Malice in the Highlands (14 page)

Rashid gravely pondered the proposition for a moment and then grinned. “Done!”

As he tucked in to his meal Powell noticed that Rashid had replaced the Indian music tape with Tom Jones: “The Green, Green Grass of Home” was playing.

CHAPTER 10

At eight-thirty the next morning, one week after Charles Murray's murder, Powell sat in his office at New Scotland Yard with Detective-Sergeant Black.

“Well, Bill, let's have it.”

Black drew out his notebook and placed it carefully on the desk in front of him, as if for easy reference. But in all the years they had worked together Powell had never seen him once refer to it after his customary note-taking.

“I've had a chance to check most of the particulars,” Black began, “but I'm afraid the results are not entirely satisfactory, sir.”

“They seldom are. Go on.”

“It seems that Pickens did indeed stay at a hotel in York, the Park Royal, on Tuesday night. According to the clerk on duty at the time, a gentleman fitting the general description of our chap checked in at approximately two-thirty Tuesday afternoon. He wasn't seen until the next morning, having fully recovered apparently from the rigors of his evening in London.” Black paused, as if to allow his superior an opportunity to comment. When there
was no response he continued, “He hired a car from the local Avis agency and drove north to Richmond, where he put up for the night at a guesthouse called the Drover's Rest. The next day—that would be Thursday— he drove up Swaledale, then took the hill road from Muker over the pass into Wensleydale. He spent the night in Hawes at a bed-and-breakfast establishment. Then back to York on Friday to drop off the car and on to London by train that evening. His credit card receipts for lodging and petrol check out, by the way. All in all, sir,” Black concluded comfortably, “not an unusual itinerary for your average tourist.”

“Perhaps. But I'm still interested in the gap between the time he left Kinlochy with Murray and his arrival in York.”

“I've checked with the Scottish lads this morning, sir. Nothing new there, I'm afraid.”

Powell considered the problem aloud. “The pathologist has fixed the time of death at around midnight or a little before. If that's true, our man couldn't have done it, assuming that he was in fact on that train to Edinburgh. Alternatively, he could have hung about Kinlochy until Tuesday morning. Which would have taken a fair bit of nerve if he'd just committed a murder, don't you think? Or possibly he had a car?” Powell looked at Detective-Sergeant Black.

Black shrugged.

“Let's get on with it,” Powell said.

Oliver Pickens seemed somewhat subdued after a night in the nick. He looked up furtively as Powell and Black entered the room.

“Well, Mr. Pickens, have you thought it over?” Powell asked brusquely.

Pickens blinked his bleary eyes. “Look, I promise you, I did not kill Charles Murray. He was a pal of mine, for God's sake! I'll help you any way I can. I just want to get this thing over with. I have my reputation to consider.” He seemed to be making a concerted effort to modulate his usual nasal whine.

“Let's discuss that last little item,” Powell replied cheerily, not at all convinced by this apparent change of heart. He consulted the docket he had brought with him. “I am informed that you were formerly the president of a now defunct mining company called Golden Fleece Resources Limited, which was listed on the Vancouver Stock Exchange from eighty-one to eighty-four. Is that correct?”

Pickens fidgeted. “Yeah, what of it?”

“I understand further that as a result of certain, shall we say, irregularities trading in the stock of this company was suspended by the regulatory authorities in July of eighty-four.”

“They never proved a thing.” Pickens's whine had started up again like a jet turbine.

“I believe the particular allegation was insider trading, which as I understand the term—and correct me if I'm wrong—means profiting illegally from information not available to the investing public at large. My sources also indicate that, while formal charges were never laid in the case, your trading privileges on the VSE were suspended for three years. Is that also true?”

“I have nothing more to say,” Pickens said sulkily.

“As you wish. But not to put too fine a point on it, Mr.
Pickens, it seems that reputation of yours is already a bit tarnished.”

Pickens sprang to his feet with sudden vehemence. “I won't sit here and be insulted,” he keened. “I'm no fool. You have absolutely nothing on me. It's all a bluff and I'll not stand for it another minute.”

Powell regarded him placidly. “When you're quite finished you can sit down again. You won't be going anywhere until we're done with you, so you might as well relax.” Better not push too hard.

Sullenly acquiescent, Pickens collapsed into his chair.

“Yesterday you alluded to a certain business engagement tomorrow. Would you like to tell me about it?”

“That's my affair—it has nothing to do with what happened to Charlie.”

“Perhaps not, but I would suggest that it has everything to do with your visit to Castle Glyn.”

Pickens turned deathly pale. “What do you know about it?”

“I know that the reason you're in the UK is to promote your latest venture—” Powell grimaced “—Lucky Diamond Mining Corporation, to be specific. And the reason you went to see Charles Murray was to call in an old debt.” Powell paused to let this suggestion sink in.

Pickens seemed unable to reply. His eye muscles twitched like the spasms of a fatally stricken bird.

“When Charles Murray began exploration work on his mining claims in northern British Columbia,” Powell continued, “he needed a promoter to help him raise the necessary capital, and you, Mr. Pickens, were the very man. As a result of your undoubted talents in that line, and a bit of luck on Murray's part, the venture succeeded
beyond anyone's wildest dreams. Unfortunately for you, due to bad luck or bad timing, you did not profit from the subsequent spectacular rise in the company's share price—”

“That's because the son of a bitch screwed me,” Pickens hissed. “The initial assay results weren't any good, so when Charlie offered to take my stock off me, like he was doing me a favor, I took him up on it. A few weeks later,” he continued in a shrill voice, “he released the news on the best goddamn hole I've ever seen. One ounce of gold per ton over eighty feet, if you can believe it!”

When prodded, he explained impatiently that the drill core from the discovery hole at Ptarmigan Mountain had intersected a zone of ore eighty feet thick, containing an average grade of one ounce of gold per ton of rock, an incredible result. “At first I figured it had to be a salt job, but no such luck.” He shook his head. “A chance in a goddamn million.” He lapsed once more into sullen silence, no doubt imagining what might have been.

“If what you say is true, why do you suppose he did it?”

Pickens shrugged. “To clean up the market before he ran the stock. He knew I had a ton of paper to get off.”

“What do you mean?”

Pickens rolled his eyes. “Charlie wanted to concentrate on the exploration side of things, so he contracted me to do the promotion. He optioned me a block of stock as payment. He knew I was hard up at the time, so I guess he was afraid that I'd unload my shares and take my profits as soon as the news was out. He didn't want anybody selling while he was trying to move the stock up.”

“Would you have done that?”

“Not on your life! With results that good, I'd have gone along for the ride. The bastard.”

“In any case,” Powell said, “your rather public feud with Murray was reported in the Vancouver press at the time. And when Murray refused to help you with your latest scheme, in spite of the fact that you had been instrumental in his own success—” Powell paused strategically “—you killed him.”

At this, Detective-Sergeant Black looked up from his scribbling, a shaggy eyebrow cocked.

Pickens did not speak for several moments. When he began, his words were surprisingly measured. “Look, Powell, before this thing gets out of hand, I'd better explain a few things. Charlie Murray and I were old friends. Sure, we'd had our differences—it's all part of the game. You win some, you lose some, but you've got to be a big boy about it. You don't go around killing people every time things don't work out. It's true that I went to see Charlie to ask for help. But it wasn't charity I was after— I was prepared to give him a piece of the action. It's also true that he wasn't interested, but he did offer to put me in touch with one of his contacts in London. That's all there was to it. I swear it's the truth.” He sagged in his chair, hunched and motionless.

“You say that Murray did not choose to take you up on your offer. Why was that, do you suppose?”

“I don't know. He said he was finished with business. But there was something else. He seemed a little down, you know, depressed. He even talked about selling out and moving back to Vancouver.”

This caught Powell's attention. “Really? Did he say why?”

“Not in so many words. But I think he was homesick, and I got the impression he was worried about his daughter.”

“What do you mean?” Powell asked sharply.

“I don't know exactly. I just got the feeling they weren't really happy living in the castle, didn't feel at home, if you know what I mean.”

“I see. This contact in London that Murray put you on to, I'd like his name.”

Pickens hesitated. “Is it necessary?”

Powell sighed. “Surely you can see that it would be in your best interests if we were able to establish that Charles Murray assisted you by arranging this meeting.”

Pickens attempted a smile, although it looked more like a snarl. “You mean it would undermine my supposed motive for killing him.”

Powell did not think a reply was necessary.

Pickens leaned forward in his chair with a comically earnest expression. “Let's be reasonable. This guy is a prominent London broker and I'm depending on European financing for Lucky Diamond. Even a hint of scandal would … Look, if I give you his name, will you give me your word that you'll tell him no more than is absolutely necessary?”

“You're hardly in a position to be setting down conditions,” Powell snapped. “Now, who is it?”

Pickens mumbled a reply.

“Did you get that, Sergeant?”

Black grunted.

“You are free to go, Mr. Pickens. But we'd like to know where you'll be staying for the next few days in case we need to get in touch. Is that a problem?”

Pickens seemed about to protest, but evidently thought better of it. He shook his head.

“Good.” Powell stood up abruptly and walked to the door. He stopped and turned at the last moment. “Just one more thing: Did Murray say anything to you about going to meet someone else after he put you on the train?”

Pickens shrugged. “I don't remember. But we'd had a few drinks by then.”

“Really? I was given to understand that Murray didn't touch the stuff.”

Pickens snorted. “You've got to be kidding. Charlie could carouse with the best of them, although, come to mention it, he did say that he'd been on the wagon since he got over here. But it would have been bad manners to let me get loaded alone, wouldn't it? So we had a little celebration, for old times’ sake.”

Powell stared at him without speaking.

Pickens squirmed uncomfortably. “I mean, if a man can't have a drink now and then, what's the point?”

What's the bloody point, indeed, Powell thought. “That will be all for now, Mr. Pickens. Sergeant Black will see to you.”

Back in his office, Powell placed a call to Dr. Campbell in Grantown. He took pains to put his question as succinctly as possible but was subjected nonetheless to a lengthy dissertation on the intricacies of estimating the relative cooling rates of bodies in air and water in cases where unconsciousness occurs prior to death. In the end he was able to extract an opinion and, after ringing off, sat Buddha-like at his desk for a considerable length of time. He thought about calling Alex, but decided that it could wait. At four o'clock he left for his pub.

* * *

The next morning Powell was in the City amongst the “slovenly towers of commerce,” as they had thus been characterized by HRH in those heady days when the poor bloke had little else to worry about save the state of British architecture. Slightly hungover, he was seeking the offices of Pickens's business contact.

When he had arrived home the previous evening, having had considerably more than was sufficient, he had encountered a predictably frosty reception from Marion, who had only just returned home from Ely with the boys. He had risen early while the rest of the household still slept, packing his things as quietly as he could. Before leaving for the office, he had scribbled a guilty note promising to call from the station.

Past the New Stock Exchange, a jog across Throgmorton Street, and Powell eventually located the gleaming steel and glass office tower that housed the offices of Ritchie, Wilson and Moon Investment Securities Limited. He took the lift to the fourteenth floor and was shown into the capacious offices of Mr. Paul Ritchie, senior partner. They shook hands.

“Chief Superintendent, this is indeed a pleasure.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.” He was offered a polished leather chair that enveloped him like a womb. Powell took in his surroundings, an Inuit carving here, a Regency table there. Not the sort of operation one would expect to be flogging worthless shares to an unsuspecting public.

“Now, Chief Superintendent, what can we do for Scotland Yard?”

“As I indicated on the telephone …”

Ritchie had turned his attention to the computer terminal on his desk. His fingertips moved deftly over the keyboard. He looked up and smiled. “Commodity quotations. Please forgive me. In this business one gets into the habit of keeping track of several things at once.”

“I'll try to be brief, Mr. Ritchie. I understand that you were acquainted with the late Charles Murray.”

Ritchie frowned, absently rubbing a graying temple. “Yes, a terrible tragedy, simply terrible. I just spoke to him a week ago. I still can't believe it.”