Miss Pink Investigates 3

by Gwen Moffat

  Debbie sighed and stared out of the doorway. A marmalade cat had come to sit on the step and wash his face; the only movement was a long red paw pressing and releasing a velvet ear.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ Miss Pink asked.

  Debbie’s shoulders drooped. Her gaze returned from the foreshore to the questioner. ‘You talked to him,’ she said accusingly; Miss Pink nodded. Debbie’s eyes wavered. ‘I don’t have no one to talk to.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Lady MacKay?’

  ‘She couldn’t care less.’

  Miss Pink’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘There’s Miss Swan.’

  ‘She likes Campbell—but she don’t have to live with him.’

  ‘You mean he’s not likeable?’

  ‘No! I mean she’s not bothered.’

  ‘Like Lady MacKay?’

  ‘Oh, no! They’re opposites. Lady MacKay doesn’t care if people are worried or even a bit scared. She’s got her own life to lead and can’t be bothered with working folk. They’re the lairds, aren’t they? But Miss Swan doesn’t take no notice of—all this talk about …’ Debbie bit her lip. There was a sibilant mutter.

  ‘Russians?’ Miss Pink asked.

  Debbie gave her a hard look. ‘Is there anything in it?’

  ‘In your husband’s … speculations? There’s been a great fuss in London about fishermen coming ashore in Ullapool with no one keeping a check on how many return to their ships.’

  Debbie nodded. ‘They said so on TV. But there’s no call for Campbell to suspect everyone is a Russian spy!’

  Miss Pink smiled; she’d already guessed that she filled that role herself. ‘If you assume that some fishermen are spies, it’s reasonable to think they could make contact with spies already in position—sleepers.’

  ‘He’s been interested in spies all his life. It’s a long time to have a hobby like that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Some men play with model trains all their lives.’

  ‘You mean toy trains? When they’re grownup?’

  ‘They convert their lofts and spend hours running trains round tracks.’

  ‘But aren’t they a bit—weird?’

  ‘On the contrary; some hold down highly responsible jobs—professional men.’

  Debbie tried to relate this to her own problem and failed. ‘It’s not the same. He’s started making things up. I’ve known him since he was in his first job; he knows I know he’s telling lies but it doesn’t seem to matter.’

  ‘How do the children take it?’

  ‘Like a game.’

  ‘It is a game, like the trains. Does he talk much about his interests outside the family?’

  ‘Didn’t he talk to you?’

  ‘He referred to contracts.’

  ‘Oh, my God! Could you cope with it? I mean—getting the fidgets when he’s watching TV, saying, “I’ll take a turn outside. I didn’t hear anything; I just want to make sure …” Knowing he’s lying there listening in bed when an owl calls … He’ll get up and look out of the window, standing well back, then he’ll go in the kids’ room and I know he’s looking out of that window. It’s not a game. I’m scared, miss.’

  She sent Debbie away with the suggestion that she should discuss his behaviour with her husband. To her amazement that seemed to satisfy the woman. A trouble shared, Miss Pink thought, strolling across the road to sit on an upturned dinghy and contemplate the birds. After a while she became aware of the boat, Blue Zulu, drawn up below her—and here was Campbell himself, the old van emerging from the bend. It stopped and he came towards her, a figure of menace.

  ‘You been talking to my wife,’ he said, not bothering to lower his voice.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Campbell.’ Her tone was a rebuke, but he was far too angry to heed it.

  ‘What was she telling you?’

  A youth on a bicycle swept out of the policeman’s drive and started along the street. He slowed suddenly and swerved across the road.

  ‘You talked about me?’ Campbell was grinning unpleasantly.

  ‘Debbie’s frightened,’ Miss Pink said.

  ‘Of me?’ He was astonished.

  ‘Of course not.’ Observing the boy, who was now leaning over the side of a beached dinghy doing something under a thwart, Miss Pink took the plunge. ‘But if you’ve got yourself involved in something you can’t handle, there are the children to be considered. She’s worried about the effect on them. They may think of it as a game. She knows better. The sensation of being watched can be terrifying.’

  ‘Who’s watching her?’

  ‘Not her. You. Who’s outside your cottage at night?’

  He considered this carefully, all signs of anger gone. Miss Pink was sympathetic, but she thought of the children and stuck to her guns. ‘I’m puzzled,’ she said. ‘I take it that you haven’t done anything illegal?’

  He glanced at her sharply. He’d be unaccustomed to being taken seriously by someone of her stamp.

  ‘Because if you’ve done nothing illegal,’ she went on, ‘one assumes that the other people have—the watchers. Why are they after you?’

  His face cleared. ‘It’s a long story,’ he began, ‘and complicated. It’s like this—’ He bit his thumb and stared out to sea. He looked around, his gaze lingering on the lad by the boat, then passing on. No one was abroad in the street. ‘I was approached by the police,’ he resumed. ‘Recruited for undercover work. You don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘Go on.’ Her eyes were attentive.

  ‘They approached me in Glasgow. I used to drink in a bar by the university. The Special Branch needed someone to infiltrate the subversives: anarchists, communists, ethnics, like that. I was perfect for the job; everyone thought I was a student. So I became an agent.’ He regarded her without expression.

  ‘So who is watching your cottage?’

  But he’d decided to retract. ‘I don’t think anyone is at this moment. It could have been my imagination. We’re trained to be on the alert all the time. It’s all stress; you get so you see things that aren’t there.’

  ‘Who did you think it was?’

  ‘Someone from the Glasgow days, someone I’d put away, and he’d been released and come looking for me.’

  ‘The police wouldn’t help?’

  He looked meaningly at the lad who was still tinkering with the boat. ‘That’s the police,’ he said in scorn, ‘sending his son out to keep tabs on me. Special Branch has got no time for the uniforms, and Gordon Knox can’t keep the local lads in order, let alone deal with a professional hit man. No, you settle your own scores in Sgoradale.’

  ‘You said it was your imagination.’

  ‘I said it could be—this time.’

  She suppressed a sigh. ‘It could be more … comfortable to share your anxiety—’

  ‘Who says I’m anxious? I’m just on my guard.’

  ‘If you talk it over with your wife, there are two pairs of eyes—’

  ‘There are three pairs already. The kids know what to watch out for.’

  ‘Mr Campbell! If the children are in your confidence, then your wife should be. She’s worried sick.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, casual as a child. ‘I’ll go and have it out with her.’

  He turned and loped to his van. Amazed at his tone and not at all pleased with his turn of phrase, she stared after him as he drove away, then she looked towards the Knox lad. He had mounted his bicycle and was riding slowly in the direction that Campbell had taken.

  She went home to her domestic chores. While she was washing up she glanced out of the kitchen window to see what appeared to be a string of beads moving diagonally across the escarpment. As she watched, the leader turned at an acute angle and the rest followed in its tracks. They were sheep and they must be on a path that was invisible from below. That would repay investigation.

  After lunch, she followed the river upstream and climbed past a series of waterfalls to emerge on the open moor. She crossed the river by dry boulders and trudged t
hrough the heather to the lip of the escarpment. Following its edge, she came to the track where she’d seen the sheep and looked straight down on the roofs of the lodge. Beyond it were the grounds, less wooded than they appeared to be from sea level, more like parkland. Two riders were threading their way through spires of American spruce.

  They halted. They must be talking for the horses swung about, anxious to be away, but the people were deep in conversation and ignored the fretting of their mounts. Another person was coming up the lodge drive, accompanied by a diminutive orange speck: Alec and Baby on their afternoon constitutional.

  The sun was warm and she watched idly. She saw Alec approach the house but, before the drive widened to the forecourt, he took off across the lawns in the direction of the river. Where the lawns ended and the parkland began, man and dog disappeared behind trees, to emerge again—Alec plodding like an old man.

  The riders were between Alec and the river. Now they were in motion again, riding away from him a half-mile or so ahead, and each party hidden from the other. The riders were still restraining their horses and even at this distance a horseman could sense the animals’ frustration as they walked with short stiff steps. A head was tossed, haunches swung out. It happened once too often, too near a tree; there was a flurry of bucking and the riders faced each other, the ponies backing and filling. Suddenly one broke away—amazingly fast it seemed to the watcher on the scarp; she saw an arm rise and fall as the rider whipped his mount to full gallop: down the path up which Alec Millar was coming.

  Miss Pink watched in horror. He must hear the hoofbeats, she thought; he’s got time to jump clear. Alec had stopped. The horse exploded from a group of firs, closing the gap, but before they collided—fast horse and stationary man—Alec must have moved. There was a space between them as the horse passed, but the speed checked dramatically. There was a scream. The shape of the horse had changed; it had gone down.

  Miss Pink raised the binoculars. The horse was climbing to its feet, the saddle hanging below its belly. The policeman’s son was standing, clutching his arm and staring at big, childlike Alec who was advancing on him like a gorilla, with what appeared to be a club in one hand. Of the poodle there was no sign.

  Everything was in slow motion and Miss Pink had time to reflect that she could be the only witness when suddenly the scene changed. Young Knox was running through the trees and Alec, starting after him, lurched back, took a wild swipe at the horse which plunged away and took off at a gallop, the saddle bumping between its legs.

  Miss Pink released her breath and lowered the binoculars. She looked to her right and saw a tiny figure moving rhythmically round a green space: Flora MacKenzie taking her pony over jumps. If that had been a lovers’ spat, she thought, it had been one-sided. This one wasn’t bothered.

  She descended the green track and worked her way through the parkland until she reached the path she was looking for. This was used regularly by ponies, but their tracks were overlaid by the gouged imprints of an animal at full gallop. She turned north towards the river and, after some casting about, discovered the place where the incident had occurred. There was the indentation made by the pony when it fell and rolled, and there was the broken branch which must be the club that Alec had brandished, but there was nothing else and for that she was thankful.

  As she approached her cottage, a woman came bustling down the nurse’s drive and hurried ahead to turn in at the Post Office. Miss Pink unlocked her front door and left it ajar. It was five-thirty. Mindful that Beatrice Swan had invited her to dine at six-thirty, she went upstairs to run her bath.

  She was changed and downstairs again when the nurse passed the open door. Miss Pink called to her. She turned back: a slim neat person, her hair all but concealed by the uniform cap, her face unremarkable except for the eyes: hooded, large and grey, enhanced by careful make-up. Miss Pink introduced herself and Anne Wallace responded pleasantly and with no sign of impatience.

  ‘I was on the cliff,’ Miss Pink said, with a gesture as incomplete as the statement. ‘Did Alec have an accident?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ The accent suggested the nurse came from the Hebrides. ‘His dog was killed. He’s—very unhappy about it. Did you see what happened?’

  ‘Probably less than Alec did. I was over half a mile away and they were in the trees. What does Alec say?’

  ‘He’s in no condition to tell us.’

  ‘A convulsion?’

  The nurse stalled. ‘He’s unwell. He came home with the dog in his arms, and crying, so you see …’

  ‘I know his history from Mrs Millar. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No, Rose can cope. She phoned me because he was worse than usual, with the dog and all. I mean—’

  ‘She was afraid that the convulsion would be worse,’ Miss Pink interpreted. ‘Shocking for anyone, of course, but worse for Alec.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Oh, no one. Not a person. The dog must have been in the way of a pony.’

  ‘Who was riding it, or do you mean the pony was loose?’ Miss Pink did not respond. ‘Alec will tell us when he’s better,’ the nurse said. ‘It was either Flora MacKenzie or Hamish Knox.’

  ‘It was the boy.’

  ‘He did it deliberately?’

  ‘No. The pony went down and the boy must have taken quite a nasty tumble, with the speed he was going.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘Why, Alec went for him and young Knox ran away. I thought, from a distance you know, that no harm had been done, except a few bruises to horse and rider. I did hear a scream, however.’

  ‘That was the dog. It was all Alec could say when he reached home: “She screamed.” He’s not going to forget it in a hurry.’

  ***

  ‘That was an understatement,’ Beatrice said. ‘Alec’s world revolved around that animal. He told me once, and without a trace of self-consciousness, that he thought of her as his “kid sister”. His words.’

  They were in the sitting room at Feartag. This evening Beatrice was in fine pink wool and in the lamplight her skin looked like parchment, the deep eye sockets stressing her age and fragility.

  ‘Another dog would hardly fill the gap,’ Miss Pink mused.

  ‘He’d kill it.’ The statement was without emotion and Miss Pink was amazed. On reflection she agreed that this would be likely.

  ‘You know how his mind works,’ she conceded. ‘I didn’t tell Anne Wallace this, but he would have attacked young Knox—he’d picked up a heavy branch—but the boy ran away. So then he aimed a blow at the pony.’

  ‘A natural reaction for anyone, and Alec has less control than most people.’

  ‘What can his relationship with young Knox be now?’

  ‘Someone may have to accompany him on his walks for a while, but if there’s no dog he won’t take walks. The answer might be to send him away for a time, on a supervised holiday.’

  ‘Or Hamish might be sent away for a while?’

  ‘Hamish will do as he pleases.’

  ‘His parents have little influence?’

  Beatrice regarded her guest speculatively. ‘Have you heard about the police car being found in Anne Wallace’s drive at dawn? The village people pretend it was Hell’s Angels, who were also supposed to be breaking into cars around that time. But they wouldn’t have known about Knox and the nurse, and they didn’t have access to the keys of the police car. But if local youths moved that car, then the keys still had to be handed to them, and replaced.’

  ‘Why would Hamish want to do a thing like that?’

  ‘As a practical joke. The village has known—I should say some of us have known—for a long time that Knox was more friendly with Anne Wallace than he should be. I suspect his own wife knew. But Joan Knox is a doormat and even if she weren’t, she might hope that the affair would run its course. Be that as it may, people knew, but with the discretion that you get in small communities nothing was said, at least in public. There was no gossip. W
e have to live together. Turning a blind eye is a survival tactic in a place like Sgoradale. Hamish doesn’t have that tactic.’

  ‘Have there been other incidents?’

  After a while Beatrice said, ‘There are telephone calls.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘The type where you pick up the phone and no one speaks. Sometimes there is a laugh. The phone at the other end is put down with a clatter.’

  ‘A pay phone or private?’

  ‘A private line.’

  ‘And the laugh?’

  ‘Muffled, breathless, more of a snigger.’

  ‘Does anyone else get such calls?’

  ‘I haven’t asked. It’s not the kind of thing one talks to people about.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘For a few weeks. I’ve had two of them—that is, two that I’ve answered. They come late at night. The first two times I came downstairs; now I let the phone ring and I lie there, listening. It rings for ages. One gets more and more disturbed. I find the whole business absolutely monstrous!’ She shuddered and bit her lip.

  Miss Pink said calmly, ‘And you think Hamish is making these calls?’

  ‘Oh, no. No!’ Beatrice was shocked. ‘It’s one thing to play a bad joke on your father, but quite another to set out to terrify a woman living alone. But someone’s making them, certainly. I’m inclined to think it’s some children on the lighthouse road—older children, adolescents.’

  ‘You’ve not talked to Coline about it?’

  ‘No. I find Coline superficial and peculiarly arrogant. She’s sociable, but she’s more concerned with her books than with real people. Of course the books are money-spinners and sometimes I wonder if Coline’s only interested in money. She seems to have little feeling, even for her family. No, I don’t confide in Coline. And as for Ranald, he would be gallant and get on the telephone to the Chief Constable—and what could he do? This would never have happened when Robert was alive.’

  ‘Why not? Even he couldn’t have done anything about an anonymous caller.’

  ‘You don’t understand. The call isn’t dangerous; it’s a signal—that someone is out there who knows you’re alone, who could even have seen the lights go on in your house as you went downstairs to answer the phone. You’re being watched. He’s revelling in your fear; fear that he’s going to break in and … you know the rest. None of it could have happened with a man in the house, a man whom everyone knew was a splendid shot and without fear.’