As they strolled along, Annabelle told the Inspector everything; from her journey to the island, her time with Roger and Bonnie, her cover for Father Boyce while he was on holiday, to Felicity’s discovery of the jewelry box, the burglary at the church, and then Harry’s murder. The Inspector listened intently, his face stern and thoughtful, as he considered each piece of the puzzle that Annabelle presented to him. By the time she was finished, they had reached the village. She stopped and looked at him directly, eager for his opinion.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Hmm,” Nicholls murmured, scratching the stubble on his cheek, “do you have any suspects in mind? People acting strangely? Possible motives?”
“Quite a few of those I have met could easily be considered ‘strange.’ Let’s see… There were the two fishermen who found the body and subsequently stored it in their boat. They seemed harmless enough, but I know next to nothing about them. Then there’s Robert Kilbairn. He lives at Clannan Castle, to the north of the island, though again, I’ve not spoken to him. Just seen him whoosh by. A couple of American tourists are after him. He’s sold them some sort of lordship, but he seems to be avoiding them. Mairéad, the victim’s daughter, was seen having an argument with him in the hours before his body was found.”
“Interesting,” mused the Inspector.
“And then there’s Pip Craven.”
The Inspector held his hand up to stop her, his eyes wide.
“Pip Craven? The Pip Craven? Of the Craven Idols?”
Annabelle smiled broadly.
“Mike! I didn’t know you had such subversive musical tastes!”
“Didn’t everyone have that Sons of Darkness album at some point? I’ve still got the vinyl stored in the attic.”
“Well, you must let me listen to it some time. It’s been a while since I’ve heard it.”
“Definitely.”
They gazed at each other for a moment, before suddenly snapping back to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“The very same Pip Craven, yes,” Annabelle confirmed, turning to walk again. “Apparently he moved onto the island a while ago in order to ‘get away from it all’ and clean his life up.”
“That makes sense,” Nicholls shrugged. “Wild celebrities often do that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” Annabelle replied, “but that’s not the strange part. There are a lot of rumors about Pip’s eccentric behavior. About him being up at all hours, interested in the dark arts, and even conducting satanic rituals.”
Nicholls huffed. “They’ve probably just listened to his music and taken it at face value.”
“I’m not so sure about that. The first time I spoke to him, he asked me about vampires and strange deaths. I saw him in the distance when we first examined the body, and yesterday the two fishermen had to chase him away from Harry’s dead body!”
“Really?”
“It seemed so,” Annabelle said, as they approached the village. She saw a long-haired man walking up the road from the church. “Speak of the devil-worshipper.”
Pip bowed his head beneath his black locks and crossed the road quickly, utterly failing in his attempt to pretend that he hadn’t seen Annabelle.
“Pip!” she called, as the man quickened his pace. “Pip!”
Annabelle quickly crossed the road with a few long strides and stalked the old rocker until he could no longer ignore her.
“Oh, hello,” he said meekly, as the Inspector came up and stared at him curiously from behind Annabelle’s shoulder. “I didn’t see you.”
“Tosh! I don’t believe that for a second!” Annabelle said. She sounded like a primary school teacher, emboldened now that she had the Inspector with her. “Pip, this is Detective Inspector Nicholls.”
“Hello,” Pip said, timidly. Mike nodded.
“Now tell me, what on earth were you doing nearby Harry’s body yesterday?” Annabelle demanded officiously.
“Nothing,” Pip pleaded. “Honestly. I wasn’t going to touch anything. I just wanted to look at it. That’s all.”
“That’s a strange thing to do and a weak excuse,” Nicholls said, his voice assuming his usual gruffness, “and it’ll sound even weaker in a courtroom.”
Pip’s face contorted in an expression of horror.
“Court?”
“Despite what you see on TV, murderers often return to the site of a killing.”
“What? You think I had something to do with Harry’s murder?”
“You were watching us on the evening of his murder, you knew where his body was stored, you live closest to the place he was killed, and you were caught trying to get to his body after he died,” Annabelle said, copying the Inspector’s authoritative tone. “It does sound like you have something to do with it, yes.”
“But… no… I…” Pip spluttered and mumbled as he began multiple trains of thought, looking up at the tall figures of Annabelle and the Inspector. Both towered over him. Suddenly he slumped, burying his head in his hands as he shook his head. “I can’t tell you. I can’t.”
“Tell us what, Pip?” Annabelle asked changing her demeanor entirely in the face of his distress and placing her hand on his arm.
“You’ll tell someone,” Nicholls said gravely. “It’s just a matter of who and whether it’s now or later.”
Pip looked up again. He saw the severity in the Inspector’s expression and the sympathy in Annabelle’s. He sighed deeply, realizing that he had no option but to come clean.
“I’m writing a book,” Pip mumbled. “A crime thriller. It’s about a rock band on tour. There’s a murder in every town they play. The group has to solve the murders to clear their own names.”
Annabelle and Mike looked at each other, baffled.
“I heard from one of the locals that Davy had stored Harry’s body on his boat, and… well, I saw pretty much everything you could ever imagine seeing when I was on tour, but not that. I wanted to take a look for myself. I thought it would be good research for my book; that I might learn some things I could use in it.”
“Is that why you asked me about strange deaths when you spoke to me?”
Pip nodded.
“And vampires?”
He nodded again.
“And unusual happenings in graveyards?”
“Yes.”
“Why were you digging in your garden on Saturday afternoon?”
“I was timing how long it takes to dig a shallow grave.”
“Why is that such a big secret? Why couldn’t you just tell us that?” Nicholls asked.
Pip sighed once more. “Think about it. I’m the guy who wrote lyrics like ‘There are bats above my bed, am I alive or am I dead.’ I mean, it’s hardly Shakespeare, is it? Who would read a book by someone who made a career based on shock value and tight trousers? It’s not like I had any talent. No. I want this book to be a fresh start. I want to publish the book under a pen name, and have it judged on its own merit. I’ve been trying to keep the book a secret.”
“That’s very admirable,” Annabelle said.
“And very difficult, apparently,” retorted Pip.
“I’m sorry we cornered you so harshly,” Annabelle said. “But you have to admit, it did look suspicious.”
“I know,” Pip said, “I’m sorry. I should have come clean sooner.”
The Inspector was less keen to let Pip off the hook quite so quickly. “Hmm well, we’ll be keeping an eye on you,” he said dubiously. “Don’t do anything that might look even the slightest bit suspicious in the future, alright?”
His skepticism was more for show than anything. Even the Inspector had to agree that now Pip’s secret was out, the forlorn, bedraggled rocker was hardly the dangerous, menacing presence of his youth. He was rather crestfallen by the fact, actually.
“You can be on your way now. But no going after any more bodies, okay? And no digging up… things.”
“No problem, Inspector. All I’d ask is that you keep the boo— my project, a
secret.”
“Of course,” Annabelle said.
Once Pip had gone on his way Annabelle turned to the Inspector. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re right. There are some very peculiar characters on this island.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“IF I WERE working this case, and I’m not, mind you,” Mike added quickly, “I’d have a chat with the victim’s daughter.”
“Mairéad? Oh, you can’t possibly think she had anything to do with it?”
“Maybe not, but she was one of the last people, maybe the last person, to see Harry, if eye witness accounts are correct. And it sounds like she did have a motive.”
Annabelle grudgingly conceded that he was right. She just couldn’t imagine the young woman had anything to do with her father’s death.
They walked over to the pub and pushed through the heavy doors. The pub hadn’t been open for business since Harry’s murder and the air in the place was even more stale than usual.
“We’re not—“ a voice called out.
“—Open. Yes I know, Mairéad. We’ve come to talk to you about your father. We have a few questions,” Annabelle called out.
“Oh, hello, Vicar. How can I help you?” Mairéad appeared, wiping her hands on a tea towel. She was still pale. Her fair hair was roughly swept up onto her head and held in place with a clip. Tendrils hung down, and she pushed one of them from her face.
“Please. Sit down. Can I offer you some tea or coffee?” She peered anxiously at them.
“No, no thank you,” Annabelle replied. “This is Inspector Nicholls from Truro.” Mike nodded silently again.
“We want to ask you about what happened the day Harry died.” Mairéad gulped and took a steadying breath but didn’t say anything.
Again they were sitting at one of the small, wooden, round tables. Annabelle leaned forward and looked Mairéad directly in the eyes, “Can you tell us if there was anything unusual about the day Harry was murdered?”
“No, no I don’t think so. It was a Sunday much as any other. The pub was busy as usual. Dad was here chatting with everyone. You spoke to him, right Annabelle?” Mairéad looked imploringly at the Vicar.
“Would you say you had a good relationship with your father?” Mike intervened.
“Yes, why?” Mairéad turned to the Inspector as if seeing him for the first time.
“How did you get on with him?”
“Well, we had our issues like fathers and their grownup daughters often do, especially living in such close quarters. He was rather… overprotective. But we rubbed along okay, most of the time.”
“Did you see your father often, Mairéad?” Annabelle asked.
“He flitted back and forth between here and our pub on Fenbarra, but whenever he was here, which was at least half the time, we lived together above the pub.”
“And you didn’t argue or get on each other’s nerves?” Mike pressed.
“Not usually. My Dad had a big personality, but I am a very patient person. I could put up with him. And he is – was – my Dad. I loved him.” Mairéad’s chin began to wobble. Annabelle put her hand on the young woman’s forearm.
“The thing is, Mairéad, we have accounts that on the afternoon of your father’s murder, you had an argument with him. What can you tell us about that?” she said.
Mairéad sighed. She slumped in her seat. “It’s a long story.”
“We have time,” Annabelle continued gently. Mairéad looked at Annabelle and shifted slightly in her chair to face Annabelle directly. Mike sat back to let the two women talk.
“When I came back from the mainland two years ago,” Mairéad began, “I went to work in the pub on Fenbarra. I met a boy who lived there. Alasdair worked with the island’s fishing fleet, had his own boat and everything, but Dad didn’t think he was good enough for me. Dad would interfere, but he couldn’t break us up. I’m a grown woman and entitled to my own life.” Mairéad lifted her chin defiantly but almost immediately slumped again. “We planned to get married, but when Dad caught wind of it, he insisted I come here to work.”
Annabelle frowned, “But couldn’t you have defied your father?” She couldn’t help thinking that Harry’s action was rather archaic and Mairéad’s response rather surprising for someone who’d already branched out on her own and spent time on the mainland.
“Yes, of course, but at first I didn’t realize what he was doing. He told me to look after the pub for just for a few weeks until he hired someone to manage it.”
“And what happened?” Mike asked calmly.
“He basically imprisoned me!” Two spots of color appeared on Mairéad’s cheeks. “I was always working, I couldn’t get away. He never hired anyone to run the place, and he barely gave me any help! I hardly got any time off to see Alasdair! I was trapped here.”
“Did you ever think of just leaving? You’re a young woman, you have your whole life ahead of you,” Annabelle was shocked that a father would treat his daughter like that.
“Yes, I thought about it, but he’s my Dad, you know? I couldn’t just leave him high and dry. I tried to get him to see sense, but all he would do was laugh it off and blow those bloody bagpipes of his!” Mairéad sniffed, and like she had the previous day, pulled a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.
“So what happened on the afternoon of his death, Mairéad? When you were seen arguing?” Mike was cool and casual in his seat. He’d had hundreds of conversations like this.
“Oh, just the same old thing that always happened every Sunday afternoon. The same old argument.”
“Tell us about it,” Annabelle urged, gently.
“I had plans to meet Alasdair. I was going to catch the afternoon ferry. It leaves at two-thirty, so I have to shut the pub at two o’clock sharp and be on my way. I needed Dad’s help to get all the stragglers out of the pub so I could leave on time. But he didn’t help, did he?”
“Did you tell your father you were going to meet your boyfriend?”
“Absolutely not, he would have found a way to stop me, but when he didn’t help close up the pub on time, I decided to just leave them all to it.”
“So what happened?” Mike asked.
“He saw me leaving didn’t he? He called me back. Told me the beer barrels needed changing. He must have guessed what I was doing, because the barrels could easily have been changed later. Anyhow, by the time I’d changed them, I was too late. I didn’t have time to catch the ferry. I came up from the basement and saw the time and just flew into a fury. Everyone had gone by that time, so I just let rip. I was that mad at him. Told him how he wanted to ruin my life, that he was treating me like a slave.”
“That sounds terrible, Mairéad. What did he say?” Annabelle was frowning, her lips pursed.
Mairéad ran her hands over her face, rubbing at her eyes. She looked down at her lap, then back to the two English people sat across from her. “Oh, he denied it as he always did. Said he just wanted someone reliable to run the pub, said he didn’t trust anyone else. He said our pubs were his legacy, my inheritance, and that I should be happy to work for the family business. That they would be mine one day and how lucky I was.”
“So why were you seen running after him outside, yelling?”
“Because this time, this time,” Mairéad was angry now, her lips turning white as she grit her teeth, “before he turned away from me to leave, he taunted me. He started playing those bagpipes over my words, smiling. He marched off, leaving me fuming. I couldn’t contain myself. I thought I’d catch the next ferry, but then I heard about the storm coming and shutting down all the boats, I realized I’d missed my chance for the day. I was so mad, I took off after him. I was like a fishwife, screaming and yelling after him. It was most unlike me, but I’d had enough.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. He carried on playing his bagpipes with a smirk on his face, just like always. His bagpipes were like armor, a shield. He just put them between him and me
, and it was like he could do anything.”
“So how did things end?”
“Well, eventually I blew myself out. Yelled and screamed some, but I knew it was hopeless. Eventually, I turned around and went back to the pub, crying my eyes out. I called Ali, told him what had happened and went upstairs and took a nap.”
“Did anyone see you come back here?”
“Possibly, I don’t know. It’s pretty quiet here on Sunday afternoons.”
“What are your plans now, Mairéad?” Annabelle asked gently.
Mairéad straightened, her face brightening a little, a look of resolution settling on her features. “I’m going to run the pub on Fenbarra. I’ve persuaded the pub manager there to do a swap with me for a few months. Then when everything’s calmed down, Alasdair and I’ll decide what and where our long-term future will be. She smiled weakly, “Something good will come out of this, I’m determined about that.” Her eyes shone with tears, but her voice was strong.
Annabelle turned to Mike. He gave a tiny nod toward the door, and they took their leave. They walked out into the sunshine, glad to be out of the oppressive atmosphere of the pub and into the fresh air once more.
“What do you think, Annabelle?” Mike asked when they walked a few yards from the pub.
“I think, Mike, that our Harry was a rather unpleasant character.”
“Do you believe her?”
“Yes. Do you?“
“Yes, yes I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“COME ON,” ANNABELLE said, leading the way, “I’ll show you the church.”
Nicholls followed, his hands in his pockets. Although this was beginning to feel rather like work for him, he very much intended to enjoy his stroll around the Scottish countryside.
“I’m terribly confused,” Annabelle said, exasperation evident in her voice. “It’s like a tangled ball of wool that just grows ever more knotted the more I pull at it.”
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