Miss Pink Investigates Part One

by Gwen Moffat

  Suddenly the Throat was flooded by light as cars came round the bend from Sandale: soundless and very fast. Caught like a moth in the glare Miss Pink watched without conscious thought, only her senses working. She had no time to be aware of anomaly in that the cars were not in line but level with each other, and although she saw the two pairs of headlights converge and part with an obvious quiver, she was unaware of any significance in the manoeuvre.

  Her own dark Austin was revealed in the glare, and the scream of brakes climbed and held above the roar of the river. The headlights on the inside of the road swung out and those on the river side jibbed in, recovered, and swept past the Austin to cant at an angle as the offside wheels mounted the rubble. It was a sports car, low and sleek and glossy in a normal world, but now vulnerable as a tumbling beetle, rising in terrible slow motion and revealing its underparts, two free wheels spinning in the air like frantic legs. The headlights careened across the gorge, the trees and the low cloud ceiling.

  The roof hit the water first and there was no splash to speak of. The car didn’t sink immediately but was carried in the foam for some distance, the lights shining through the waves until their gold faded to white and then went out suddenly and there was nothing but the river raging through the Throat.

  The scene was still lit. Miss Pink brought her aching gaze back to the landslide before which the second car stood with its headlights blazing. Daniel Cole was on the tarmac staring at the river. She scrambled down to the road and at last he turned and walked towards her.

  ‘She had the money,’ he said.

  *

  ‘How did you know it was the money?’

  They had reversed their cars and turned, and were sitting in Miss Pink’s Austin at the foot of the doctor’s drive.

  ‘If she made a break for it, wasn’t she the killer?’

  ‘You know damn well she wasn’t, necessarily.’ She was suffering from shock. ‘There was no proof. She could have been upset or frightened by your questions and decided to go away for a while.’ There was a pause. ‘She didn’t appear to be frightened,’ she added with fairness.

  ‘She wasn’t.’

  ‘You pushed her.’

  ‘I was pushing all the time: trying to make her crack.’

  ‘I mean: in the gorge. You were bumping her as you came down the straight towards the landslide. I saw her headlights jerk as the cars touched. There will be marks on your nearside wing.’

  ‘I tried to block her as she left the hamlet but she managed to scrape past. As for her guilt: when her car is lifted, they’ll find the money.’

  ‘How did you know she was carrying it?’

  ‘What will you tell the police?’

  ‘What will you tell them?’

  ‘That I suspected she was the killer, that you drove away to Carnthorpe to alert Hendry while I watched to see if she’d make a break for it. When she did, I tried to stop her, but she got away and I followed.’

  ‘Will you say how close you were to her in the Throat?’

  ‘No. And I don’t think that you will.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  In the growing light his head turned towards her. He said quietly: ‘You mustn’t forget Caroline: regaining consciousness in the dark and her hands and feet tied. How long do you think it took for her to die?’

  She watched the light intensify over the Central Fells and wondered if anyone were up there at this moment, alone and alive.

  ‘I’ll tell the same story,’ she said, ‘at least until they raise the car.’

  ‘And when they find that the money’s there?’

  ‘I’ll stick to the story. But you must tell me how you knew she had the money.’

  ‘I didn’t know until she tried to escape, and then I put my headlights on and recognised the case. I bought it in the leather market in Istanbul.’

  ‘It was George Harper’s case!’

  ‘Poor old George.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘He couldn’t have raised five thousand, let alone fifty. He’s broke.’

  Miss Pink asked weakly, knowing the answer: ‘How did he get it?’

  ‘I brought it from London, dear: Saturday afternoon, after I had his phone call.’

  The moon sailed clear and the meadows were flooded with quicksilver. ‘The money didn’t mean much to me,’ Cole was saying apologetically, ‘except as an instrument to save Caroline—and I owed George a favour or two. I happened to have a bit to spare.’

  ‘Fifty thousand!’

  He coughed deprecatingly. ‘Well, it’s only money, isn’t it?’

  ‘So you knew Harper.’

  ‘Quite well; he’s a friend of mine. And Caroline, of course. I was fond of Caroline.’

  ‘Why didn’t Harper tell me? How could he succeed in keeping it from me? He was at his wits’ end while we waited to see if the money had been picked up.’

  ‘Yes, but he was frantic because he knew the money had gone and yet they hadn’t released Caroline.’

  ‘But no one knew the money had gone until today!’

  ‘George knew before you got back to Sandale last night—because I was at the drop. I waited at Storms earlier in the evening and George rang me after you left for Whirl Howe. I was in one of the cars coming up the road when you came out of the forest after dropping the money. You saved me some time by showing me which entrance to use but even then, when I reached the place the money was gone. As I said at Thornbarrow: she must have darted out of the trees where she was waiting and picked it up immediately you’d put it down by those beater things. She’d have worked out in advance where to leave her car so that it would be hidden but wouldn’t get stuck in the mud. I didn’t look for a car once I found the money was gone; I reckoned whoever picked up the case hadn’t hung around. I got back to the road and streaked into Carnthorpe but the only car I passed that meant anything to me was yours. I’m surprised she could drive so well although—’ he added darkly, ‘—she wasn’t all that good tonight.’ Miss Pink thought that he had the landslide to thank for that but she didn’t interrupt. ‘Remember,’ he went on, ‘I wasn’t sure who I was after last night, and when I reached Carnthorpe I knew that the chap I was chasing could have gone towards the motorway or to Carlisle or back to Sandale. I reckoned it was a Sandale resident because of the old blackmailing business and I thought that person wouldn’t want to be absent from home, or appearing to be absent, at the time the money was picked up.

  ‘I stopped in Carnthorpe and rang George to tell him that the money was gone and not to tell you because you’d have wanted to know how he knew. Then I raced up to Storms and started phoning the Sandale people to find out where they were. That was the advantage of being Press; I didn’t need a pretext for talking to people. The only ones absent were Rumney and Lucy.’

  ‘Is that why you suspected him? He’d be out looking at his cows.’

  ‘I never suspected him; I used him as a red herring. If I could make you think he was a suspect, I might use him as a decoy with the criminal. Not that I really needed him; by the time I came to Lucy I was almost sure. This morning I went to look at the hall where the lecture was held; it’s near the main car park and she could have slipped out easily in the dark.’

  ‘And the telephone call to me at seven-thirty?’

  ‘The lecture started at a quarter to eight—and there are two kiosks in the market square.’

  ‘I’m surprised that Harper didn’t tell me he knew you; I thought I had his confidence.’

  ‘I didn’t want a tie-up with George; the police might have become more interested in me than in Caroline. After all, she’s only a villain’s daughter to them. Besides, who trusts them? You can always do the job better yourself. Another thing: we played along with the kidnapper not to bring in the authorities or any honest citizens barring yourself, but I was different. I went to the forest to catch the one who picked up the money and if I’d got him, he’d have talked.’ There was a pause. ‘Even when I found who it was,’ he added.

/>   ‘And I thought you were a crime reporter—even someone from Scotland Yard at one time.’

  ‘But I really am a journalist; I do feature articles for abroad. I just played myself—well, a facet of myself; even on a conservation story I could poke around and ask all the indiscreet questions which the public thinks the Press has a licence to ask. I went all over Thornbarrow and, although Lucy ticked me off for mentioning Jackson Wren, she had to retract. I was too dangerous and she had too much to hide.’

  ‘Did you tell Mossop that you were—something more than a reporter?’

  ‘Not exactly; he has the impression that I’m one of his employers—he didn’t work on his own, of course—one of the big men come down from the Smoke to see what he’s been up to. That’s why he came clean. You see, I was in touch with George before ever I arrived so I knew that Mossop had just been caught for receiving, and George said he was a villain. So I knew what I had to deal with and it was a big break for me; he was useful, he knew a whole side of Sandale that George didn’t—the blackmailing, for instance. He got the impression that I thought he’d killed his wife and that we were annoyed because he’d attracted attention to the hotel. To protect himself he told me everything he knew about the locals, and he told me what he did when he found Peta dead, and about that telephone call saying she had tipped off the police. He guessed that the caller killed Peta but he wasn’t in a position to do anything about it. He was afraid of the big boys, you see, if he didn’t keep a low profile.’

  ‘I see why he was so frightened yesterday morning; Rumney thought he was worried because we’d turned up to accuse him of stealing sheep.’

  ‘He was right, in a sense. I’d given Mossop a hearing over the affair of his wife and I’d allowed him to assume that he’d convinced me he hadn’t killed her and that he hadn’t been responsible for all the police activity afterwards, just unlucky. I hadn’t let him off the hook though because he was more useful to me while I had a good hold on him, but he thought he might be in the clear if he behaved himself and did as he was told. Then you come in and accuse him of stealing sheep—and he was supposed to be working for us, not running his own little side-lines!’

  ‘Are you associated with the people employing him, Mr Cole?’

  ‘Oh no, dear!’ He was shocked. ‘Heaven forbid! They’re East End boys!’

  ‘What do you deal in?’

  ‘We’re going to get into hot water with that nice chief inspector if we don’t report the accident. Oh hell, think of all the questions they’re going to ask! Let’s go up to Storms and fortify ourselves and start telephoning. We’ve got a busy night ahead.’

  *

  When the level of the river went down, the Jensen was raised and inside it they found, beside the drowned body of Lucy Fell, a suitcase containing fifty thousand pounds in used banknotes. Harper said that the money had been lent to him by Daniel Cole, but Mr Cole was unable to confirm this because he was not available. However, Miss Pink corroborated the story but she was unable to say anything about Mr Cole’s activities other than that she understood him to be a journalist.

  The inquest on Peta Mossop was resumed and the verdict on both her and Jackson Wren was murder by Lucy Fell; that on Caroline and Lucy Fell was misadventure, which had a peculiar appositeness.

  Sarah was a casualty; she got two years but, as she wrote to Miss Pink, time was relative and those two years could not be as bad nor as long as the weeks since she’d killed the hiker.

  No one chased Mossop, who put Storms up for sale and went to Newcastle.

  Harper gave up the lease of Burblethwaite. Daniel S. Cole had disappeared as soon as the Throat was passable, leaving behind a fortune in hot money, a suitcase from Istanbul and a visiting card—which was genuine, but the David Ramet Institute of Environmental Studies and the Hampstead address never saw him again. He vanished in the Smoke.

  OVER THE SEA TO DEATH

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pronunciation of Gaelic Place Names

  Sgurr an Fheadain—Sgurr an Aityan

  Coire a’ Ghreadaidh—Corrie a’ Greeta

  Sgurr Dearg—Sgurr Jerrack

  Loch Coruisk—Loch Coroosk

  Sgurr Mhic Coinnich—Sgurr Vic Coynich

  Gars Bheinn—Garsven

  Chapter One

  There was a touch of frost in the night and the tin hut was too cold for any of them to sleep properly. At intervals she heard the two fellows talking and at dawn they got up and left without saying goodbye, but then she didn’t really know them. She’d been walking down the glen last night thinking that if no car picked her up, she’d have to keep walking or sleep there, on the grass verge, when she’d come to the roadmen’s hut. She’d smelt the pot first and thought it must be campers but someone was smoking inside the hut.

  She was lucky; they hadn’t welcomed her with enthusiasm but they’d let her sleep inside. They weren’t interested in her, probably because she was wearing a big coat and, except for her voice, was indistinguishable in the dark from anyone else on the road.

  Owls called all night and she would have liked to close the door but was afraid she might antagonise the men. It was getting light when they left, the owls stopped, and she went to sleep.

  She woke late. The sun was up and the hut was stifling. Already the tourists were on the road and cars were rushing past the door.

  She sauntered outside combing her hair, and looked around. Vast mountains walled the glen and there was a river below the road. Clumsily, sliding off tussocks in her flip-flops, she reached the water and washed her face with her hands.

  After she’d packed her gear, she moved down the glen before she started hitching because if she stayed by the hut, motorists might think there was a fellow inside, waiting while she thumbed the cars.

  Willie MacNeill, returning from the cattle market, saw her in the distance, one hand up to the brim of a floppy hat, and the breeze flapping her jeans. She was tall and slim and looked, for one moment, incredibly exciting until he realised she wasn’t half-naked but wearing a halter top, very dull, like a faded rose.

  He took his foot off the accelerator. He assumed she was a motorist whose car had broken down; he’d have thought twice about picking up a hippy.

  She told him her name was Terry Cooke—and that she’d had no breakfast, so he stopped at the next inn and she wolfed a pile of sandwiches. He speculated on her age. He was nineteen and he thought she had a child’s eyes but she wasn’t a child because of her body. She could be eighteen. She told him she was going to Glen Shira.

  ‘We farm there,’ he said, ‘the old man and me. I’m always picking up lassies who are going to the hostel.’

  Her eyes dwelt on his wide shoulders. ‘What time will we be there?’

  ‘I’ll no’ be in Shira till late. I’ve to go to Portree and pick up the groceries. I’ll be after putting you down at Sligachan and you’ll have a walk of a few miles.’ He added hopefully, ‘Or you can spend the evening with me. Saturday night’s wild on Skye.’

  ‘I’ve got a fellow waiting for me in Glen Shira.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’re impertinent.’

  She turned her shoulder, and the brim of the hat hid her face. He flushed and gripped the wheel. Her spine was a little damp and the pale hair clung to it. He wondered how she dared to wear that top in the Highlands.

  ‘You didn’t say that when I was after buying the sandwiches.’

  She turned round but he wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘I thought those were
a gift.’

  ‘They were.’ He felt like a small boy.

  ‘Then don’t charge me for them.’

  After a while she went on, conversationally, ‘I expect the girls spoil you.’ When he still wouldn’t respond she remarked pleasantly, ‘Don’t be childish. You know you shouldn’t be right up this guy’s arse. You’re a big bully. Drop back and drive how you were driving before.’

  ‘What do you know about driving?’

  ‘I’ve been with a lot of drivers.’

  ‘I’m damty sure you have.’

  She stared at him but he kept his eyes on the road, allowing the space to lengthen between the car ahead and his lorry.

  ‘I don’t sleep with all the fellows who pick me up.’ She was gently reproving.

  ‘How many then?’

  ‘Just the ones I like.’

  ‘The ones you like!’

  She laughed. ‘How old-fashioned you are!’ Then she murmured apologetically: ‘No, it’s not that; I guess I was right the first time: too many youth hostellers, that’s what it will be. Rather unsophisticated?’ The tone was engaging and the words anathema. In Willie’s book you insulted a woman by inferring that she was a whore but with this one he’d sent off a boomerang. His instinct was to put his foot down and hurl his truck round the corners, but that would only frighten the tourists. She’d look at him with those big dark eyes and smile. He drove on carefully, seething with impotence.

  At the Kyle of Lochalsh she got down from the cab and stalked round the quay like an inquisitive cat. In front of the first car in the queue, the ramp that was the end of the road ran straight into the sound, while across the water stood the Isle of Skye. It meant nothing to Willie, but the girl was fascinated by everything. She laughed at the cormorants that dived with a flash of backside and webbed black feet, to pop up yards away, gulping fish. She was enchanted with the rank of varnished East Coasters tied up for the weekend, with the buildings crowding the quay, functional but not displeasing, with the ferry and its crew. The crew studied her dispassionately.