Malice in the Highlands (7 page)

Campbell glared at him. “The test is not performed routinely, Chief Inspector, and as I was given no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary about the case, I did not consider consulting a forensic specialist.”

A perfectly logical explanation, thought Powell, but Barrett had obviously struck a nerve.

“Well, then,” Barrett said, “we'd better have our people in Inverness do a thorough job of it.” He caught Powell's eye. “After all, we don't want to leave any loose ends dangling, do we? I'll arrange to have the body collected tomorrow.”

“As you wish,” Campbell said in a clipped voice. “Now, you really must excuse me, I do have another appointment.”

Thus dismissed, Powell and Barrett rose to leave. “There is just one more thing,” Barrett said. “Did you know Mr. Murray—on a personal basis, I mean?”

Campbell sniffed. “Never met the man. Bit of a recluse, I understand. Didn't golf. Not the sort of chap you'd expect at Castle Glyn.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Campbell leapt to his feet as if a superior officer had just entered the room. “I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I really must bid you a good morning.”

After they had let themselves out, Powell observed dryly, “A bit class conscious for a Scot, don't you think?”

“Pompous arse,” Barrett muttered as he slammed the garden gate behind him.

PC Shand was waiting at the curb, five minutes early.

“Well, Erskine, what do you think?” Barrett asked as they approached the police car.

“I think we should repair to Solway's for a cup of tea to lubricate the little gray cells.”

“Right.”

As they drove off for Kinlochy, Dr. Campbell ducked out the back door with his golf bag slung over his shoulder.

“Quite honestly, Alex,” Powell said, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin, “I don't know why Fm sitting here with you, discussing a subject that does not concern me in the least. I could be fishing, you know.”

“You're not serious! You're just afraid you'll miss out on something. Besides, I've known for years that you don't really come here for the fishing. That's patently obvious from your performance.”

“Don't push your luck,” Powell warned.

“Look at it this way, Erskine. Fm presenting you with an opportunity to fulfil your wildest fantasy: Mild-mannered English policeman holidaying in sleepy Spey-side town stumbles on mysterious death of eccentric foreign millionaire—you get the idea.”

“I can assure you, Alex, that my wildest fantasies do not include eccentric foreign millionaires. At least not the type you're referring to. But I must confess to being a bit puzzled about your willingness to share the glory.”

Barrett sighed deeply. “Because I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that there is more to this business than meets the eye, and I feel that you could perhaps assist with some of the more, em, delicate preliminary inquiries. In an unofficial capacity, of course.”

Powell shook his head in disbelief. “I think you're actually serious. Do you have any idea what would happen if your brass found out that you've asked an outsider to meddle in the case, and a Sassenach, at that? Be realistic, Alex. I have no official status here. For old times’ sake I am prepared to offer an opinion if pressed, but I can't promise more than that. Besides, you seem to be forgetting that I'm on holiday.”

“I'm all right, Jack, is that it? What about me? But more to the point, we have our long-term interests to consider.”

Powell refused to take the bait.

“Good God! Do I need to paint a picture for you?”

“Please do.”

“Considering Bob Whitely's behavior yesterday, it's likely that we'll have to make a few inquiries in that direction. But I'd prefer to, em, test the waters first, in a manner of speaking, and quite frankly, Erskine, you're in the best position to do so, having, as you say, no official ax to grind. After all, we wouldn't want to cause any needless upset, would we? I for one would like to be able to return to the Salar Lodge next year as a member in good standing. Need I say more?”

And if there are any bridges to be burned, I'll be the one left holding the match, Powell thought. He was well aware that he was being maneuvered, but he had anticipated Barrett's argument and had to admit that it had merit. Besides, he already
was
involved. From a tactical standpoint, however, he decided that it would be wise to maintain the persona of a reluctant conscript.

“Having given the matter considerable thought,” he said at last, “I am prepared to assist to the limited extent
that I'm able, provided it's clearly understood that there is a line over which I am not prepared to step. Agreed?”

Barrett grinned. “Agreed.”

“Right. Now, then, I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on the good doctor's dissertation.”

Barrett grimaced. “It's what he didn't say that's interesting.” He ruminated for a moment. “The possibility that somebody could have bashed Murray on the head and left him for dead is an intriguing one, although the scenario presents certain obvious difficulties. And there is no shortage of alternate possibilities, including the one suggested by Campbell. But in the end I'm afraid it may be difficult to prove conclusively one way or the other. I think, therefore, that we shall have to look elsewhere for enlightenment.”

Powell nodded. “I'm inclined to agree with you. And I think we'd better start with Charles Murray, himself. You know, it's rather odd; one gets the distinct impression that he was a disagreeable sort of character and yet, apart from the odd innuendo, we really know very little about him. I suggest we have a chat with Shand. He may be able to provide some local color.” He handed the bill to Barrett and smiled. “Consultant's fee.”

PC Shand paced back and forth in the Kinlochy police station, pondering his professional future. He sensed that there was more to the Murray case than met the eye. It could in fact be the opportunity he had hitherto only dreamt about, if he were given the chance. But being a realist, he had to admit that this was not very likely; important investigations were normally handled by subdivisional personnel in Grantown, and his own experience to date had consisted largely of issuing parking tickets and
enforcing closing time in the local pubs. Besides, he supposed that he would be terrified of cocking it up. He'd heard through the grapevine that Chief Inspector Barrett could be an unforgiving taskmaster, and this had been amply confirmed by his own experience. Mr. Powell seemed all right, a bit posh, perhaps, but the Englishman's role in the affair was not entirely clear to him. He sat down to collect his thoughts. An instant later he leapt to his feet as Barrett and Powell strolled in, fresh from Solway's.

“At ease, Shand,” Barrett said, flinging himself into the nearest chair. “Mr. Powell and I would like to pick your brain about the star of the present piece, the late Charles Murray, Esquire.”

“Sir?” If PC Shand retained any lingering doubts about Powell, he wisely gave no indication.

“Just tell us as quickly and as completely as you can what you know about him.”

PC Shand took a deep breath and rose to the occasion. “Well, sir,” he began carefully, “Mr. Murray and his daughter moved here from Canada last summer. One day they just sort of turned up at Castle Glyn. There had been rumors that the old place had been sold to a foreigner, but I suppose most of us were expecting an oil sheik or a rock star or somebody like that. Mr. Murray seemed, well, quite ordinary, if you know what I mean. But he must have had bags of money—”

“Keep to the point, Shand,” Barrett barked.

PC Shand cleared his throat nervously. “Well, as I say, sir, they hadn't been here very long. I would occasionally see Mr. Murray and Miss Murray in the High Street,
shopping or what have you, but they seemed to keep to themselves mostly.”

“Would you say that the Murrays were well received by the locals? I mean to say, did they more or less fit in, make friends, that sort of thing?”

“I couldn't really say, sir. Folk around here tend to be fairly hospitable, as most depend one way or another on the tourist trade. But I expect there may have been some who were not quite sure how to take them—you know, as ordinary folk or gentry. With Sir Iain Denby, the old laird, everyone knew where they stood. With the Murrays I imagine that it could have been a bit awkward at first.”

Barrett grunted.

Powell leaned forward on his chair. “Tell me, Shand, did Miss Murray ever have occasion to make inquiries to the police about her father?”

Shand looked puzzled. “No, sir.”

“I understand that Mr. Murray liked to take a wee drop now and then,” Powell prompted.

“If he did, sir, he never got into any trouble over it.” Shand suddenly looked embarrassed. “Not until now, I mean.”

Powell frowned.

“Can you think of anyone who might have had something against him?” Barrett asked.

“No, sir.” He thought for a moment. “Unless …”

“Yes?”

“Well, sir, there could be something in his past.”

“I think, Shand, that any speculation along those lines is premature,” Barrett said austerely. “For the time being, I'd like you to make some inquiries concerning Murray's movements on Monday. Who he was with, where he
went, when he was last seen, and anything else you can think of. And, oh, yes, you'd better have another chat with that gillie at Cairngorm, just to make sure we haven't overlooked anything there.” And then, as if anticipating Shand's question, he added, “I'll fix it with Grantown.”

“Yes, sir!”

Powell was reminded of a hound quivering for the chase.

Barrett bounced to his feet. “I think I'd better pay a visit to Castle Glyn. You, Erskine, may have the afternoon off.”

Powell caught Shand's eye and winked, much to the young constable's astonishment.

After dropping Powell and Barrett at the Salar Lodge, PC Shand set off with alacrity to begin his inquiries.

CHAPTER 5

The sun scattered light like sequins across the broad reach of river as Powell strolled along the path to his beat. He had set out from the hotel after lunch to snatch an hour or two of fishing. It was a glorious spring afternoon; green sallies of larch and feathery birches softened the stern relief of the headlands, a gentle breeze blew down the strath, and a pair of ospreys wheeled and searched overhead. Fishermen worked their beats with long rods and graceful Spey casts. Others sat on freshly painted white benches spaced at intervals along the river-bank, chatting about the prospects while waiting their turn to fish. The pervasive murmur of the river and the hum of insects created an almost overwhelming sense of tranquillity.

Powell paused to rest on a bench on a pleasant little hillock overlooking the river, settling back to observe the fisherman directly below him. Something about the man seemed familiar, but Powell, lulled by the attractiveness of his surroundings, couldn't put his finger on it. The fisherman took a step downstream after each cast and had
soon worked his way down to the rapids at the lower end of the pool. Reeling in his line, he emerged from the river and then walked back along the bank until he was nearly opposite Powell again. Another man, taking his turn, stepped in at the head of the pool and began to fish.

The fisherman scrambled up the short, steep path and emerged onto the grassy verge where Powell was seated.

“Hello,” he said, smiling, with a soft accent that sounded Canadian. “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing toward the bench.

Powell smiled in return, moving his fishing bag aside. “Not at all.”

“Thanks.” The man propped his rod against the end of the bench and sat down.

Suddenly it occurred to Powell. It was the rod. A short, single-handed carbon fiber. He remembered the fisherman he'd seen from the Old Bridge, fishing on the estate water the evening Murray had died. His mental antennae twitched. “Any luck?” he inquired casually.

“Afraid not,” the man said. “But on a glorious day like this, one doesn't really mind.”

Powell nodded in assent, sizing the fellow up. Middle-aged, with a slightly tousled, boyish look and a pleasant demeanor. “How do you find the short rod?”

“I guess it comes down to what you're used to. Back home you rarely see a double-handed rod. But on a big river like the Spey I can see that the long rod would be a definite advantage. I'm John Sanders, by the way.”

“Erskine Powell.” They shook hands. “I saw somebody using a rod like that above the Old Bridge Monday evening,” Powell said easily. “It wasn't you by any chance?”

Sanders shook his head. “That's private water, isn't it? Why do you ask?”

“No reason. It's just that it's unusual enough to see one single-handed rod on the Spey this time of year, let alone two. One gets the distinct impression that the Highlands have been invaded by North Americans.”

Sanders smiled. “I don't suppose that's an oblique reference to my late compatriot, Charles Murray?”

Powell's feelers positively vibrated now. “Ah, yes, an unfortunate accident, I understand. Did you know him?”

“Are you kidding? In Canada, Charles Murray was a legend in his own time.”

“What do you mean?”

“His was a classic rags-to-riches story of the type so beloved by colonials everywhere. The son of Scottish immigrants who made good and ended up laird of a Highland estate.”

“He ended up dead,” Powell remarked, testing the waters in his best hard-boiled manner.

“Ah, well, don't we all?”

A philosopher, no less. “Mr. Sanders …”

“John, please.”

“Right. John. I must admit you've piqued my interest. Exactly what line of work was Murray in?”

“I suppose you could describe him as a mining magnate. He's best known for his discovery of a world-class gold deposit in northern British Columbia, which he eventually turned into Canada's richest gold mine.”

“I wonder what sort of chap he was?” Powell mused offhandedly.

Sanders shrugged. “May I call you Erskine?” Powell nodded, and Sanders continued, “I knew him only by
reputation, of course, but let me put it this way: Charles Murray was what is rather affectionately known in Vancouver financial circles as a ‘stock promoter.’ As near as I've been able to determine—and I must confess that I'm not speaking from personal experience—a stock promoter's job is to convince a lot of greedy and gullible people to buy shares in his company, with the implied but inevitably empty promise of vast riches. The particular story doesn't seem to matter, the approach is always the same. One of the most celebrated promotions in recent years—and my personal favorite, I'd have to say—involved a company that purported to manufacture an electromagnetic device for removing pubic hair. Apparently the thing produced a rather intense frisson and was quite a hit with the brokers.” Sanders grinned and shook his head.