Malice in the Highlands (19 page)

“That wouldn't be Oliver Pickens, would it?”

Sanders looked mildly surprised. “You've been doing your homework, Chief Superintendent. I'm impressed.”

“Do you remember what day it was you saw Pickens in the pub?”

“Let's see, I remember it was a couple of days after I'd arrived. I'd have to check my notes for the exact date.”

“Do that.”

Sanders rummaged through the pockets of his tweed jacket and produced a tatty black notebook similar to the one Powell himself carried. He smiled weakly. “I never go anywhere without it.” He fumbled through the pages, tearing one or two in his haste. “Yes, here it is. It was the Friday before Murray was killed.” He offered the open notebook to Powell.

Powell declined. “I'll take your word for it. Go on.”

“I followed Pickens to Castle Glyn, hoping to catch them in the act, so to speak.” He frowned. “I wasn't able to get past the butler, so I never did get to interview Murray—” He broke off thoughtfully.

“Did you have any other evidence that Murray was working on a new project?”

Sanders regarded Powell carefully before replying. “Like I said, it was just a hunch.”

Time now, Powell thought, to flush out his quarry. “You mentioned earlier that you decided to go to ground when you heard about Pinky's mishap. Surely it must have occurred to you that you would only draw attention to yourself?”

Sanders yawned. “I had a story to finish, and the last thing I needed was to become embroiled in a police investigation. Ironic, isn't it?”

“If you say so.” Now to let him have it with both barrels. “Let's return for a moment to your old chum Pinky. We know that he stumbled onto something at the Old Bridge. In fact, we think that was the reason someone tried to kill him.”

“Oh, yes?” Sanders said warily.

“He found a fishing rod. Yours, I believe.”

The color drained from Sanders's face. “Good God, you don't think I …” He hesitated, realization suddenly dawning on him. “Yes, I see now,” he said quietly.

Powell leaned back comfortably in his chair. “You're a writer of sorts, Mr. Sanders. Why don't you and I plot a little detective story? Should be a piece of cake with all the material we've got to work with. Let's begin with a mild-mannered Canadian reporter who comes to Scotland to do a story about a wealthy compatriot living like a laird near a pleasant little Speyside town. To get things off to a good start, we'll bump this latter chap off in the first chapter.

“Our reporter, never one to miss a journalistic opportunity, decides to stay on to do a little poking around. Unfortunately, he gets involved in a bit of poaching on the deceased's estate and, for some strange reason apart from the obvious one, seems frightened half to death his little peccadillo will be discovered. That's when another character, a perfectly harmless chap, whom we shall have introduced previously, comes across some incriminating evidence, and our faithful scribe, fearing exposure, attempts to do him in. Which suggests perhaps that our hero is not so mild mannered after all.” Powell paused, his brows furrowed in mock concentration. “Please don't
hesitate to jump in with your ideas—we can sort of roundtable it. I'm not much good at this creative stuff.”

Sanders sat motionless, his face a deathly pale. His eyes were fixed on Powell with morbid fascination.

“Writer's block, Mr. Sanders? I shouldn't worry, happens to the best of us. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. This next bit will require our utmost concentration. Our loyal readers will no doubt be wondering why our man would attempt to commit a murder simply to conceal a minor poaching offense. Doesn't make sense, does it? So just to ginger things up, let us suppose that our reporter had tried a little illicit fishing on the laird's water on one previous occasion—immediately prior to the murder, shall we say. We'll have an impeccably reliable witness place him at the scene, of course.” He watched Sanders closely, knowing all too well that he was on a fishing expedition of his own.

For a few seconds Sanders seemed incapable of speaking, but eventually he managed to blurt out, “You must be mad!”

CHAPTER 14

The color began to return to Sanders's face, seemingly in direct proportion to his growing state of agitation. “I can't believe you're serious!”

“Oh, I'm deadly serious, Mr. Sanders. Let's look at the facts. A few hours before Charles Murray was murdered, I saw somebody fishing on the estate water. This person was fishing with a single-handed rod, just like the one you were using when I first met you two days later. There hasn't been another like it seen on the river since.”

“I tell you it wasn't me!” Sanders protested vehemently. “You must believe me!”

“Where were you, then, last Monday evening around six?”

“How am I supposed to remember that?”

“I'd advise you to try.”

Sanders picked up his notebook with trembling fingers and began to flip through it. Beads of perspiration had sprung from his brow. “Let's see—Monday—here it is. Toured Spey Valley.’ For the first few days after I arrived
I did the usual tourist bit to absorb some background atmosphere for my story.”

“Not very specific, I'm afraid.”

“I don't—wait a minute, I remember now! I visited the distillery at Glenlivet. I telephoned Mrs. Blakey from there to tell her I wouldn't be taking the evening meal at the guesthouse. On the way back I stopped for a bite to eat in a small village pub—for the life of me, I can't remember the name of the place—I suppose if I had a map …” He frowned and shook his head. “I don't remember exactly what time I got back, but I do remember that it was raining.”

“May I see your notebook now?”

Sanders handed it over.

Powell leafed through it. After a few minutes he said, “I'll keep this, if you don't mind.”

Sanders waved his hand in a gesture of acquiescence.

“I'm going to ask you to alter your travel plans for the time being, Mr. Sanders. I may need to talk to you again.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“Not at the moment.”

“But it amounts to the same thing.”

“You're free to do whatever you wish. I'm simply asking that you delay your departure for a little while, that's all.”

Sanders nodded wearily.

“Later today, another police officer will come to take a formal statement, which you will be asked to sign.”

Sanders gazed blearily at Powell. “How long is this going to take?”

“That depends, doesn't it?”

* * *

PC Shand scratched his head. “I don't get it, Mr. Powell. Even if Sanders does turn out to be your mystery fisherman, it doesn't prove he's the murderer, does it?”

Powell sighed. “No. But I'm still convinced he isn't telling the whole story. For one thing, there's a marked change in the character of his notes over the period in question. Initially, the entries are very precise and detailed, as one might expect of a reporter's notes. After the murder, however, they become sketchy at best. Curious, don't you think?”

“Sir?”

“Murray's death presented Sanders with a golden journalistic opportunity. Yet, judging by his notes, he seems to have more or less lost interest in the subject, as if his work had already been completed.”

“It does seem a bit odd, all right,” Shand agreed.

There was a prolonged silence during which Powell was lost in thought.

“Is there anything I can do, sir?” Shand ventured hesitantly.

“Get over to the guesthouse and take a statement from him, and don't forget to caution him. I've made some notes you can use as a guide. And when you're done keep a discreet eye on him. We don't want him giving us the slip. And, oh, yes, get in touch with the Glenlivet distillery and see if they've any record of his visit. He may have signed the visitor's book or bought some product with a credit card. You can run out there to verify it if necessary. Right, off you go, then. And don't forget your swimming lesson.”

When he was alone, it suddenly struck Powell that the
entire case revolved around various events that had occurred in the general vicinity of the Old Bridge: his sighting of the mysterious fisherman, the incident involving Arthur Ogden and John Sanders, Pinky's narrow scrape, and possibly even the murder itself. Once again, he had the rather disquieting sensation, which he was at a loss to explain, that he was overlooking something important.

Bob Whitely slewed the van around the graveled drive of Castle Glyn and skidded to an abrupt halt in front of the house. He leapt out and took the broad stone steps two at a time. Ross, caught completely off guard, was left stammering at the door long after Whitely had outflanked him. By the time the butler's atrophied synapses had caught up with events, there was only the faint slamming of a distant door to contend with.

“Och, well, who gives a damn,” he muttered as he slowly closed the door, this being just the latest in a series of recent indignities.

Heather Murray looked up, startled, as the door flew open. “It's you,” she said quietly. “I thought we'd agreed that you shouldn't come here.”

“You know I can't stay away from you,” Whitely said, approaching her. “Besides, I'm sick and tired of playing these little games.”

He pulled her to him, but her body was limp, passive. Releasing her suddenly, he stepped back.

“What's the matter?” he asked sharply.

She turned away. “I don't know—it's still too soon. I need time to think.”

He looked at her wildly. “What's there to think about? I love you. What else matters?”

“A lot has happened, Bob. You can't expect me to make up my mind now.”

“Look, I'll come with you, if that's what you're worried about. There's nothing to keep me here. Dad's thinking about selling the hotel, so I'll have some money.”

He waited for her to speak, hopefully at first and then with growing anger. Eventually she turned to face him. Her expression told him everything he needed to know.

“You bloody bitch!” he hissed, moving toward her.

It seemed to Powell that Nigel had aged perceptibly over the past week and a half. He stood bent over the kitchen counter, his long face pale and unshaven. He glanced up, expressionless, when he heard his name.

“Do you mind if I carry on with this?” He gestured vaguely with the long, thin knife he was using to carve a rare joint of beef, left over from dinner and destined for tomorrow's sandwiches, Powell surmised.

“Of course not.” Powell noticed that a trickle of red juice was dripping from the edge of the cutting board and splattering rather alarmingly on the white tile floor. “Something's come up, Nigel. I need to talk to you.”

“More questions?” Whitely seemed strangely passive, as if resigned to whatever fate had in store for him.

“I'm afraid so. I need to know where you were yesterday afternoon from about half-past one to half-past three.”

There was a slight hesitation in the motion of the knife. “Let me see—I helped Ruby with the lunch things and then I went out to run some errands. It must have been around two-thirty when I left the hotel.”

“Did you take the van?”

Whitely shot Powell a glance. “No, I borrowed Ruby's Mini.”

“Why?”

“Bob had taken the van to pick up a load of bricks for the garden wall.”

“What time did you get back?”

“It was four-thirty. I remember checking my watch as I pulled into the car park. I had a few things I needed to do before dinner and I didn't want to cut it too fine.”

“Go on.”

Nigel seemed momentarily nonplussed. “I—I came into the hotel, and it was then that Ruby told me about Mr. Warburton's accident.” He looked up at Powell, a faint flicker of concern in his expression. “How is Mr. Warburton?”

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances,” Powell replied gravely. He neglected to mention that Pinky was to be discharged tomorrow. “Nigel, why did you go to the Old Bridge yesterday afternoon?”

There was an awkward silence.

Eventually Nigel spoke. “I wanted to speak to Mr. Warburton.”

“What about?”

“Business, actually. I knew that Mr. Warburton was an estate agent.”

“Oh, yes?”

“I wanted to ask him about the Salar Lodge.” He took a halting breath. “To see how much the old place would fetch nowadays.”

The quaver in Nigel's voice spoke volumes. The lean years laboring at Maggie's side to build up their business, the lingering emptiness following her death, and, more
recently, the nagging doubts about Bob. But Powell knew that anything he could say of a personal nature would only make things worse for the both of them.

“What happened?” he prompted gently.

“I wasn't able to speak to Mr. Warburton.” As if to answer Powell's unspoken question, he continued mechanically, “There was somebody else there—parked by Mr. Warburton's Land Rover. I wanted to speak to him in private, you understand, so I turned around and came back to the hotel.”

“The other vehicle, can you describe it?”

Whitely looked forlornly at Powell. “It was the van,” he said slowly.

“Yours?”

He nodded.

“What time was it, Nigel? Think carefully—it's important.”

“It must have been a little before three.”

“Do you have any idea what Bob was doing there?”

“No.”

“Didn't you think to ask him afterward?”

“Why should I have? It didn't seem important at the time.” There was a tremor in his voice.

“Nigel, at approximately three yesterday afternoon, someone tried to kill Mr. Warburton.”

Nigel seemed to hunch even farther over the cutting board and did not speak for some time. Finally, he said in a barely audible voice, “There was some idle talk, of course, because of what happened to Mr. Murray.” He shook his head slowly. “But it's just not possible.”

“Nigel, I think there
is
a connection between what happened to Mr. Warburton and Charles Murray's murder.”

Whitely whirled around with startling animation. “Surely you're not suggesting that my Bob had anything to do with either?”

“I'm not suggesting anything, Nigel.”

Whitely seemed bewildered. “It's just that—I don't know—all these questions.”

“I'm only trying to sort it all out. And I know you wouldn't want to leave a shadow hanging over Bob.” Powell suppressed a stab of guilt.