Snare (11 page)

‘So where is he now?' Esme asked. ‘His van's still here; he can't go far without transport.' The van was where he had left it outside Miss Pink's front door.

‘He has his boat,' Miss Pink said.

‘He hasn't taken that anywhere. I've been reading this evening; I didn't have the television on, so I'd have heard the sound of an outboard. For my money, he's gone to ground with one of the crofters out on the lighthouse road.'

They looked at the few lights burning seaward of the North Wood. ‘At least, I hope he has,' Esme said.

* * *

The search for Campbell started after breakfast. Coline was maintaining there was no proof that the cottage had been deliberately set on fire, and since the firemen confirmed that there were no human remains in the debris, word had gone out from the lodge that the fire was an accident. Nevertheless, some people felt a compulsion to find Campbell.

Knox was not on duty this weekend and, with Coline and Hamish on ponies and Ranald in a Land Rover, the four of them started to search. Miss Pink, rising late, went back to the ruins of the cottage.

No smoke rose from the charred remains inside the walls. Mindful of the danger to woodland, and of Coline's presence, the firemen had made a thorough job of damping down. Miss Pink stood in the gap where the front door had been and surveyed the interior. There was the shape of a blackened cooker, the metal struts and springs of three bedsteads, the frame of a table and what had been kitchen chairs. Everything that could burn had burned. The blaze had been intense.

She crossed a patch of grass where a sooty washing-line was stretched between a stout post and the barn. The latter was small, with half-doors in front and an ordinary door at the side which was open; it revealed a space which had once been a byre but was now used for storage. Driftwood was stacked against a wall above a saw-horse and chopping block. There was a work bench below a rack of tools. Everything was in good order and neatly hung or stacked: a cross-cut and a bow saw, a felling axe and hatchets, lobster pots, gardening implements. There were also two ten-gallon drums, one empty, the other indicating by its residue that it contained heavy oil. A five-gallon jerry-can lay empty on the earth floor.

A dark patch reeked of petrol.

Miss Pink picked up a garden fork and returned to the cottage. Starting at the front door, she began to rake through the ashes, a task complicated by metal objects which had been contorted and fused: a heater, many small and unidentifiable structures and a curiously familiar article that turned out to be the keys and guts of a typewriter. The petrol smell was here too. There was a lot of glass where you'd expect to find it, under the window gaps. It crackled underfoot, but when she trod on something that rolled and didn't crack, she stopped and teased it clear with the fork.

First testing its temperature with a finger, she picked it up gingerly: a rounded piece of thick glass, black but still recognisable: part of a milk bottle.

She replaced the fork in the barn and started to search the old byre. In a manger she found a funnel. Leaving it where it was, she returned to her car and drove to Feartag.

‘Petrol bombs?' exclaimed Beatrice, turning the piece of glass in her hand. ‘I can't believe it! This could have come from a bottle that never contained anything other than milk.'

‘True. But the petrol can has been emptied recently, and the funnel was used; there's a damp patch in the manger where it was lying. Certainly I can't think why he didn't carry the can to the cottage and splash the petrol around and set fire to a trail with a match. But if he'd done that, he'd surely have left the can at the fire, not replaced it in the barn. And where would the funnel come in? The way things are, it points to petrol bombs.'

‘But you're implying – no, it's impossible.' Miss Pink was silent. Beatrice, watching her, said slowly, it looks as if he went to amazing lengths to try to prove someone was after him.'

Still Miss Pink said nothing. ‘Who would hate him so much?' Beatrice asked weakly. ‘You
are
suggesting that someone thought he was inside, or have I misread you completely?'

‘Only partially. I wasn't thinking of a potential murderer, only an arsonist.'

‘Only?'

'It's not so bad if the person didn't intend to kill Campbell, only to destroy fingerprints.'

‘You've started to believe that story?'

‘What time did Campbell leave here yesterday afternoon?'

‘He finished at five. Why?'

‘Some time around then, while the sun was still high enough to be on the wall at the back of the street, Hamish Knox came home the back way, through the park. I thought he'd been up at the lodge exercising the ponies.' Miss Pink moved across the sitting room and regarded the yellowing birches on the far bank of the river.

From behind her came a shocked voice: ‘You're suggesting that Hamish had something to do with the fire?'

‘What I'm saying is that it looks as if bottles were filled with petrol, that I can't think why Campbell should do that unless, as you say, he's trying to put the blame on someone else – and I'm telling you that I saw Hamish come home, and not openly, about the time when Campbell says he found an intruder in his cottage.'

‘That's fantasy. Hamish would never break into a place, let alone set it on fire. Why should he? You're talking about mindless violence, the kind of thing you get in inner cities. I know these people. That cottage is Coline's property and she's well respected. And Hamish's father is the policeman!'

‘Having an affair with the nurse.' Miss Pink tried to restore balance.

Beatrice shifted ground, but angrily. ‘Have you forgotten Alec's dog? Hamish is guilty and terrified. I'd
expect
him to come home over his back wall; I'd be surprised if he didn't after what happened last time he went along the street. If anyone is dangerous in this village it's Alec, but that danger is out in the open. Of course,' she added more thoughtfully, ‘Campbell is a danger to himself. Forget about Hamish. I feel I should be doing something. What do you say to taking a flask and some sandwiches and driving around?'

‘Doing what?'

‘Looking for Campbell, of course. I can't work in the garden knowing he's out there somewhere in need of help. And where's his boat anyway?'

'I've looked for it, but I can't see it anywhere in the bay.'

‘Then let's start moving.'

They drove to the end of the lighthouse road where they found the lodge's Land Rover parked outside the perimeter wall. The light was automatic, so there were no keepers to call on. They walked down one side of the wall to the top of the cliffs, but saw nothing untoward except a group of gannets beating low past the headland. Beyond the Minch the hills of the Hebrides were insubstantial, a gauzy mirage.

Miss Pink sniffed the air. ‘The wind's backing.'

Beatrice squinted at the Long Island. ‘You're right, and the visibility's not so sharp. I think we've seen the last of the Indian summer.'

‘Two more days, do you reckon?'

‘Quite. This is a slow deterioration. Look at the sky.'

There were a few small clouds above the Hebrides, more to the east on the mainland mountains, but the sky was still blue, although robin's egg rather than gentian. As yet there was little to presage a break except for that hint of humidity in the west.

‘Time enough to find him,' Miss Pink murmured. ‘He can't have gone far.'

They turned and trudged up the slope. When they reached the road they looked towards the village, but it was hidden by the lie of the land and all they could see was an empty stretch of water and the wooded southern shore of the loch.

‘I didn't realise how many trees there were on that side,' Miss Pink said. ‘There should be pine martens.'

‘That's not the shore. It is wooded, but those trees are on the islands. They're covered with scrub birch.'

‘Is that so? And yesterday he was out on the loch. I thought he was fishing, but he could have been transporting stores.'

‘There are no buildings on the islands, no ruins. And the fire wasn't until after dark.'

‘The first fire was the previous evening. It would be logical to sleep on an island if you wanted people – including your wife – to think you were in danger.'

‘Searching all the islands would take ages; they're terribly overgrown. We used to picnic on them, and fish. Ah, here's Ranald.' He was approaching from the far side of the lighthouse boundary.

‘Good morning, ladies. Any news?' They shook their heads. ‘And nothing here,' he went on. Although I'd hardly expect him to hang around, as it were. It's just that I told them I'd come to the point and work back. I started with the cliffs under the light; it'd be a good clean way to do it – straight over the edge. He doesn't own a gun.'

They stared at him. ‘What makes you so sure he killed himself?' Beatrice asked.

He blinked owlishly. ‘Well, if he meant to do it he's done it already. Wouldn't you say so?'

‘Yes, but –'

‘I don't think there can be any doubt about it: we're looking for a body. Have you been inside?' He gestured at the lighthouse. ‘Can't get in the light, of course, but I'll have a look round the outbuildings and the old living quarters, see if anyone's broken in.'

‘We'll leave that to you,' Beatrice said. ‘We thought we'd go out to the islands.'

‘The islands?' He looked across the loch. ‘That's possible, or he could have holed up in a bothy. I still think he opted for a cliff. I'm going to look in the bays along the coast here where stuff washes up.'

‘He's enjoying it,' Beatrice exclaimed as they started back.

‘Enjoying the drama?' Miss Pink suggested.

‘A defence mechanism perhaps; he doesn't relate the situation to a real person.'

‘I hope you're right. I'd hate to think he was a ghoul.'

‘He's repressed.'

Beatrice stared at her profile. ‘People are speaking their minds today. Is this what happens to ordinary men and women in the proximity of violence?'

‘The circumstances are abnormal. And what's this?'

A horse was standing across the road, Coline in the saddle and waving them down. She approached the driver's side. ‘Melinda, you're just the person I need – and Beatrice. I want you to come and look at something.'

‘What?'

‘I don't know – something very odd indeed. I want your opinion. Follow me.'

She set off at a canter along the grass verge and Miss Pink followed, exchanging speculations with Beatrice. When they came to the North Wood, Coline took a cart track that led diagonally down the slope towards the loch. Beatrice said, ‘This leads to Camas Beag. It's a holiday place, one of the more luxurious ones. But Campbell can't be there or she'd have said.'

‘Does she own all this land?'

‘Clear to the point. Presumably the Northern Lights lease the lighthouse property, and a few of the crofters have bought their places, as we did, but the holiday cottages belong to Coline. Stop here.'

The track widened to a turning circle under the gable end of a house. Coline had dismounted and was waiting for them. She led the way to the back of the building which at first sight was unremarkable: a stone-paved yard with outhouses, a dustbin, drains, backdoor, windows. They were casement windows with small panes; one pane was broken and the casement unlatched. The room beyond was the kitchen.

‘Have you been inside?' Miss Pink asked, peering at what she could see of the interior.

‘Yes. He's not here, but I'd like you to take a look and see if you can spot anything significant. I'm not a criminologist.'

They walked round to the front door. ‘You mean there's nothing missing?' Miss Pink asked as Coline inserted a key in the lock.

‘Not that I can tell. Of course, there's nothing of value in a holiday place ...'

A subjective opinion, thought Miss Pink as they stepped inside. Camas Beag was furnished with some good Victorian pieces and Liberty fabrics. There was a large colour television set, electric radiators, a range of kitchen gadgets, a telephone – all except the phone were portable and desirable.

They went upstairs. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom. The bath fittings were whiter than white, the bedrooms so neat that the pale carpets showed no sign of traffic since they were last vacuumed. The beds were made up with patchwork quilts tucked under pillows in the fashion of hotels, with hospital corners at the feet.

‘All the same,' mused Miss Pink, following unspoken thoughts, ‘did you look in the wardrobes?'

Coline was appalled. ‘Oh, no! No, I didn't. Are you going to?'

‘Of course. We're here now. And the window is broken. When did you come here last – or anyone else who had a right to be here? Who looks after the place?'

‘Mary MacLeod. The last tenants left two weeks ago; Mary would have cleaned after they went and I doubt if she's been back since. I'll ask her.'

She went downstairs and Miss Pink walked from room to room opening wardrobes and cupboards, pulling out drawers – which were all empty – looking under beds.

‘Surely no one's been up here,' Beatrice remarked, watching from a doorway.

‘There's no sign of it, but someone broke in. Why?'

Below stairs Coline was talking on the telephone. They descended and Miss Pink went to the kitchen. She studied the stainless steel draining boards, the double sink, the white tiles of the window sill, stooping to look along the shining surfaces.

'If someone came in,' she said, ‘they removed all their traces.'

Coline appeared in the doorway. ‘Mary says she hasn't been back since she cleaned two weeks ago. The window wasn't broken then.'

‘She has her own key?' Miss Pink asked.