Malice in the Highlands (15 page)

“What precisely was the nature of your relationship?”

“Relationship?” Ritchie looked slightly puzzled. “We were business associates. Over the years my firm has been involved in arranging European financing for a number of Charles's projects, mostly through private share placements.”

“You mean that you raised money for Murray by recruiting individuals to purchase shares in his various companies?”

“That's basically it, yes.”

“I'll get right to the point, Mr. Ritchie. I am told that penny mining shares of the type promoted by Charles Murray are rather risky investments. Would you agree?”

Ritchie smiled affably. “Very delicately put, Chief Superintendent, but quite correct. The other side of the coin, of course, is that the returns can be spectacular. But you have to know what you're doing.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I can speak only for my firm, of course, but, first and foremost, we avoid paper promotions; we look for projects that have real merit. And before we invest in any junior mining company we carefully consider the various
factors involved: the geological setting of the property, the track record and integrity of the promoters, various technical indicators, the risk tolerance of the client, and so forth. However, to put the matter into perspective, speculative securities of this type would normally account for less than five percent of our clients’ portfolios.”

Powell was skeptical. “What about the penny share scandals one is always hearing about?”

“There are far too many scams, I would agree. But it's difficult to quantify the problem because the market in penny shares tends to be highly volatile at the best of times.”

Powell's expression evinced obvious puzzlement.

Ritchie smiled patiently. “It all boils down to liquidity, or, simply put, the ease with which one can buy or sell a commodity in the marketplace. In the equity markets this is basically a function of the supply of shares. Take a highly capitalized blue chip company, for instance. There will be hundreds of millions of shares outstanding; millions of shares may change hands each day. Generally speaking, the activities of a few traders cannot materially affect either the supply or demand, or consequently the price of the shares. It takes many buyers and sellers—a majority opinion, if you like—to effect a trend one way or the other.

“Junior issues are another matter entirely. The typical penny stock will have less than ten million free-trading shares, and it's not unusual for a stock listed on a junior exchange, say Vancouver or Alberta, to trade only a few thousand shares a day, if at all. Because the supply of shares is so limited, a relatively small change in the balance of supply and demand can have a dramatic effect on the share price. So you can appreciate that it would be
very difficult to prove whether a particular price move was due to market manipulation by insiders, or just normal volatility.” He paused and placed his fingertips together. “The bottom line, Mr. Powell, if you will forgive a banality, is caveat emptor.”

“Mr. Ritchie, you said that your firm looks for legitimate projects to invest in, yet you've also hinted at the importance of promotion. It's the promoter's role I'm wondering about. It seems to me that a legitimate company should be able to attract investors without having to hire someone to tout its shares. Am I missing something?”

“In a word, yes. In the mining business you have to spend a lot of money on exploration and development before you know whether or not you have a mine. The promoter's job is to create an audience for the company's story. Promotion is a dirty word in some circles, but it is nothing more than a vehicle for raising capital. Without capital, work cannot be done, and if work cannot be done, there is no way to turn a project's potential into reality. There are literally hundreds of small exploration companies out there competing for the investor's attention. No one is going to beat a path to your door—you have to knock on theirs.”

“Why then do promoters have such an unsavory reputation?”

“It's a wild and wooly world out there, Mr. Powell. The mineral exploration business is one of the last refuges of unfettered capitalism and, given the stakes involved, one can see the potential for exaggeration, outright lies, and even fraud. Having said that, however, the majority of promoters in my experience play by the rules.”

“What about Charles Murray?”

“He was one of the best.”

But at what? wondered Powell. “You mentioned that you spoke to Murray recently. What was the subject of your conversation?”

“Charles called to introduce an acquaintance of his who is in the UK trying to raise some capital for a Canadian diamond project. Naturally, as a favor to Charles, I agreed to see this chap. He's coming in to see me this afternoon, as a matter of fact.” Ritchie shrugged. “Apart from the usual chitchat, that was about it.”

Powell had to restrain himself from delving into the subject of Oliver Pickens, but he decided that Ritchie was capable of looking after himself. Besides, it was time to come to the point. “Tell me, Mr. Ritchie, in your professional capacity as a stock broker, can you think of any way that somebody might have profited from Charles Murray's death?”

“You mean apart from his heirs and successors?” He appeared to consider the matter carefully. “I suppose anyone who was short the shares of any of the companies in which Charles had an interest.”

Once again Powell raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Ritchie smiled. “Short selling is an investment strategy whereby one can capitalize on a decline in the price of a company's shares. The short seller borrows the shares, in effect, and then sells them in the expectation that the price will fall. He hopes to buy the shares back at a lower price—or cover his position, as we say in the trade—to return them to their owner and pocket the difference as his profit. Of course, if the price of the shares goes up, the shorts lose money. In the case of a junior company, if a high-profile promoter were to, er, suddenly disappear
from the scene, it is likely that the share price would plummet, at least in the short term, resulting in large profits for anyone who was short the stock.”

“But would that really apply in Charles Murray's case? I understood that he was retired.”

Ritchie smiled expansively. “Men like Charles Murray never really retire, Mr. Powell. Charles still had a few irons in the fire. But more to the point, he was still a major shareholder in a number of exploration companies, which lent an element of credibility to their various projects. Let me illustrate my point.” Ritchie punched something into his computer. “Ah, here it is. Aurora Mining Corporation, Charles's flagship company, is down another quarter this morning. Since the announcement of Charles's death last week, the shares are off nearly thirty percent. Some of the other stocks are down even more.”

“Would it be possible to determine who was selling a particular stock short?”

“It should be possible, since just about everything nowadays is stored in a computer somewhere. But you'd have to contact the Canadian securities authorities for that kind of information.”

“For a start, would you be able to provide me with a list of the companies with which Murray was associated?”

“I'll see what I can do. Would tomorrow afternoon be soon enough, say three o'clock?”

“Fine. I'll have my assistant, Sergeant Black, drop by.” Powell hesitated for a moment. “I don't mind telling you that considerable pressure is being exerted on us through diplomatic channels to clear this matter up as quickly as possible. Does that surprise you?”

Ritchie regarded Powell carefully before replying. “Despite his humble beginnings, Charles Murray was a member of the Canadian establishment. You might even say that he had friends in high places. Some of these people would undoubtedly have had a financial interest in Charles's various ventures. As a result of his death, considerable sums of money have been lost, at least on paper. So the sooner this matter is—if you'll forgive me—laid to rest, the happier everyone will be. Even more than bad news, Mr. Powell, investors abhor uncertainty.”

“The same can be said of policemen,” Powell replied dryly. He rose to leave. “I won't keep you any longer, Mr. Ritchie. You've been most helpful.”

“Not at all. You know, Mr. Powell, it occurs to me that your job is not unlike mine.”

“How is that?”

“The main problem in both instances is to separate the wheat from the chaff, is it not?”

Powell smiled. “Oh, there is one more thing …”

Ritchie looked up from the monitor to which his attention had already returned. “Yes?”

“I think I'll advise my old mum to keep her savings under the mattress.”

Ritchie laughed good-naturedly, with just the slightest hint, Powell fancied, of the gleaming canine.

“Very wise, Chief Superintendent, very wise, indeed.”

CHAPTER 11

PC Shand was waiting at Aviemore station when the InterCity arrived from London at eight-thirty the next morning. It was obvious that the young constable was fairly bursting with news. While Shand dodged traffic, Powell described in considerably more detail than was absolutely necessary some of the finer points related to the cooling rates of cadavers he had gleaned from Dr. Campbell.

“Any news on the home front?” he inquired when he had made his point.

“Well, sir, I interviewed the downstairs contingent at Castle Glyn and was able to confirm that Murray didn't say anything to anyone about expecting another visitor. But there is one thing that came to light. Apparently Murray kept all of the staff on when he came to Castle Glyn, with one exception. Old Ross's mother, the cook.”

“You mean he sacked her?”

“Not exactly. According to Ross, she'd been looking forward to retirement for some time, but hadn't wanted
to leave the old laird. She's almost ninety, so I gather it was a mutually agreeable arrangement. Still, I got the impression that Ross resented it.”

Powell grunted. “Anything else?” He was certain there was better to come.

“Yes, sir. I also questioned the hotel guests. It seems that the night of the murder was an eventful one at the Salar Lodge.”

“What do you mean?” Powell asked, puzzled, as he had been there himself at the time. Then he remembered that he had retired early that first evening.

“According to Mr. Preston—you know, the chap from Zimbabwe—there was a terrible row.”

Powell knew Preston only slightly as an atrocious fly caster who nevertheless managed to catch more salmon every year than the other, more polished members of his regular party combined.

“Mr. Preston,” Shand continued, “had occasion to be in the front hall of the hotel on his way to the gents at approximately ten-thirty, when a man burst in the front door demanding to see Mr. Whitely, Senior. Mr. Whitely appeared on the scene in due course and escorted this individual into his private office. According to Mr. Preston, there was a loud carfluffle lasting several minutes, after which time the man reappeared and left the premises as abruptly as he had arrived.” PC Shand paused a moment, as if for dramatic effect. “The thing is, Mr. Powell, Preston has identified the man as Charles Murray.”

Powell showed little reaction. “How does he know it was Murray?”

“He recognized him afterward from the picture in the newspaper.”

“Was he able to overhear anything that was said?”

“After making the point that he was not a man to stick his nose in other people's affairs, he did indicate that he heard Murray threaten to put the Salar Lodge out of business, or words to that effect.”

As it happened, Powell was not particularly surprised by this revelation. To a degree at least, Nigel's behavior was now explicable. “Well, Shand, the plot thickens. Have you been able to confirm Preston's account?”

“There were a number of other guests in the bar at the time, as well as George Stuart. They all report hearing the disturbance when Murray came into the hotel and again when he left. But none of them actually saw him, nor could anyone confirm Mr. Preston's report of the goings-on in Mr. Whitely's office. I didn't question Mr. Whitely—I assumed that you'd want to do that, sir.”

Powell lapsed into reverie. Like objects momentarily illuminated in a car's headlamps, new developments in an investigation were often more enigmatic than revealing. It was clear that Murray could have made life very difficult for Nigel by canceling the agreement granting the Salar Lodge's fishing rights, but the really interesting question was: Why would Murray threaten Nigel in the first place? Powell occupied himself for the remainder of the journey mulling over the various permutations and combinations.

When they arrived at the Salar Lodge, Powell learned from Nigel that Pinky and John Sanders had departed for their beat half an hour earlier. Nigel also indicated, in response to Powell's casual query, that young Bob was off fishing on one of the local hill lochs. After a brief conference with PC Shand, Powell set out in his Triumph with
the top down and Van Morrison on the tape deck, but heading not, he suspected, into the mystic.

A blustery wind was whipping up storm caps on Lochindorb as Powell traversed the desolate moors surrounding the loch. With its ruined island castle that had once been inhabited by a charming character known as the Wolf of Badenoch—whose chief pastimes had apparently been raping and pillaging, and who had ultimately suffered the karmic indignity of having a bar in Aviemore named for him—the loch's black depths seemed quite capable of concealing a monster or two. Much like the problem at hand, Powell thought grimly.

Leaving the loch behind, the road climbed steeply beside a little burn that cascaded merrily from pool to pool amongst the heather. Soon the road was reduced to a rough track snaking over the moors. After a few jarring scrapes to the undercarriage of his car, Powell pulled off to the side, having decided that it would be more prudent to continue on foot. Small patches of snow still clung to the steep north face of the pass ahead, across which the track could be seen to switchback dizzily. He consulted his Ordnance Survey map. As he was still some distance from the pass, he decided to take a shortcut over the prominent ridge that bounded on the east the narrow glen up which he had just come. Recalling his Cambridge climbing days, he drew a hearty breath. A bit of scrambling would do him good—get the blood pumping to the essential extremities.