Chapter 28 Cavalry or rearguard?
Charlie Smith wasn’t far along the road when he wished he hadn’t bothered to come out. He glanced at the dog, which sat up on the front passenger seat of his boring Vauxhall saloon as if it had been doing so for years. Even the dog seemed to be on edge, staring at the ridges in the road as if they were hurdles the car had to jump. Some stretches were a lot like that. It wasn’t doing his suspension any good, not to mention his nerves. He found himself tensing up whenever another car came in sight - not that it happened very often, since only an idiot would be driving around Fife on a day like this - and then relaxing, letting his concentration drift and allowing the car, its steering flaky at the best of times, to head straight for the next snow-hole.
How much further to the turning? Was there any chance Lord Murray would be at home and not just his butler or gamekeeper or whoever? Maybe he himself had headed south for the winter, to Cannes, Montpellier or Barcelona as Charlie admitted he would have done if he could afford it and if he hadn’t had to be on duty thanks to Inspector Forrester’s indulgence in selfish pleasure.
He smiled. He knew perfectly well he would have been the first one to turn up at the station begging to be allowed to help once the armed robbery had taken place, and as for the murder… He hoped Inspector Farmer was taking that seriously. The victim may have been homeless but that didn’t mean he was worthless.
He overshot the turning and had to go right round the roundabout just ahead and come back to it. This was the best thing to do anyway, since it meant he could take a better run at the slope of the side road.
There was a Land Rover parked by the woods, just past the Old Pitkirtlyhill House driveway. It was up on the verge but he didn’t think it was in trouble. He did, however, recognise the three passengers, something which gave him no pleasure, just a sinking feeling. Especially when he established that Amaryllis wasn’t one of them.
‘Where is she?’ he growled as Christopher wound down the window.
‘Um,’ said Christopher.
‘Go on, tell me! I need to know before I go barging in there. Goodness knows why she had to go and meddle in my case.’
‘I didn’t think it was your case any more,’ said Christopher tentatively. ‘And she’s not meddling - she’s following up on something for a client.’
‘A client?’
‘The jeweller. He thought she should come and speak to Lord Murray.’
‘But I’ve come to speak to Lord Murray!’
Charlie Smith kicked the Land Rover tyre. It felt quite a lot more solid than his foot, even in his protective boots.
‘It’s no use getting in a state,’ said Jemima reprovingly from the front passenger window.
‘I’m not getting in a state!’ yelled Charlie. The sound seemed to echo round the snow-laden trees, and it caused a minor avalanche from the leaning branch of a tall spindly rowan.
‘I’ll come into the house with you if you want,’ offered Christopher.
That didn’t help.
‘How long has she been in there?’ said Charlie.
Christopher looked at his watch. ‘Hmm, an hour and a half. We were just wondering whether to go in after her. It could take her a while just to walk up and down the drive with all the snow lying about.’
‘Borderline,’ said Charlie.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hard to tell whether to be worried or not. On balance, I think we should be worried. Do you want to scout round the back? Just in case there’s something going on?’
He thought Christopher probably regretted even offering to go in with him now. He was angry with himself for not bringing someone with him. Apart from the dog, of course. He glanced back at the dog, still sitting in the front seat of the Vauxhall in a stately way.
‘Would you mind if the dog came in here with you?’ he said to Dave and Jemima. ‘This is what I’d like you to do…’
A few minutes later, once he had explained himself, he and Christopher watched as Dave, Jemima and the dog disappeared up the hill in the Land Rover at a speed that would have been ridiculous on a narrow road except that nobody would have managed to get up it otherwise in those conditions.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Christopher. ‘I didn’t like having them along in the first place, but if things have gone pear-shaped, it’s even worse.’
‘I agree,’ said Charlie. ‘We don’t want to have to worry about them. They’ll be safer up at the cattery. Let’s get going.’
He sent Christopher to walk the length of the fence and see if there was a gap further round. It would take him an hour or so, and by then Charlie hoped it would all be over. Whatever it was. He had radioed in for backup, but he knew it would be while coming. They didn’t have many officers to spare, and after all he only had a vague feeling things were coming to a crisis point. He had very little actual evidence that this was the case.
Following Christopher for twenty metres or so round the perimeter, he discovered a gap in the fence where it had been cut with wire-cutters, and he hopped through. There was sort of scrubland at the other side. He walked forward through the small trees and bushes. The ground was covered in snow but every so often clumps of tall wild grass stuck up through it. In places it had drifted against tree-trunks. He hoped he wouldn’t fall into a drift. He didn’t want to appear at Lord Murray’s door looking ridiculous - not that it would make any difference, of course. Except that he would prefer to deal with the situation with calm confidence.
By this time the sky had darkened and it had started to snow again, at first half-heartedly and then heavily. There was an open stretch just before the house loomed up ahead. It was in the Georgian style, not an old-fashioned Scottish tower house, and a flight of stone steps curved up towards what must be the front door. As an officer of the law, he felt he should march up to the door and demand to have his questions answered. As a suspicious man, he was reluctant to do that but he told himself not to be so silly. Maybe if he had followed through his earlier intention and questioned the owner then, things would have been straightened out before now. And then the homeless man might not have died, and the dog would still be with him. Approaching the house, every instinct advising him in the strongest possible terms to turn and run for it, he considered whether that would be a good thing or not.
The door opened when he was halfway up the steps, and a man came out on to the paved area at the top, behind a carved balustrade. This must be the gamekeeper’s son: it couldn’t be Lord Murray. Not when he was wearing leathers and looking so dangerous.
Charlie was annoyed to have lost the element of surprise, although he couldn’t have said why.
‘Lord Murray?’ he asked politely, taking it easy up the remaining steps, because he didn’t want to fall flat on his face. He had the sense that he was already at enough of a disadvantage compared to this man.
‘I’m afraid Lord Murray isn’t at home,’ said the man, unsmiling. He reminded Charlie of a soldier on guard. Perhaps he had even been a soldier.
‘Do you know when he might be back?’ said Charlie, but without feeling much hope.
‘I’m not sure,’ said the man. He seemed to want to keep Charlie waiting on the door-step.
‘I need to speak to him on urgent police business,’ said Charlie.
‘Oh, really?’ There was a bored, sneering tone in the man’s voice that he really didn’t like very much. ‘Maybe I could give him a message?’
‘It’s confidential,’ said Charlie, standing his ground. ‘I can only discuss it with Lord Murray himself. Is he away from home at the moment?’
Perhaps the man had indeed gone south for the winter, in search of warmth or even just to get away from this family retainer, if that was what he was. He had another thought and added, ‘Are you in charge here while he’s away?’
‘Not exactly,’ said the man in leathers with a faint, unpleasant smile.
Suddenly his gaze strayed away from Charlie’s face, out over the grounds.
Charlie half-turned to see what he was looking at. Someone was approaching fast, on skis. Who was this? Lord Murray himself? Another of the staff?
‘Good way to cover the ground,’ he commented, wishing he could ski and yet knowing he had always shunned the sport because he didn’t see the point in courting danger just for fun.
‘Hey, Mal!’ called the man on the skis. ‘Who’s your friend then?’
The man on the door-step looked enquiringly at Charlie, who remembered he hadn’t produced any identification or introduced himself properly. He had allowed this other man to set the agenda. He pulled out his identity card and showed it. ‘Chief Inspector Smith. West Fife police.’
There was a whoosh, presumably as the other man skied up to the foot of the steps, and then some snaps and clicks which could have been him unfastening and removing the skis.
‘Why don’t you go round the back with these, Jimmy?’ said Mal sharply. But a moment later there were footsteps coming up the steps which Charlie tried to ignore. He was watching Mal for any sign of alarm or guilt.
If he hadn’t been doing this, he might have been in a better position to defend himself, but as it was, when the heavy weight came down on the back of his head, he just felt the unbearable pain and crumpled instantaneously to the step. And knew nothing more.
Frozen in Crime Page 28