with my father before I left. I was still upset about it when I got back Monday night. I'd hoped to speak to him, but he wasn't here—I mean he …” She seemed unable to continue.

“What time did you arrive home?” Powell prompted gently.

“Around ten-thirty, I think.”

“What did you do when you realized that your father was out?”

“I was tired, so I went to bed. When I discovered the next morning that he still hadn't returned, I was beside myself. So I called Ruby—to see if he'd been at the Salar Lodge.”

“Why did you think that he might have gone to the hotel?”