Malice in the Highlands (16 page)

After packing his rucksack with an anorak, a pair of binoculars, some sandwiches, and a small flask for the fortification that was in it, he set off on a long diagonal ascent toward the crest of the ridge. He climbed steadily,
breathing hard and sweating profusely. The air was still and stifling. The high corries seemed to reflect and concentrate the intense, unfiltered sunlight, and Powell felt a little like an ant under some malicious boy's magnifying glass. Periodically, the silence was punctuated by a curlew's plaintive cry.

As he climbed, the heather thinned and eventually gave way to a carpet of wiry grass. The crest of the ridge was now only a few yards above him. He paused to catch his breath. Looking back, he could see the track winding across the green smudge of heather beside the silver thread of the burn, but he could no longer pick out the glint of sunlight off his car. Forming a daunting backdrop across the glen, an austere wall of granite breached only by a near-vertical gulley rose for several hundred feet above its base of scree. Without conscious effort he began plotting a route up the face: a lay back up that crack, an exposed traverse to the right into the main gulley, and then straight up. The overhang just below the top would be the crux, and the thing was, you wouldn't know until you got there whether you'd be able to do it and by then you'd be more or less committed. Who said climbing wasn't a metaphor for life?

When Powell scrambled onto the broken crest of the ridge a few minutes later, he was greeted by a quenching breeze. He collapsed onto the nearest flattish spot. Before him lay the most fetching prospect. The curve of the valley below was like a great green bowl, rising on the far side to a rocky ridge similar to the one on which he was perched. Hidden behind the ridge lay the valley of the Spey and, beyond that, peak after peak of lighter and lighter blue as far as the eye could see. In the center of the
bowl, sunlight gleamed off a small loch. Through the glasses he could make out a white van parked at the water's edge and a small boat plying the surface of the loch. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and began a zigzagging descent, rejoining the track along the shore of the loch.

The occupant of the boat had spotted him and was rowing smartly toward shore. A few minutes later Powell seized the bow line as the boat slid onto the shingled beach.

“Hello, Bob. How's fishing?”

“This is a surprise, Mr. Powell.” If young Whitely was in fact surprised to see him, he didn't seem very pleased about it.

In the bottom of the boat lay as pretty a basket of trout as Powell had ever seen. Six fish, each about two pounds, with burnished sides and spots as red as rowanberries.

“You don't know how lucky you are, Bob, living up here like a laird.”

“It's all right.” He didn't seem altogether convinced of his good fortune.

“Bob, I'd like to have a word.”

Whitely clambered out of the boat. “Aye, well, I suppose this is as good a time as any.”

Powell sat down in the heather and offered his flask.

Whitely shook his head, sat down himself, and waited.

“Do you come up here often?”

“Not often. Only when I want to get away from people.”

Powell nodded, ignoring the barb. “I know what you mean.”

“Do you?”

“Look, Bob, I won't bore you with a long speech
about a policeman's duty, because it wouldn't alter the fact that I need to ask you some questions. All right?”

Whitely nodded, revealing no hint of any underlying emotion. Powell had a hunch, however, that this was only a temporary condition. He took a deep breath and plunged in. “How long have you been romantically involved with Heather Murray?”

Whitely flushed and clenched his fists. Instinctively, Powell tensed.

“Who told you?” Whitely whispered hoarsely.

“Let's just say I put two and two together,” Powell lied.

“What of it? I've got nothing to hide.” There was defiance in his tone.

“I sincerely hope not. After all, her father's just been murdered.” Powell suddenly felt weary. “Let's not go all around the houses, Bob. Why don't you tell me about it?” But even as he said the words, he knew that he didn't really want to know.

Whitely stared out over the loch for a few moments. The wind had picked up and little wavelets were slapping rhythmically against the stern of the boat. Eventually he spoke. “When Heather and her old man came over from Canada last summer, they stayed at the hotel for a few days while the renovations were being completed at Castle Glyn. He seemed all right at first, which just goes to show how misleading first impressions can be. But Heather, she was—” he groped for a word “—something else.” He shrugged. “One thing led to another and we began seeing each other.” His expression suddenly twisted into a mask of pure malice. “Everything was fine ‘til he tried to put a stop to it.”

“I assume you're referring to Mr. Murray?”

Whitely spat, “Who else?”

“I don't understand, Bob. You're both adults—what could he do?”

“You didn't know him, Mr. Powell. He didn't get where he did in life by letting other people have their way.”

“How did Heather—Miss Murray—react?”

Whitely shook his head disgustedly. “I don't know. I think she felt some sort of misguided loyalty, a duty to look after him in his dotage or some such rubbish. Because of her mum and all that.”

“A perfectly natural way for a daughter to feel about her father, don't you think?”

Whitely scowled but said nothing.

“Did you and Miss Murray continue to see each other?”

“No, we—I mean, Heather thought it best not to for a while.”

“Tell me, did anything happen recently, say in the last month or so, to alter the picture?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I understand that Murray had been considering returning to Canada.”

“What gave you that idea?” Whitely said sharply.

“Is it true?”

“I think Heather might have mentioned it,” he admitted grudgingly. “What difference does it make?”

“Do you think Miss Murray would have gone with her father?”

“You'd have to ask her about that.”

“I'll do that. Look, Bob, I'm afraid it's my duty to inquire as to your whereabouts last week Monday.”

“What?” Whitely seemed slightly irritated by the question.
“You know I didn't get back from Aberdeen until the next day.”

“Yes, of course. Did you know that Murray paid a visit to the Salar Lodge on that Monday night, shortly before he was killed?”

“How could I?”

“What would you say if I told you that Murray was overheard making certain threats to your father?”

“I'd say I didn't know a thing about it, but I wouldn't put it past him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I've already told you he was a rotten bastard.”

Powell sighed. He'd always been fond of the lad, but his patience was beginning to wear a bit thin. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell me, Bob? Anything at all?”

Whitely shook his head sullenly.

Powell glanced significantly at his watch. “Well, I'd better be getting back, then. I've a long tramp ahead of me.” He straightened slowly with, he hoped, a discernible creaking of joints.

There was an awkward interval in which neither man spoke.

“Here, I'll give you a lift,” Whitely mumbled.

After packing up, they drove in strained silence back to Powell's car. Along Lochindorb, Whitely's white van overtook Powell's Triumph and sped away, spraying the little roadster with gravel.

In Kinlochy, Powell stopped at Grant and Son's Tackle Shop to purchase some flies in the faint but rapidly dwindling hope that he might someday soon have an opportunity to use them. As he entered the shop he nearly
collided with John Sanders, who was just leaving with a long rod tube in hand. Sanders looked startled.

“Erskine, fancy bumping into you like this! I haven't had a chance to thank you. The fishing's been so good that I've decided to stay on for a few more days. That is, I mean if it's all right…”

‘Of course,” Powell said. ‘The way things are going, I expect I'll be tied up for a while yet.”

“Pinky's told me all about the case. Busman's holiday, eh? Any suspects yet? No? Well, tell you what, I'll pop over to the hotel one evening and buy you a drink. Thank you properly.”

“I'll take you up on that.”

“It's settled then. See you.”

“Right.”

Old Peter Grant, something of a local institution, was muttering to himself behind the cluttered counter. “Ber-luddy daft, more money than brains, ber-luddy Yanks.”

“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Grant?”

“Ye saw that gent that just walked oot?”

“Mr. Sanders? Yes, I know him.”

“It's nae business of mine what company ye keep.”

Powell had to make an effort to keep a straight face. “What did he do exactly, Mr. Grant?”

“Weel, he comes in here aboot a week ago tae buy a new salmon rod. Says he's never used one before. So I fixed him up wi’ a fifteen-foot carbon fiber. One of my own custom jobs and a real beauty it was, too. Then what does he do? He comes in today and says he's broken it, Wants tae buy a new one, he says.” He glared at Powell triumphantly.

“So?”

Grant shook his grizzled head, as if wondering how anybody could be so thick. “The rod blank is guaranteed by the makers, so I told him tae bring back the pieces and I'd gladly replace the rod. Free of charge,” he added significantly, as if that explained everything. “Ye'll not believe what he said. He said it was his own fault and he'd thrown the pieces away. Said he wanted tae buy a new one.”

Powell was no longer listening as Grant blethered on about the dire consequences of rampant profligacy to civilization as we know it. Instead, he walked out of the shop, having forgotten about the dozen Munro Killers in assorted sizes and thereby reinforcing the old man's opinion of all foreigners.

CHAPTER 12

It was going on four o'clock when Powell got back to the hotel. One look at Ruby's face and he knew that something was terribly amiss.

“Oh, Mr. Powell, I don't know what to say!” Powell steeled himself reflexively. “What is it, Ruby? What's wrong?”

“It's Mr. Warburton! Mr. Preston and young Mr. Crawford pulled him from the river an hour ago—” Powell felt a cold hand clutch his heart. “Is he—” “He's alive, thank the good Lord.” She produced a voluminous handkerchief and blew her nose noisily. “They brought him back to the hotel, all of them soaked to the skin and Mr. Warburton gasping and sputtering something awful. Half drowned he was, Mr. Powell, and terrible blue in the face. I called Dr. Webster right away.” Powell felt a surge of relief. “Where is he now?” “They took him to hospital in Grantown.” Powell nodded. Suddenly, something occurred to him. “Where's Mr. Sanders?”

She seemed puzzled. “Now that you mention it, I haven't seen him all afternoon.”

Powell noticed for the first time how terrible Ruby looked. Her eyes were red rimmed and swollen and her plump face was almost white. He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder.

“This must be very upsetting for you, Ruby. Do you have any idea what happened?”

She looked at Powell uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then she spoke in a barely audible whisper, “First Mr. Murray and now Mr. Warburton.”

Powell removed his hand. Feeling curiously detached, he heard himself speak. “Ruby, what are you saying?”

She clutched his hand in both of hers and looked up at him like a wounded deer. “Oh, Mr. Powell! What does it all mean?”

Powell stared at her, not knowing what to think. “I don't know; I honestly don't know.” He gently pried his fingers from her grasp. “I must get to the hospital. Does Nigel know?”

Ruby seemed unable to speak, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. “He—he went out after lunch and hasn't come back.” Her voice broke. It was obvious that she was terrified.

After inquiring at Admittance, Powell ran up the stairs to the second floor. An elderly, tweedy-looking man had just emerged from the last room on the right at the end of the corridor.

“Dr. Webster?”

“Aye?”

Powell produced his identification. “I've come to see about Mr. Warburton …” He left it open ended.

Webster squinted myopically at Powell's card and then frowned. “You're a long way from home, Chief Superintendent. May I ask if your interest in Mr. Warburton's condition is a professional one?”

“He's a friend.”

“I see. Well, he's had a nasty experience. He's a very lucky man, in fact.” As if sensing the contradiction, he added irritably, “Another few minutes in that cold water and, well, who knows?”

“How is he?”

“He'll survive.”

Charming bedside manner. “How long will he have to stay here?”

“A day or two, just to make certain that there are no complications.”

“May I see him?”

Dr. Webster regarded Powell severely, like a schoolmaster sizing up an errant boy. He glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes and not a minute more.” With that he strode ramrod-straight down the corridor, leaving Powell alone with the echoing footsteps and hospital smells.

Warburton lay still with his eyes closed, his round face uncharacteristically pale against the dingy pillowcase. His breathing was labored and uneven. As Powell closed the door quietly behind him, Warburton began to cough violently, gasping raspingly between paroxysms as if unable to catch his breath. Powell bounded to his bedside and helped him sit up.

“Easy does it, old chap.”

Powell propped him up with the pillow and then
poured a glass of water from a stainless steel pitcher on the bedside table. When the fit had subsided, Warburton drank greedily. Eventually, he managed a weak smile.

“Thanks, I needed that, although God knows I've swallowed enough water for a lifetime.”

“I came as quickly as I could. You can't imagine how I feel, Pinky, if only I'd been …”

“Nonsense. I'll pull through. Could have happened to anybody. Simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the right time. The main thing is to find out who did it, so that it doesn't happen to anyone else.”

The import of Warburton's words caught Powell like a blow to the solar plexus. Until that moment he had refused to acknowledge that Pinky's mishap could have been anything but an accident. Confronted earlier with Ruby's fears, he had preferred to think that she had simply been caught up in the emotion of the moment and had let her imagination get the better of her. But once again it seemed that Ruby's intuition was uncannily sound. He felt a wave of anger rising like bile at the back of his throat. It was personal now, and he promised himself that he'd leave no stone unturned. Grim faced, he drew up a chair and asked quietly, “How did it happen?”