Snare (16 page)

The body lay on its face. Steer turned it over. Pagan looked towards Miss Pink, who approached. Sinclair followed her. ‘Does anyone recognise the clothes?' Pagan asked.

‘Campbell was wearing a tartan shirt the last time that I saw him,' she said. ‘That shirt is a check material. Apart from that I couldn't say who this is – no one could except his dentist.'

Pagan nodded. ‘Someone hated this man badly. It wasn't enough to batter his skull in, they had to tie him to the boat's painter and sink the boat – although he'd have been dead by then, of course.'

‘How was the boat sunk?' Miss Pink asked. Pagan's eyes were bright as a stalking cat's; he only looked like a bureaucrat. ‘How?' he repeated. ‘The diver reckons the plug isn't in the boat, but what is in it, is some big rocks. This chap' – he motioned to the body – ‘was tied to a rock as well as being fastened to the boat.'

The diver had returned to the water and must have cleared the rocks because suddenly the boat surfaced, upside down. He pulled it to the shore with some difficulty. The name
Blue Zulu
was on the prow, and the plug was missing.

‘Like I said,' Pagan observed, ‘he meant business. Didn't study his tides though; didn't realise this gentleman was going to expose himself at low water, did he?'

‘This was a man two days ago,' old Sinclair said. ‘The corp is still entitled to respect.'

‘Ah, yes.' Pagan seemed to glow. ‘You liked the man, did you?'

Miss Pink looked at Sinclair and saw an old man demonstrating disapproval. She looked at Knox and saw, behind the cold policeman's eyes ... terror.

While Steer produced a camera and started taking pictures, Pagan drew Miss Pink aside. ‘I understand you also discovered Campbell's tent,' he said, ‘I'd like you to show it to me.'

‘Certainly. And you ought to know that yesterday, before the rain, there was at least one boot mark by the burn here.'

‘Show me.'

They scrambled to the path and he stared at cleated prints in the mud. ‘Those are mine,' she said. ‘No one else had made any tracks since the rain. The track I saw yesterday could have been Campbell's; he's wearing boots.'

‘When was he seen last?'

‘To my knowledge, on Saturday evening.'

‘Yes, the boatman said he visited Miss Swan. Do you know why?'

She told him about the message Beatrice had left in the tent. ‘He came at her instigation. Miss Swan thought he should have professional help. We were all afraid of what he might do to himself; we thought him paranoid. He said he would come ashore, take his van and drive somewhere safe.'

‘And his van is still in the village.' He held her eye. ‘I've heard about you, ma'am; you're friendly with Professor Brodie. You remember – the pathologist? He did the autopsies when the girls were killed on the Isle of Skye.'
[Over the Sea to Death.]

‘That was ten years ago. Is he still going strong?'

‘Like a spring chicken. So I know of you and I'd welcome your help. These remote communities close up when the CID arrives.' Their eyes locked. ‘What do you want to know?' she asked.

‘It's a curious thing. Less than two hours after a lad's reported missing from this village, a man is found murdered.'

‘It sounds odd, but while the body was in the sea – assuming it's Campbell's – young Hamish was helping to search for him. And my finding the body was accidental; no one else has cause to visit the cove.'

‘Except people coming to take another look at the man's camp-site. Show me that tent. One thing,' he added archly as they walked to the boat, ‘a whole village may be under suspicion, but I do have one objective witness.' She returned his smile, wondering how much faith he put in her cooperation.

The body was placed in Sinclair's boat and, accompanied by Steer and the diver, conveyed to the village. Pagan had relieved Steer of the camera and Knox ferried his superior and Miss Pink to the island where Campbell had pitched his tent. The geese had disappeared from the bay, which was now an inhospitable place: colourless and swept by rain.

Sheltered by the scrub birch the tent was still standing, apparently untouched since she had closed it yesterday on leaving. Knox was told to stand beside it to show the scale while Pagan took photographs. The constable's face was wooden. The flysheet was unzipped to reveal the spoon in the pan of beans, then Pagan opened the inner tent. The interior looked undisturbed: the stove, the sleeping bag, the remaining dixies, cup and cutlery, the empty can and the full ones. Knox and Miss Pink held the flaps aside so that there should be enough light for photographs. Pagan put everything in plastic bags, then they struck the tent and carried the loads down to the boat.

On their return to the village Pagan had them identify the different houses – what could be seen of them through the rain – eliciting everything they could tell him about the inhabitants. He was double-checking. As Knox responded to the seemingly casual questions the Inspector's pale eyes noted Miss Pink's reactions. They were halfway home when Knox eased up on the throttle and asked, ‘Is anything being done about my boy?'

‘I'm sorry about that,' Pagan said. ‘They're looking in all the likely places. That's not a CID matter, of course. Maybe there'll be some news when we get back.'

‘Is there a connection?' It burst out of him as if he couldn't arrest it.

‘You know better than to ask me a question like that.' Pagan was almost avuncular. ‘I expect your lad's in the big city spending his money on fruit machines and fags. He'll be back when he gets cold and hungry and he's got nowhere to sleep, mark my words.'

No one answered him. They looked at the approaching shore and a further question hung in the air: if not in the big city, where?

* * *

Miss Pink changed into dry clothes and walked to Feartag. Getting no response to her knock, she went round the house and came on Beatrice filling a basket with peats from the stack under the gable end. ‘You must have had a wet walk,' the old lady said pleasantly, picking up the basket.

Miss Pink was dumbfounded for a moment before lurching forward. ‘Here, let me give you a hand.'

‘No, it's light. You shut the gate. You can bring the logs in and close the cellar door, if you don't mind. The wind's getting up; we're in for a wet night.'

Miss Pink obeyed in a kind of stupor, unable to credit that the grapevine had broken down. She closed the gate, mounted a couple of steps to the terrace, closed the cellar door, picked up a basket of logs and followed her hostess into the sitting room. She said firmly, ‘I would suggest a good stiff drink.'

Beatrice stared at her. ‘Something's happened.' She moved to the sideboard, then stopped. ‘You may as well tell me. I'm prepared now.'

‘I doubt that. Campbell met with an accident.'

‘Dear God! I can guess what you mean. So he did commit suicide?'

‘He's dead.'

‘Poor fellow. And yet he gave me no indication at all. You amaze me. Could I have stopped it? I could have influenced him, I'm sure, if I'd known how his mind was working. I was very obtuse. Could –'

‘He didn't commit suicide. He –'

‘You mean he really did have an accident. His boat capsized? Or did –'

‘Beatrice, let me tell you. He was murdered.'

‘No.' It was quiet, little more than an exhalation. Miss Pink outlined the salient points: the fractured skull, the weights, the plug removed from
Blue Zulu.

‘I always loved that name,' Beatrice said. But the name can be used again, can't it, even though the boat's gone?'

Miss Pink stood up and went to the sideboard. Beatrice sat down and allowed herself to be waited on. She drank a glass of brandy as if it were milk while Miss Pink gave the less horrible details of her visits to the cove with Pagan, Steer and Knox, ‘who sound like a music hall turn,' she concluded.

‘How can you talk like that?'

‘Defence mechanism. I don't find Pagan amusing – and he's definitely bad news for the murderer.'

‘He's intelligent?'

‘He and his sergeant. They're a good team. Most investigative teams are; the best men gravitate to each other. I daresay he'll be here as soon as he's finished at Campbell's old cottage. He's gone up there with the others. He'll need to talk to you because you were the last innocent person to see Campbell.'

‘The last innocent ... ? Of course, someone else had to see him. There's nothing I can tell the police other than what I've told you.' She sat up suddenly, spilling her drink. ‘But this is appalling! Is it – can it be someone in the village? No, that's ridiculous. But then – was Campbell right all the time? It
was
some form of secret service activity?'

Miss Pink sipped her sherry thoughtfully. ‘I hadn't even considered it,' she confessed. ‘What I've been occupied with ever since I found the body, and what concerns Knox to the exclusion of anything else, is the disappearance of Hamish.'

‘What's that got to do with Campbell?'

‘No one knows, although several people may be speculating. Knox looks as if he dreads the worst. Joan will maintain that there's no connection at all.'

‘And she'd be right. If Hamish had anything to do with Campbell's death, he wouldn't have waited a whole day before running away. And he has no reason to ... oh, this is stupid; no one had a reason for killing Campbell, no one in the village anyway.'

Miss Pink was staring at a water-colour of an iceberg. ‘Someone had a reason,' she murmured, ‘and if you do exclude espionage, only local people are left. The motive isn't all that elusive either. Greed and sex are out: Campbell seems to have had nothing valuable and he surely wasn't a philanderer. But he was a snooper. The motive was probably elimination; he got in someone's way, or he learned something – something connected with crime?'

‘Not in Sgoradale. We don't have crime.'

‘Hamish's disappearance?'

‘You don't think –'

‘No, he disappeared after Campbell was killed.'

There was a knock at the front door. ‘That will be the police,' Miss Pink said. ‘Do you want me to stay?'

‘That's kind of you, but I can cope. Why don't you stroll through the North Wood and come back later?'

‘It's nearly dark. I'm going home. Ring me when they've gone.'

She followed Beatrice to the front door. Two strange men were on the step, one with a photographer's bag. The other one said brightly, ‘You're Miss Swan? We're from the
Northern Mail.
May we come in?'

‘How can we help you?' Beatrice made no move to admit them. Miss Pink hovered in the rear.

‘You were the last person to see Campbell alive.'

‘I was.' Beatrice was startled, ‘I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.'

‘Colin MacAllister. We were told –'

‘The last person to see Mr Campbell alive was his murderer.'

‘Of course.' He looked past her to encounter Miss Pink's penetrating stare.

‘You can get the facts from the police,' Beatrice said. ‘Those that they're able to make public, that is. I'd think it would impede the investigation if they divulged everything they know. All I can tell you is that Mr Campbell was helping me on Friday afternoon, and he left here at five o'clock.'

‘Why did he come here on Saturday night?' The old eyes flashed, is this normal practice?'

‘Is what normal practice?'

Miss Pink moved forward. ‘Mr MacAllister, you must be the first reporter Miss Swan has come into contact with, and you're not making a very good impression. She was quite right when she said you must go to the police for facts; as for a human story, we can tell you no more than that Campbell was a good worker. We knew nothing of his private life; that wasn't our business, and speculation is a waste of time and energy. And now we mustn't keep you any longer. Thank you for calling. Good night, gentlemen.'

Back in the sitting room Beatrice said, ‘I've changed my mind. Please stay. The police I can handle, but not that kind of thing.'

Miss Pink shrugged. ‘They were doing their job ... And the television people will be here tomorrow. It's a sensational story – and with Hamish missing as well, the Press are bound to speculate. I was tempting fate to use the word; they'll do nothing else.'

‘What did you mean when you said earlier that Knox was thinking the worst?'

‘Now that's an odd thing. Before Campbell's body was found I thought – given the premise that Hamish was the village joker – he could well have run into more trouble than a boy could deal with. That was what I thought originally. Then I found Campbell's body.'

‘That makes a difference?'

‘It must do. Who killed Campbell? Is it possible that Hamish isn't a victim but a murderer?'

‘You know how I felt about arson, so this leaves me unmoved. A sixteen-year-old boy!'

‘There have been younger murderers.'

Beatrice shook her head and leaned back in her chair. ‘This is all too much for me. Murder in Sgoradale! But we don't know anything, do we?'

‘We don't know who killed Campbell.'

‘That's horrible. It has to be someone local?' Beatrice was begging to be contradicted.

Miss Pink gave the question thought, it doesn't have to be,' she admitted. ‘Someone could have left a car on a peat track out on the moor where it wouldn't be seen from the Lamentation Road, or he could have been dropped by an accomplice to hide in the woods and be picked up after he'd done what he came for. There were two visits to Campbell's cottage on Friday evening: the intruder who knocked him down, and the arsonist. Two visits but, we assume, one visitor. Of course, we only have Campbell's word for those incidents, and now there's no way of finding out how much of what he told us was truth and how much fantasy, if any. Was someone else similarly frustrated, and killed him to be on the safe side?'