Snare (3 page)

Sir Ranald MacKay grinned impishly at Miss Pink and waited for her reaction. They were in the drawing room at the lodge – a wood-panelled room ornamented with the heads of dead animals. Lamps cast pools of light downwards and the place had that dim glow characteristic of Victorian interiors. At one time this building, all slate and stone, would have been cold comfort; now it was centrally heated and a log fire burned in the basket grate. Miss Pink, chic in grey cashmere, sipped her Tio Pepe and considered her response. Sir Ranald, a large man, balding but trendy in light tweeds and a tie the colour of egg yolk, was waiting.

‘No crime at all?' she ventured. ‘What about drugs?'

‘You mean the hard stuff? Cocaine, heroin? Not locally. In Ullapool perhaps, or Oban, but even there it would be brought in by foreigners, Scandinavians probably; Sweden was first with the permissive society. And there are always the Russians.'

‘Glue sniffing?' Miss Pink suggested, her ears alert to the sound of heels on the tiled floor.

The women who entered the drawing room were in sharp contrast to each other. The first was tall and thin, with the kind of bony elegance achieved by rigid dieting. She was wearing highwaisted gaucho pants with a bolero, all in white, a black shirt and gold chains with a pendant that was one large pearl. She was a tawny blonde with a mass of loose curls to her shoulder-blades. In that dim light, it was only her poise as she greeted her guest that suggested she was over thirty. Lady MacKay's age was not public knowledge, but her string of romantic novels (notably their publication dates) proved that she'd never see forty again.

Miss Pink shook hands and turned to Flora MacKenzie, Coline MacKay's daughter, Sir Ranald's step-child. She was young, plump with the softness of puppy fat, her face delicately boned under the roundness, with large clear eyes. She had her mother's tawny hair, but straight and cut short with a heavy fringe. She looked twelve years old, innocent but rich. Only the child of wealthy parents would come down to dinner in stained cotton pants several sizes too large, worn with a bulky blouson in shimmering colours that must have cost a fortune.

‘Glue sniffing?' Coline repeated, helping herself to sherry. ‘Are we having that kind of party?'

Ranald said, frowning, ‘Miss Pink was asking about the incidence of local crime. I told her we don't have any. Knox, the police constable, takes care of the drunks on a Saturday night, and if there's a trawler in, the hands stagger straight across the quay and fall in their bunks – if they don't fall in the water!' He chuckled heartily.

Coline sat down on a sofa. ‘Nothing happens in Sgoradale,' she said. ‘Except the weather, which can be very dreary, but then we're all going to Bermuda in November, thank God! The only thing one can do here in winter is write, but I can do that in the sun too.'

‘Sgoradale can be lovely,' Flora said. ‘Spring is gorgeous. And in summer it can be roasting hot – just like the Caribbean.'

‘The Caribbean doesn't have trippers,' Ranald said darkly. He looked towards Miss Pink. ‘Now that's when we have crime; it comes with the gangs, the vandals – why, this June and July we had, what' – he glanced at his wife – ‘five, six cars broken into? It was a gang from Inverness.'

‘It wasn't proved,' Coline reminded him. ‘No one was arrested, and there were two incidents after they left.'

‘How do you know they left? They weren't seen, that's all. They were probably camping on the moor and sneaked back to the car park through the woods.'

‘I haven't seen a car park,' Miss Pink said,

‘It's not obvious.' Ranald preened himself, ‘It's a corner of the estate, in the woods just south of the village. Unfortunately, in hiding it away we made it vulnerable to thieves. There's no attendant, you see.'

‘What was stolen?'

‘Money. Men take their wallets with them, but women leave their bags in the car: covered, but not always locked in the boot. Although, given this gang, a locked boot wouldn't have stopped them.'

‘Did they take credit cards?' Miss Pink asked, and had all their attention.

‘That never occurred to me,' Coline said.

‘Were credit cards taken, dear?'

‘I don't know. Never asked. Knox would know. Not important, is it?' He regarded Miss Pink doubtfully.

‘Taking only cash implies an amateur. A professional thief could get a better haul by way of credit cards – provided he acted quickly – than he could by stealing cash directly from cars.'

‘They were amateurs,' Ranald protested. ‘A gang of Hell's Angels working their way round the coast.'

‘Was that the kind of crime you were thinking of?' Flora asked politely. ‘Or were you suggesting we might be into ...' she sought for the correct term ‘... capital offences?'

Coline sighed. ‘ “Capital” means the kind of thing you could be hanged for once, sweetie. I don't think we indulge in murder and ... high treason? Nor even espionage, despite Campbell's insistence that any of the villages on this coast could be harbouring a sleeper.'

‘A sleeper?' Ranald goggled at her.

‘A spy.' Flora was patient with him. ‘Like the KGB, or whoever, had put someone in Sgoradale – Campbell, for instance – ten years ago, complete with a wife (who'd be working for them too) and he lived a normal life until someone decided to base nuclear submarines in the loch, and Campbell would be activated. To get the plans of the submarines, or blow them up, or pervert the crews.'

‘Subvert,' Coline corrected.

Ranald blinked. ‘You've got too vivid an imagination.'

‘No.' Flora was cool, ‘I'm just observant – like Campbell. In fact, it was he who told me about sleepers.'

‘He mentioned contracts when I met him,' Miss Pink said. ‘I might have thought he was talking about employment, but he took pains to emphasise the other meaning. Whether he meant he would accept a contract or thought himself the target for one escaped me.'

‘What kind of contract was he talking about?' Ranald looked bewildered.

Flora said calmly, ‘He'd be wanting her to think he was a hit man.' He made to interrupt, but she went on, ‘A hit man is hired to “take out” someone – meaning terminate, or kill, like culling stags. It's a verbal contract.'

‘Good God, that's Chicago stuff! Al Capone and – and Butch Cassidy.' He rose and went to the sideboard where the drinks were. He looked back at his step-daughter. ‘Campbell told you all this?'

‘Where d'you spend your time? Miss Pink's been here three days and knows Campbell has – what is it, Mum
– folie de grandeur
? And you've employed him for ten years and what do you know? You block things out.'

‘I know he's barmy.'

‘He's harmless,' Coline said equably. ‘A good workman, an unremarkable family man – well, he doesn't beat his wife ...' She giggled. ‘Rose Millar says he's started using the Post Office as a
poste restante.
'

‘He told me that,' Miss Pink said. ‘How long has he been like this?'

Coline shrugged. ‘Probably since he came.'

‘He's getting worse,' Ranald said.

Coline sighed. ‘So long as he doesn't upset Debbie.' She turned to Miss Pink. ‘Local women won't work in the house,' she explained. ‘They think domestic service is degrading. Our cook's on holiday and we're managing with Mary MacLeod, who looks after the holiday cottages, and Debbie Campbell. Esme Dunlop will help out when necessary – this evening, for instance. She's my secretary, but she can turn her hand to most things.'

‘She called on me this morning,' Miss Pink said.

‘She said so,' Ranald put in. ‘Said she thought she frightened you.'

Miss Pink's jaw dropped and Flora looked at her with interest.

‘She had a look at the black colt,' Ranald continued. ‘She inspects his leg every day.'

‘Don't you do that, sweetie?' Coline asked her daughter. ‘They're your ponies.'

‘I do it,' Flora said. ‘Every day.'

‘She thought he was moving a bit stiffly this afternoon,' Ranald said. ‘She put a clean dressing on. Animal cut himself on some wire,' he told Miss Pink.

‘Couldn't you change the dressing yourself?' Flora asked. ‘Or you could have asked me.'

‘She wouldn't trust me to do it.' Again he addressed himself to the guest. ‘Esme's as good as a man: she keeps an eye on the horses, the cattle, even the big trees – tells me when they need pruning or a branch gets dangerous; she keeps the pool clean, supervises the servants –'

‘She does
what?
Flora was strident. Miss Pink was not surprised; Ranald did seem to be piling it on.

He gave an embarrassed cough and glanced at his wife, who said, ‘We need all the help we can get – and she takes the grind out of writing as far as I'm concerned.'

‘I do love accolades,' said a new voice, and Miss Pink turned to see Esme Dunlop. She wondered how long the woman had been there in the shadows.

‘Good evening, Miss Pink.' She came forward, incongruous in high-necked, long-sleeved red
moiré
, very tall in her high heels. ‘Sable is doing fine, Flora; you'll be able to start exercising him in a fortnight.' She turned to Coline. ‘Everything's under control,' she said quietly. ‘They'll be dishing up in ten minutes, OK?'

‘Perfect. Help yourself to a drink.'

‘Can I top up anyone?' Esme looked brightly round the room and replenished other people's glasses before pouring herself a small gin and drowning it in tonic. She sat down beside Coline and beamed. The others sipped their fresh drinks, all except Flora who, drinking nothing at all, slumped in a deep chair and regarded the fire without expression.

Esme said, ‘How did you find Beatrice, Miss Pink?'

The grapevine, thought Miss Pink. Aloud she said, ‘Well. Has she been ill?'

‘She took her brother's death very hard.' Esme's tone was reverent. ‘She retreated into herself, you know? Shunned people. We had to be quite firm with her.'

‘You were,' Flora murmured as her step­father nodded confirmation. ‘She was very much attached to Robert,' he informed Miss Pink. ‘She told you about him? Yes, well, they never married, either of them, and then – the two brothers killed in the war, the parents dying shortly afterwards – they'd been a big family and there were just the two of them left. Yes, she took his death hard.'

‘He was a colourful character.' Coline smiled. ‘I put him in a number of books.'

‘You don't have explorers in your books,' Ranald protested. ‘They're all doctors and nurses or tycoons and secretaries: dull people.'

‘But with romantic souls. Robert was what all my heroes would like to be.'

‘Not me.' He eased himself in his chair. ‘I like my creature comforts. Eight hours on the moor is as much as I can take in dirty weather. Best part of the day is coming down the glen and thinking of a hot bath ahead and a Scotch and a good dinner. The thought of eighty degrees of frost in the North-west Territories makes my blood run cold. D'you know' – he turned to Miss Pink – ‘they didn't have down clothing when Robert was young?'

‘You'd have coped superbly,' Esme assured him. ‘Robert did. No one knows what they're capable of until they're stretched.'

‘You mean few people realise their potential?' Flora asked. ‘We're all inadequate personalities?'

Miss Pink studied the child carefully. The tone had been innocent, but not the sense. Flora was either old for her years or considerably older than she looked.

Esme had hesitated. She answered carefully. ‘Few people do realise their potential, but I don't think that makes them inadequate.'

‘Why not?' Flora asked.

‘Let's say they don't try hard enough.' Esme's tone became schoolmarmish. ‘Our potential should always be beyond our reach –'

‘What's yours?' Flora interrupted.

Esme checked and gave a small gasping laugh. ‘It's not always revealed to us. I said no one knows what they're capable of until they direct their powers.'

‘You mean like you radiate power, a kind of laser, and hope to pick up a target?'

‘You lost me.' Ranald was shaking his head. ‘What's there to get so intense about?'

‘It's not an
aggressive
concept.' Flora's eyes widened. ‘Or is it?' she asked of Esme who shook her head, momentarily silenced.

Coline excused herself and left the room. Flora said sweetly, ‘Would you like to live in Sgoradale, Miss Pink?'

‘No.' It was too curt. She elucidated. ‘There's a combination of violence and decadence that grates on me. I would find it an uncomfortable place to spend any length of time.'

‘Violence?' Ranald repeated. ‘Decadence?' Flora and Esme were staring – the one delighted, the other angry. Miss Pink realised that she was on her third sherry, and that on an empty stomach. Nevertheless, she was committed.

‘The violence is in the elements,' she explained, ‘and a form of decadence in the sense that here is a remote community leading a leisurely life without stress. I wouldn't feel stretched here. That's one person's opinion, but you did ask.'

‘You'd be bored,' Flora said flatly.

‘Our lives aren't leisurely,' Esme protested. ‘There's too much to do. I'm run off my feet. Not that I don't love every minute of it,' she added quickly.

‘I'm a man of leisure,' Ranald admitted, ‘but only because I'm well looked after. I'm a lazy fellow, but I'm never bored. Always something to do, y'know: fishing, shooting and so on. Never idle.'

‘Decadent,' Flora mused. ‘I like it. We sound like Roman emperors – beautiful and wicked, and into unspeakable perversions.'