by Gwen Moffat
‘Mrs Knox seems to think it’s Hamish,’ Beatrice said.
Rose was very still. ‘Why would she think that?’
‘The captain of the boat could have said it was a boy’s body.’
‘Well, he could have.’ Her restless hands aligned and realigned magazines on the counter. ‘We shall know soon enough. Why should it be him?’ A door slammed at the rear of the building and she moved towards the living quarters so fast that she knocked some tins off a shelf.
‘That must have been someone going out,’ Beatrice said. After a few moments they heard Alec protesting loudly, his voice punctuated by urgent muttering. ‘They can’t hurt him,’ he was saying. ‘I won’t let them … that was him on a horse! Cars aren’t the same; I’ll keep him on the lead. He’s got to have his walk … How can you? You got the shop to mind, and Dad’s down there anyway … I always walk him at—what’re you doing?’ This was a rising wail. ‘I don’t care about them; you can’t keep me a prisoner—’
Rose showed for a moment, struggling with a door-stop, then the inner door slammed on herself and Alec, if not the sound of his voice. The shop-bell rang and Esme walked in. ‘Good morning.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Have you heard?’
‘Is it anyone we know?’ Beatrice asked delicately.
‘I didn’t hang around, but rumour says it’s a boy’s body.’ With one accord they stared through the shop window. The East Coaster was now alongside the quay.
‘How’s Joan taking it? I saw you talking to her.’ Getting no response, Esme gestured towards the back of the shop. ‘Why’s that door shut—and who’s that shouting?’
‘She won’t let Alec out,’ Beatrice said.
‘Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’
A telephone was ringing in the house. It stopped and after a moment or two, the door to the living quarters opened gently and Alec eased into the shop, carrying the puppy. He lifted the flap in the counter only to find his way blocked by Miss Pink. Behind him Rose appeared, flustered and fierce. ‘He’s not to go out,’ she said quickly. ‘He’s not well.’
‘You must stay in this morning, Alec,’ Beatrice said pleasantly, ‘because we don’t want you talking to the people from the newspapers.’
‘Why not?’ He was sweating and he didn’t look all that fit. His mother had hold of his arm, but she couldn’t draw him behind the counter. The puppy whined and struggled. Beatrice looked at Miss Pink, who said, ‘Because the reporters are clever and they may print things you didn’t say.’
‘I’ll sue them.’
‘Oh, great,’ Esme exclaimed.
‘You can’t.’ Miss Pink was equable. ‘You could if you were poor, because then the lawyer’s free; in your position the bill has to be paid by your mother. Has she got several thousand pounds to give you?’
‘No.’ He was dumbfounded. ‘She hasn’t got hundreds. Oh dear, what do I do then?’
‘There’s no problem; let’s go in and talk about it …’ She had turned him round and was edging him through the doorway as she talked. None of the others followed. He stepped into a cosy little parlour and asked her to sit down. ‘Now tell me what’s on your mind,’ he said.
***
‘It took the wind out of my sails,’ she told Beatrice when they were outside the shop again. ‘The words, the intonation were a perfect mimicry of someone: wise, kind, compassionate. After that he was a child again. He didn’t know what “sue” meant any more than he would know the motive behind a reporter’s questions. He’d tell them every detail of his confrontation with Hamish: the poodle’s being run down, the bowl hurled out of the window. He’d probably say he meant to kill Hamish.’
‘I wonder if the police have interviewed him.’ Beatrice looked across the water. ‘People are moving; we’d better make tracks for home. You’ll stay for lunch?’
‘Beatrice, you’re too calm. We have to find out who it is.’
‘You go then; I don’t want to know.’
Miss Pink stumped down the road to her car and drove to the quay. When she reached it she got out and closed the door quietly so as not to alert the people in the crowd. She could distinguish Duncan Millar, old Sinclair and Butchart from the hotel. The media men were at the front and facing them were two uniformed policemen.
She skirted the people to a point which brought her astern of the boat, with no one blocking her view. For a minute or two she saw nothing remarkable, although she could hear the click of cameras and the watchers were obviously focusing on something. Then, on the boat, two men stood up—Pagan and Steer—and conferred as they looked downwards, absorbed in some object at their feet. Pagan gave an order and several men in plain clothes went aboard. The body, wrapped in tarpaulin, was lifted ashore and carried to a trailer. The police had brought in a Mobile Incident Unit. There was a general movement towards it, the detectives and the cortège followed by the Press, Miss Pink to one side.
When he reached the steps of the trailer, Pagan stopped and turned. Reporters pushed forward. Miss Pink caught his eye and saw him frown as if puzzled by her presence, but he turned back to the reporters and the cameras and said calmly, ‘The body is that of a local boy, and he’s been identified as Hamish Knox. He disappeared from home on Sunday night, but it was thought that he’d left the area—’
‘How did he die?’
‘Are there signs of foul play?’
‘Is there a connection between this death and Campbell’s?’
‘How old was he?’
‘Where is Knox?’
He held up his hand. ‘Now you know,’ he chided them, ‘that I can’t answer any questions regarding his death until after the autopsy, and as for a connection between this and Campbell’s death, we’ll be considering that possibility of course. The boy was sixteen; as for his father, I would expect you to cooperate here (“as I with you” was the tacit corollary) and respect the privacy of the bereaved parents.’ He caught Miss Pink’s eye again, nodded towards the interior of the trailer and went inside. Other men in plain clothes emerged to watch the crowd disperse. Miss Pink mounted the steps of the trailer.
The bundle lay on the floor. Pagan said grimly, ‘Well, here’s a pretty kettle of fish, and no mistake.’ He lifted a corner of the tarpaulin and she saw features with a familiar cast, although she wouldn’t have said immediately that this was Hamish Knox because she was confused by the condition of the face. She had flinched when she saw Pagan’s intention, anticipating some horror similar to Campbell’s head, but the same forces had not been at work here.
The face was dark where she would have expected it to be blanched, and the skin of the forehead was rubbed, giving it the appearance of scuffed leather. The lips had a blue cast, and when she looked closer she saw that the whites of the open eyes were speckled with little dark spots. She was so astonished by this that she could only stare at Pagan.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘Those flecks in the eyes—and the blue lips—can it be asphyxia?’
‘Good.’ He was like a professor commenting on a student’s progress. Behind him two strange men were studying papers, ostentatiously not listening. Pagan seemed to be waiting.
‘He was murdered?’ she asked quietly.
‘We mustn’t jump to conclusions.’
She wanted to shake him, but as his words sank in she saw that there was a technical problem and she responded with interest. ‘Asphyxia by accident?’ she wondered. ‘You mean he could have choked—or drowned? Do you get those flecks in drowning? What are they called? It’s like pistachio.’
‘Petechial haemorrhages. I think we can turn him over since he’s been tumbled about by the sea for quite a while. Give us a hand here.’
He peeled back the tarpaulin and, aided by the two junior men, eased the body on to its face. It was painfully slight; she hadn’t realised what a small boy Hamish was—most obvious now because, although wearing jeans and trainers, the upper part of the trunk was bare. The waist above the shrunken cinch of the jeans was redde
ned with a kind of blush, but the shoulders would have been white—were still white where they weren’t marked with the same kind of abrasions as those on the forehead. There were similar marks on the elbows. The body had the appearance of having been partially scrubbed with a wire brush.
Pagan felt delicately in the damp hair, looked at his fingers and straightened up. ‘Slight fracture there,’ he said. ‘You see the abrasions, ma’am?’
‘The body was carried along the bottom? That’s the effect of sand and rocks, after he went in the water?’
He raised his eyebrows and gestured to the dark lumbar region below the pale shoulder blades.
‘Post mortem staining,’ she said, knowing exactly what it portended, knowing as he held her eye what he would say, and he said it: ‘Post mortem staining. The body was kept somewhere before it was put in the water. We’ve got a double murderer on our hands. I’m going to see Knox now; he’s in the hotel with Steer, away from the Press. I need more information about this boy and somehow I don’t think the father’s got anything else to tell me. And the mother? Is she alone now, I wonder?’
‘Miss Swan was going to ask Mary MacLeod to be with her.’
‘I’m worried about tonight, about people who live on their own who may have seen something they shouldn’t—like Campbell did.’
‘You’re sure of that? What kind of crime would be worth murdering two people for?’
‘Another—old—murder? You could go on for ever. And then this place has access to foreign ports. It could be drugs, although they don’t come so far north usually; Cardigan Bay is good enough for the drugs runners. Poaching? Surely not. I’ve no idea why these two were killed, but I’m worried. Killing gets progressively easy. Our man’s not mad, not so’s you’d notice, but he’s unhinged. And think of all the people living alone in this place without even a dog to bark at an intruder. You might spread the word around—impress on them that they ought to get home before dark this evening, and secure all their doors and windows. And that goes for you too, ma’am.’
***
Miss Pink’s leaving the trailer was the signal for Esme to intercept her before she could reach her car. The woman had been talking to the crew of the fishing boat. When Miss Pink dutifully passed on Pagan’s warning, her reaction was careless: ‘And what makes him so sure it’s not one of us?’
‘It could be,’ Miss Pink agreed. ‘But asking everyone to stay indoors after dark is tantamount to a curfew; it affects the guilty as well as those at risk. Anyone abroad could be asked his business.’
‘On the excuse that he’s in danger? That’s a bit transparent. So how was Hamish killed?’
‘He was murdered and he had a fractured skull.’ Pagan had told her to say no more than that.
Esme looked puzzled. ‘With that storm, it’s surprising he was still in one piece. Surely a fractured skull isn’t sufficient evidence to assume he was murdered? The impact could have been against a rock. What else did the police tell you?’
‘Only that: a fractured skull.’
‘I see. There must have been other marks, but you’ve been told not to talk. That way they may be able to trap the murderer and weed out false confessions from exhibitionists, right?’
‘Aren’t you bothered about Hamish being killed?’
‘No. He was a hooligan—far worse than a gang of louts because he was a loner. His father is supposed to be upholding the law—but it wasn’t illegal activities Hamish enjoyed, just immoral ones. Amoral, I should say. He was anti-social in the fullest sense of the word. He’s got his come-uppance, and you ask me if I’m bothered!’
‘Are you going to take that line with the Chief Inspector?’
‘It’s not a line; it’s how I feel. Of course I shall say the same thing to him. What do I have to be afraid of?’
A car came round the Lamentation bend and turned into the nurse’s drive. ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ Miss Pink said. ‘I have to see Anne.’
‘I’ll come with you. I have to see her too,’ Esme said firmly in the face of Miss Pink’s hesitation and then, coyly: ‘You can’t have things all your own way, you know!’
***
Anne Wallace’s reaction to their appearance on her doorstep was certainly not one of pleasure, although it was difficult to determine what emotion was uppermost in her mind. Her gaze flicked from one to the other, then to the quay. ‘Is it important?’ she asked, holding the door as if prepared to close it in their faces.
‘Extremely important,’ Miss Pink said.
‘You’d better come in then.’ There was no attempt at politeness. ‘I’m in a rush this morning,’ she went on, leading the way to her kitchen. ‘I’ve just nipped in for a coffee and a bite to eat and I’m off again. Will you have coffee?’
Miss Pink declined for both of them. Esme was silent, but her eyes followed every movement of the nurse as she filled a kettle, switched it on and turned back to them. ‘Well?’
‘You know that Hamish’s body has been recovered?’ Miss Pink asked.
Anne’s face was set. ‘Yes?’
‘Did Knox call you?’ Esme asked.
Anne turned on her as if she’d been attacked. ‘You mind your own business!’ Her wild eyes came back to Miss Pink. ‘What have they done with him?’
Panic was infectious and there was a trace of it in Esme’s reaction: ‘What would they do with him? He’s not arrested. You’re not thinking straight. He’s the boy’s father!’
Anne swallowed, fighting for control. She kept her eyes on Miss Pink. ‘How did he come to be in the water? And what’s it got to do with Gordon anyway?’
‘Hamish was murdered,’ Esme said coldly.
‘No!’ Anne looked from one to the other. ‘That’s her exaggeration, isn’t it?’ There was a smothered snort from Esme. Anne faced her. ‘You talk like a bad book: always making things up. You get your kicks out of other people’s lives.’
‘She’s right,’ Miss Pink said. ‘He was murdered.’
‘So?’ The kettle boiled, was switched off and ignored. Miss Pink told her of the fractured skull, of Pagan’s warning about a double murderer, of the need for prudence.
‘What kind of prudence do you employ against a homicidal maniac?’ Esme asked. ‘He broke into Camas Beag just by smashing a window-pane.’
‘He’s not a maniac,’ Miss Pink said. ‘And as for Camas Beag—’
‘Why do you say that?’ Anne was strident. ‘If he’s killed two people in a week, what’s stopping him killing a third, or more? Why is he doing it?’
‘You tell us,’ Esme said.
‘You interfering old cow!’
‘That’s enough, Esme!’ Miss Pink showed a flash of anger. ‘You were persecuted too; don’t forget that. Whoever was playing tricks on village people had an instinct for vulnerable targets.’ Esme licked her lips. Miss Pink turned back to Anne. ‘It’s because the police don’t know the motives for the murders that Pagan wants us all to take precautions, particularly if we live alone. Being the nurse, you may be forced to go out on call. I suggest you telephone Pagan at the hotel and ask him if you can have an escort in an emergency.’
Anne gaped. ‘How long is this going to last?’
‘Presumably until Pagan is sure that it’s safe again.’
‘That’s when he’s caught,’ Esme said savagely. ‘And how long is that going to take, that’s what she’s saying, right?’
Accusing eyes were turned on Miss Pink—united now in their distrust of her. She was the scapegoat for a situation that confined them to houses where the enemy could effect entry just by smashing a pane of glass.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She glanced across the water as she drove along the street, saw that trees obscured Camas Beag and had a sensation of déjà vu. At Feartag Beatrice looked up in astonishment as she burst into the kitchen. ‘I know why he went to Camas Beag: to use the telephone! Three years ago someone broke into a summer cabin in Montana for the same reason. I suddenly remembered.’
‘Not necessarily. He could have had a telephone but not the opportunity to use it. Every road seems to lead back to Hamish.’ She recounted her interview with Pagan; she had been circumspect with Esme and Anne, but at Feartag she felt secure and uninhibited. She told Beatrice about the petechial haemorrhages and what they meant.
‘You’re much more confident about this murder,’ Beatrice said.
‘The motive for Hamish’s death seems obvious.’
‘Didn’t you think it was in the case of Campbell?’
‘Ye-es, that he saw something he shouldn’t have seen—but Hamish was alive then—that’s a point. How does the sequence go? I found Campbell’s body on Monday afternoon and he was here Saturday evening. With the amount of damage that had been done to the body, he must have been put in the water on Saturday night, probably not long after he left here. But Hamish was around on Sunday; he was searching for Campbell at the back of Fair Point. Hamish disappeared on Sunday night, and turns up in the sea on Wednesday morning. Where was he on Monday and Tuesday?’
Beatrice shook her head helplessly. ‘I’m talking to myself,’ Miss Pink said. ‘The autopsy may be able to narrow down the time of death—the extent to which his last meal was digested and so on—but if we assume he climbed out of his bedroom window some time around … tennish? There’s a huge gap before he was put in the sea, and that was either Monday night or last night.’
‘How do you arrive at that?’
‘Because the trawler picked up the body at the mouth of the loch, and it had to be put in the water on an ebb tide. The tide turned last night around eleven.’
‘You left out Sunday. If he left his home about ten in the evening, the tide would be ebbing until about three in the morning.’
Miss Pink was silent. When she did speak her mind was elsewhere; she said absently, ‘He wasn’t put in the sea the first night.’ Her eyes glazed. ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘he could have been put in the water anywhere on an ebb tide, even from the lighthouse road, and he’d still be found at the mouth of the loch.’ She focused suddenly on Beatrice. ‘I’ll opt for last night,’ she said crisply. ‘There was a risk of his coming back on a rising tide otherwise.’