‘But Isobel examined her,’ Beth said. ‘She was sure that there was no such thing.’
‘Isobel’s one of us,’ Henry said tiredly. ‘According to the Chief Inspector, she would have done the implanting.’
‘Then I went and took her abroad,’ I said. ‘I can imagine how that looks to them.’
‘And you came back with a whole lot of traveller’s cheques,’ the Sergeant said, ‘signed with two whorls and a squiggle. Don’t forget about that.’
‘Only a thousand dollars,’ I said.
‘A thousand deposited in the local bank. That’s all that they’ve traced so far. They’re still looking.’
‘It hangs together uncomfortably well,’ Henry said. ‘It explains everything except, perhaps, how we hoped to get the dog back into our hands. Whatever devious plot we had in mind must have been obviated by Sergeant Ewell’s decision to bring her to us.’
‘Henry,’ I said, ‘you’re beginning to speak as if this was all true. You’re forgetting that it’s fiction.’
Henry looked at me reprovingly. ‘You do me an injustice,’ he said. ‘If we can piece it together into a logical story, we’ll be looking into the Chief Inspector’s mind. And that should tell us what we need to find in order to disabuse that mind. I think . . . yes, I think that it’s time you broke your promise and got in touch with Mr Rodgers’s client.’
‘I can’t,’ I said.
‘You must. If you can account for your movements in the States, you can knock a large hole in that particular theory.’
‘I’ve no way of contacting her.’
‘Get in touch with Mr Rodgers. Ask him to get in touch with the widow and advise her of your predicament.’
I shook my head and let them think what they would. Even if Mr Rodgers could and would put me in touch with his client, I could only account for my movements by admitting that I had been present when Bubba was killed. And that I had run for it. And . . .
Beth was looking at me in consternation. I was past caring about anything else but I desperately wanted to ask whether she was envisaging me as a murderer or a philanderer.
Henry had not missed the signs. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ he said quickly. ‘Not that I’m convinced that anybody’s going to get anywhere. Ainslie seems to have given up on looking for the financial wizard among the bankers – rightly, because that’s not where he’d be found anyway.’
Sergeant Ewell had been regarding me with fresh suspicion but now he pricked up his ears and returned his attention to Henry. ‘Why not?’
‘Because any idiot can make money disappear in this day and age. A computer buff would only have to hack into the bank’s computer. Thereafter, one method among many would be to change the name on the account. Suppose that an account in the name of John Smith at Two Eight Seven King Street suddenly became the account of John Smithson at Two Seven Eight Queen Street, who the hell’s going to notice? The only physical record would be on the cheque books and bank cards, but even if he wasn’t content to draw the money from the cash machine piecemeal he could transfer the account to a branch of another bank and withdraw it from there.’
The Sergeant was looking at Henry with the eyes of a spaniel that sees a biscuit. Perhaps he could salvage his tarnished image through some smart, if second-hand, detective work. ‘So who are we looking for then?’ he asked.
‘Somebody who knows Scottish Office procedures backwards. Grants Division of the Scottish Development Department or the Estates Department of one of the new towns. A spare-time computer fanatic, perhaps, or—’
The subdued warble of the telephone extension interrupted him. The Sergeant reached for it. ‘I’d be expected to deal with any phone-calls,’ he said apologetically. He read off the phone number into the mouthpiece and then listened intently.
‘In case the call is from some confederate,’ Henry said disgustedly, ‘and we warn him to flee.’
But the call was evidently for the Sergeant. He listened for some minutes, returning occasional monosyllabic answers, and then hung up. ‘That was my colleague in Kirkcaldy,’ he said. His expression was that of a man who has eaten half a pie before finding a dead mouse in it.
‘Your rival in the promotion stakes?’ Beth asked.
‘That’s the man. Phoning me to crow. Mr Ainslie radioed ahead and told him to question Gus Brown. He took just the line he’d been told to take, or so he says, but Gus is sticking to his story.’
‘It was a slim hope,’ I said. The world seemed to be closing in around me. The cosy and self-contained life which I had wrapped around myself for the last few years was being pushed aside by savage reality which was itself unreal. ‘Do you think he played fair?’
‘There’d be nothing I could put my finger on,’ the Sergeant said.
Henry leaned across to put a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t lose heart,’ he said. ‘Justice may suffer the occasional abortion, but she seldom miscarries. I doubt if they’ll make a charge on present evidence and if they do I don’t believe they’ve a hope of a conviction.’ I flicked my eyes towards Beth. ‘I know,’ Henry said. ‘A prosecution can be very hard on the innocent. Months in the pokey, financial hardship and permanent loss of reputation. But it won’t come to that.’
The Sergeant was looking as worried as any of us. I hoped that he was concerned on my behalf and not only for his own promotion prospects. ‘At least he was honest enough to pass on one small discrepancy,’ he said. ‘We’ll see if you can make anything of it. My colleague told me that at one stage Gus Brown seemed to be on the point of changing his story. As you said, Mr Cunningham, the man’s a fool. Whenever he was caught in a lie he resorted to bluster. He was rambling to the extent of being almost incoherent. Just once, he seemed to let slip that he hadn’t really looked at the man who was with Mr Falconer by the Tay, the man who he’d been saying was yourself. He’d been too interested in the man’s dog. My colleague moved on with his questions and then came back suddenly to the dog when he had Gus off-balance. Whatever else I think of him, he’s clever at interrogations. “A snipey-nosed booger,” Gus said, “and a damned queer colour.” Then he shut his mouth again. But that didn’t sound like a dog you’d be likely to have with you.’
Beth jerked upright in her chair. ‘Lab or spaniel?’ she asked.
The Sergeant scratched his head. ‘Now there’s a thing. According to Harry Jenkins – my colleague – Gus said something about the dog being “the colour of a copper’s weskit”. I took him to mean black, which would surely make it a Labrador. But we don’t wear waistcoats. It’s beyond me.’
I was almost afraid to ask the question. ‘Could he have meant one of those orange waistcoats you put on when you’re at the scene of an accident in the dark?’ I asked.
‘He could, I suppose,’ said the Sergeant. ‘But why would he? There never was a dog that colour.’
‘Oh yes there was,’ Beth said. ‘Is that what you’re thinking, John?’
That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ I said. The world was opening out again into a fair vista filled with sunshine and laughter, just beyond my reach. There was a doorway somewhere if I could only slip through it. ‘We’ve seen just one dog which answered that description. And it belonged to a civil servant. He brought it to my masterclass, the Sunday after we found the body. And that same night I was attacked. What was his name? McConnach?’
‘McConnelly,’ Beth said. ‘He asked me to call him Hugh.’
‘Och,’ the Sergeant said, ‘we can’t be going after a mannie just because he has a funny-coloured dog.’
‘We can get more,’ I said. I looked at Beth, who does most of my remembering for me. ‘Who was that lady who used to judge at spaniel trials? She was something to do with Personnel at the Scottish Office. I think that she retired late last year.’
‘Miss Cready,’ said Beth. ‘Elsie Cready. She lives in Bonnyrigg.’
‘Any reason why I shouldn’t phone her?’ I asked the Sergeant.
‘I’ll look up the numb
er for you,’ he said. Later I realised that he was being cautious rather than helpful. We keep an Edinburgh directory as well as the one for Fife and Kinross. He found the number, pressed the buttons and then passed me the phone. The voice which came over the line was the voice which had once snapped at me that if my dog squeaked once more we would be put out of the trial.
I reminded Miss Cready of my existence and we had a short chat about old times. Retirement seemed to have mellowed her. When we had run out of gossip about the trials scene I said, ‘I met a Mr Hugh McConnelly recently. You’d probably know him.’
‘Now Mr Cunningham,’ she said, ‘you know that I can’t give away any confidential information.’ She spoke severely, but a year earlier she would have bitten my head off.
‘I don’t want you to tell me anything confidential,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to get in touch with him about a spaniel he rather fancied but which had been promised to somebody else. The other man can’t take it now. I tried to phone Mr McConnelly last night but I didn’t get an answer. I may have got the number wrong. I thought that if you could tell me which department he worked for I could ring him at work. You know, if anybody does, how many departments there are at the Scottish Office, scattered all through Edinburgh, and how difficult it is to get the switchboards to track somebody down.’
‘Just phone the switchboard at St Andrews House,’ she said. Before I had time to curse my luck, she went on, ‘If there’s more than one McConnelly – which I don’t think there is – ask for the Computer Section.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I said warmly. On a sudden inspiration I added, ‘Did I detect a trace of an American accent in his voice?’
‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘You could have done, although I never noticed it.’
I thanked her again and rang off. ‘Computer Section,’ I said. ‘And there’s an American connection. He either did his degree or he’s worked over there.’
‘And who would be better placed to know the ropes and even to give one of them a pull now and again?’ Henry said.
I caught the Sergeant’s eye. ‘So there’s a much better suspect for you,’ I said. ‘If you find that he had a lady friend with a bum like an elephant’s, you can thank us and then go and cover yourself with glory.’
He sat tight, looking troubled. ‘It’s no’ just as simple as that,’ he said. ‘Not simple at all. Once they ha’e a good suspect, then yes, they can dig all around him, watch him, speak to his friends and neighbours, find where he was and when, who he knows and what’s in his bank account. Usually, they’ll come by the truth.’
‘Well, then—’ Beth began.
‘Wheesht a mintie and listen, lass. A job like that takes man-hours, hundreds and hundreds of them. And it canno’ be done wi’out the suspect kens it, and if he’s a man of substance he’s kicking up hell and his friends are girning to the Chief Constable. It’s not done lightly.’
‘You’re doing it lightly enough to me,’ I said.
‘That’s as may be and it was never my choice; you know that surely. What I’m telling you is that there could be a dozen men of that description and wi’ a queer-looking dog. The rest you’ve got is just supposition.’
‘But he’s the one who came to spy out where Anon was, just before we were visited in the night,’ I said.
The Sergeant remained silent.
‘Your superiors won’t follow it up?’ Henry said.
‘They’ll not get the chance. If I run to them wi’ sic a tale, there’s twa things can happen.’ In his agitation, the Sergeant’s careful speech was becoming broader. ‘Either they laugh me out of the place and my promotion’s gone forever. Or else they follow it up. They might do that but, if they did it, it’d be because somebody wanted me to fall in the stour. Just imagine the way I’d look if they did all that work and took all that stick only to find that the mannie was as innocent as a babe unborn. No,’ the Sergeant finished firmly, ‘I’ll need something more solid before I’ll stake my chances of ever being an inspector.’
I felt sick. We had a theory which, in the light of our own knowledge, had to be more probable than the Chief Inspector’s maunderings as inspired by Gus Brown; but to the police I still looked the better suspect. But my mind was still working. ‘I remember one more thing,’ I said. ‘McConnelly was using an American pattern of dog-whistle. The one the dead man had around his neck was British made. That suggests that they liked each other’s whistles and did a swap. Does that help?’
‘Not a damn bit,’ the Sergeant said. ‘Now, if you could tell me why, if she didn’t have an implant and if you were really stabbed in a fight over her, that damned wee springer bitch is so important . . .’
There was glum silence.
‘They’ve only got to break Gus Brown,’ Henry said suddenly. ‘If he describes the man who hired him for the dognapping . . .’
‘Likely it’ll have been a voice on the phone,’ said the Sergeant. He glanced at me. ‘I told you what the landlady heard. That sounded awful much as if he was being hired over the phone.’
Henry began to argue but I had had enough. Let whatever was coming come. The mail was still on the table and, whatever the fates had in store for us, the business must continue to function for as long as it could. I picked up the top letter, looked for a moment at the American stamp, and then tore it open.
Hello there!
All’s well on this side of the pond. I’m getting hitched again next month. No flowers.
Salmon of Glevedale – Anon to you – is doing great and sends her love. She asked me to send you a big lick and a photograph for your bedside. You want one of the pups? If so, speak to Mr Rodgers. Don’t know what they are but they’re cute as hell.
The letter was in an ornate script and was signed only by a flourish. There was no address. It was postmarked San Francisco.
In the accompanying photograph, Anon was to be seen, proudly nursing a litter of six or seven puppies. Even at that tender age – about two weeks, I judged – the length of their noses was remarkable. Their brash colour blazed out of the photograph.
I passed the letter and photograph to Henry, who took one look and gave them to the Sergeant. Beth got up and looked over the Sergeant’s shoulder before looking over to me and nodding. I saw the beginning of one of her enormous grins. I was still too raw, deep inside, to grin back yet; but I knew that a grin would come.
‘So that’s why the bitch was important,’ I said. ‘At a guess, he came out of the bathroom after drowning his friend, to find that the bitch was being served by the one dog in Christendom which could be described unmistakably in about three words. Falconer was known to have had a shooting friend. No matter how strongly McConnelly denied being that friend or ever having even met the man, sooner or later Anon was liable to produce convincing evidence to the contrary.’
‘A minute,’ said the Sergeant. He picked up the Edinburgh telephone directory and looked for the number of St Andrews House.
I was still fitting the pieces together. ‘He took her along when he went to drop the body into the Eden,’ I said. ‘He probably intended to drown her as well but she got away from him.’
‘Surely not!’ Beth said. She tends to judge other people by her own standards, and in her book not even a calculating murderer could drown a pregnant spaniel.
The Sergeant’s call lasted only a minute or so. ‘Mr McConnelly left to go on leave, the day before Mr Falconer left the hotel,’ he said. ‘He never came back to his work. They had a postcard from Corfu to say that he was offering his resignation.’
Chapter Ten
There was no instantaneous lifting of suspicion. The police machine does not work that way. But while the search of the house ground slowly to a halt without discovering anything of more than passing interest to the searchers, the Sergeant spent the rest of the afternoon on our telephone, at our expense. He bypassed his rival colleague and his brother-in-law and spoke directly to a superintendent whose name I never knew. His manner was patient and apo
logetic, as though he hated to contradict a brother officer, but I could tell from the glint in his eye that he was enjoying himself.
By the evening of the following day all questions had been answered for the moment and statements signed. Suddenly we were at peace Nobody had apologised, but as each officer made his final withdrawal there was a faint air, which pleased me just as well, of being glad to escape from an environment which had become oppressive.
Henry had left for another visit to Oban. Isobel had shared our meal and intended to stay late to remedy any disorder to her beloved breeding records, which gave Beth and me a rare chance to escape together for a visit to the hotel. Gus Brown, we heard, had been released with dire warnings about his future conduct. I had no great desire to be around when he came to collect his ferrets and yet I did not trust his spiteful nature. He could so easily come in the dark, with a box of matches . . . or a pair of ears from a myxied rabbit to drop in the rabbit pen. We did have a radio link to our ‘alarm system’, but an excitable dog barking at an owl could set the others off. I had too often come hurrying home to find nothing amiss.
We walked down the roadside verge together in the dark, arm in arm. The lights of the village were coming on as the shadow of the hills crept across the land. Not a breath stirred the trees.
‘So that’s it over,’ Beth said happily.
‘Until they make an arrest,’ I said.
‘When are you going to tell me about your trip to America? I know that something happened.’
I decided that I wanted to tell Beth all about it. Well, almost all. She would be suitably horrified by Bubba’s death but she would understand why I had honoured my promise of silence. Jess’s kind invitation would not be included in my report, but Beth’s intuition was more than capable of assuming something of the sort. I preferred to account for every minute of my time. ‘Soon,’ I said. ‘Whenever I can be absolutely sure that nobody else can overhear. Something rather dramatic did indeed happen.’
Whose Dog Are You? (Three Oaks Book 2) Page 14