Malice in the Highlands

by Graham Thomas

“Yes, of course, Mr. Powell.”

  As he left the hotel, Powell observed that it had stopped raining and a small patch of blue sky had appeared overhead. Whistling tunelessly, he set off on the half-mile walk to number three beat.

  Alphonse “Pinky” Warburton arrived at the Salar Lodge with characteristic élan, skidding his rented Land Rover to an abrupt stop on the gravel sweep fronting the hotel. Short, round, and avuncular, he was turned out like a true countryman in a tweed Norfolk jacket and matching breeks, a tattersall check shirt adorned with a chartreuse tie depicting orange partridges in flight, and a commando-style sweater in which no self-respecting commando would be caught dead.

  He was greeted at the front entrance by Nigel Whitely, who welcomed him to the Salar Lodge. Whitely explained that Mr. Powell had just stepped out but was expected back shortly for lunch. And would Mr. Warburton care for a complimentary aperitif while he waited?

  “Sun's over the yardarm, what? Very kind of you, Whitely.”

  Nigel took charge of Warburton's luggage and, as they entered the hotel, inquired if he had enjoyed a pleasant drive from Aviemore.

  “Absolutely first-rate! I departed early and proceeded at a leisurely pace to better enjoy your magnificent Highland scenery.”

  “Is this your first visit to Kinlochy?”

  Warburton smiled. “Not exactly. For many years my father rented a beat on the Dee near Aboyne. As he had business interests in Inverness at the time, we would frequently travel by way of Kinlochy and Ballater to our fishing. I regret we never took the opportunity to stop here, but I seem to recall that the Spey fishing was closely preserved in those days.”

  Whitely nodded. “Aye, that was so until my wife and I opened the Salar Lodge some eighteen years ago now. Of course the Grampian Angling Association has always permitted visitors on their water, but it tends to get a bit crowded and, as you might expect, the fishing isn't as good as on the private beats. Castle Glyn Estate owns the fishing rights on our stretch of the Spey, but the former laird—”

  “Former laird?”

  “Sadly, Sir Iain is no longer with us, but we owe to him any small measure of success we've enjoyed. Without his assistance, none of this would have been possible. Sir Iain believed, as we did,” Whitely went on to explain, “that Kinlochy's future was tied to tourism, so he kindly offered to let a portion of his fishing to the hotel for the use of our guests.”

  “Very decent of him, I must say. Noblesse oblige, what? You know, Whitely, that sort of attitude is sadly lacking nowadays, rather it's dog eat dog and every man for himself.”

  “I expect you're right,” Nigel replied offhandedly.

  “In any case,” Warburton said, “you will no doubt be pleased to know that Erskine has always raved about this place. Now at long last I'm able to experience it for myself.”

  Nigel smiled. “Mr. Powell is perhaps too generous, but I do hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

  “Oh, I shall, I shall. I've absolutely no doubt about it,” Warburton replied heartily.

  Nigel escorted Warburton into the bar, made the appropriate introductions, and then made his way toward the kitchen with the vague intention of helping Ruby with lunch. Suddenly he stopped and frowned, realizing that he had forgotten something. He turned and retraced his steps to the front hall where he had abandoned Mr. War-burton's luggage. As he stooped to pick up the bags, the telephone jangled. It was the local police constable.

  “No, I'm sorry. Mr. Barrett is not here at the moment, but I expect him back any time now. What?” He turned deathly pale. “Are you sure? Aye—aye, of course. I'll tell him.”

  Nigel slowly replaced the receiver, his thin face devoid of expression. At that moment Powell and Barrett came into the front hall from the drying room. At the sight of Nigel they stopped short.

  “You look as if you've just seen a ghost, man!” Barrett cried. “What in heaven's name is it?”

  Nigel looked up slowly. “That was Shand, the parish constable. A body has been found in the river at Cairngorm. They—they think it might be Mr. Murray.”

  “Murray?” Barrett glanced at Powell. “Oh, I see.”

  Nigel was clearly shaken by the news. He made an obvious effort to regain his composure. “I didn't really know him,” he volunteered. “I mean, not very well, at any rate. But, still…”

  Barrett took charge. “Now, there's no point in jumping to conclusions until we're in full possession of the facts. I'll have a word with Shand and get to the bottom of it. Erskine, you might as well start lunch. I shouldn't be very long.”

  “Oh, my goodness, I'd completely forgotten!” Nigel exclaimed, once again the solicitous host. “Mr. Warburton has arrived. He's waiting in the bar.”

  “Thank you, Nigel,” Powell said. He turned to Barrett. “I'll leave you to it, then.”

  Powell and Warburton were enjoying a postprandial smoke when Barrett joined them. After the introductions Powell inquired how Barrett had got on.

  “It's Murray, all right. His daughter has just made a positive ID. At approximately eleven this morning the body was fished out of the river at Cairngorm—quite literally, I might add—by a gillie named MacDougall. He'd been dead for about twelve hours, give or take.”

  “What's the verdict?”

  Barrett shrugged. “Accidental drowning, from all appearances. It's consistent with what Ruby told you. The man probably got drunk and ended up in the river as a result of some mishap or other. Considering the height of the spate, it's a wonder he didn't finish up in the firth. Ruby was right to be concerned, as it turns out.”

  Powell felt the none too subtle barb. “Pinky, I do hope we're not boring you to tears,” he said.

  ‘On the contrary, I find it all quite fascinating.”

  Powell smiled wryly.

  Warburton turned to Barrett. “I didn't realize that Kinlochy was within your precinct.”

  “It's not really; Grantown Subdivision covers Spey-side. I work out of Divisional Headquarters in Inverness. We don't normally get involved in local matters unless we're called in. In this case the locals knew I was in the neighborhood, so I expect I was notified simply as a matter of courtesy.”

  “I wouldn't be too sure of that if I were you,” Powell volunteered with a wicked grin. “The locals could be easily forgiven for screaming bloody blue murder for help on this one. And, as you say, you are most conveniently in the neighborhood.”

  Barrett glowered. “Don't be daft. I'm on holiday. And besides, the matter is strictly routine.”

  Powell leaned back in his chair. He was beginning to enjoy himself; it wasn't often he found himself in a position to get Barrett's goat. “Surely it hasn't escaped your attention, Alex, that there are several points in connection with this matter that are not exactly routine. First off, this was no ordinary bloke. Castle Glyn is a substantial estate, so Murray was obviously a wealthy man. He was also a foreign national—a Canadian, I believe—which lends a certain delicacy to the situation. I would humbly submit,” Powell concluded, assuming the pedantic air he normally reserved for addressing cadets at the Metropolitan Police Training Centre, “that whilst a superficial examination of the circumstances might lead one to jump to certain obvious conclusions, there are numerous loose ends that remain to be tied. Altogether, I should say, a most worthy case for Chief Inspector Barrett of the Northern Constabulary.’

  “Bugger off.”

  “Right, but don't say I didn't warn you.”

  At that instant, the mantel clock struck one and, as if on cue, a young man entered the room. It was Bob Whitely. In his mid-twenties and tall like his father, he came over to their table, smiling engagingly. Powell introduced Warburton and after handshakes all around he invited Whitely to join them.

  “Nigel tells me you've been in Aberdeen, Bob,” Powell said. “Business or pleasure?”

  Whitely smiled thinly. “Business, actually. I'm looking for work on the oil rigs.” As if to justify himself, he continued quickly, “At my age one has to think ab
out the future and, well, things here don't look too promising …” he trailed off awkwardly.

  Powell was momentarily taken aback. He had always assumed that Bob would someday carry on the Whitely tradition at the Salar Lodge, but times were hard and greener pastures no doubt beckoned. He couldn't help wondering if Nigel would be able to manage on his own, should the time come. In his blandest tone he inquired about the prospects.

  “Pretty grim, I'm afraid. But there may be a chance of something this summer. It apparently rather depends on the price of oil.”

  “Well, I wish you the best of luck, Bob.”

  Whitely mumbled something in reply and there was an uncomfortable silence.

  No doubt thinking it advisable to change the subject, Barrett piped in cheerily, “I expect you've heard about the drowning, Bob.”

  Without warning, Whitely leapt to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. “Aye, and I'm sick to death of hearing about it, if you must know!” he snapped.

  The clatter of utensils and murmur of voices ceased. All eyes were on Whitely.

  He flushed hotly. “You must excuse me—I've work to do.” Without another word he stormed out.

  The sudden, inexplicable vehemence of young Whitely's outburst left the others momentarily speechless. It was Warburton who eventually broke the silence.

  “I say, anyone for a spot of fishing?”

  “An excellent suggestion, Pinky,” Barrett replied with unconvincing heartiness. “The river is dropping more rapidly than anticipated and a fresh run of fish will no doubt have moved up with the spate.”

  Glancing around, Powell noticed with mild relief that the other diners were beginning to resume their normal gustatory activities.

  Warburton got to his feet. “I'd better organize my tackle, then. I'll be in the drying room when you chaps are ready.”

  “We'll see you there shortly,” Powell said.

  After Warburton had departed, Powell turned to Barrett with a raised eyebrow. “As usual, I can see that tact is not one of your stronger suits.”

  Barrett was indignant. “How in hell was I to know he'd react like that?” Then he frowned. “Strange, though. What do you make of it?”

  Powell shrugged. “I'm not sure. The lad is obviously under a considerable strain at the moment. And he's always seemed a bit moody. Still, he demonstrated a curious lack of self-control under the circumstances.” Powell studied the embroidered border of the tablecloth. He wondered absently if the tiny pink roses were Maggie Whitely's handiwork. “You know, Alex,” he said eventually, “I'm beginning to feel distinctly uneasy about this business.”

  Barrett noisily pushed his chair away from the table. “Don't borrow trouble, Erskine. Now, if I'm not mistaken, the salmon are calling.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Ruby MacGregor hurried through the Kinlochy High Street oblivious of her surroundings. She did not see old Mrs. Grant waving to her from the doorway of the Western Isles Wool Shoppe, nor did she notice the small knot of Japanese tourists in front of Solway's House of Scones until it was too late.

  The sightseers scattered like an exploding wicket as Ruby bowled through them, spilling her groceries into the road. Momentarily possessed with a sort of tunnel vision, she was preoccupied with the fate of Mr. Powell's leg of lamb as it rolled under the wheels of a passing estate car. An instant later she was apologizing profusely to her startled, but much smiling and bowing, victims. As there was no obvious damage, she hastily gathered up her packages, mumbled a final apology, and fled the scene, acutely embarrassed.

  I must get a grip on myself, she thought, pausing breathlessly before entering the market square where she had parked her Mini. After paying a visit to Castle Glyn earlier, she had decided to stop in the village to do some shopping. That had been a mistake, she now realized, as she had been unable to concentrate on even the simplest tasks. Suddenly she was angry. How vexing it was that a man whom she had so despised when he was alive should continue to preoccupy her now that he was dead. She shook her head as if to distill her thoughts. Insidiously, the possible implications of recent events had begun to intrude into her consciousness, and she now experienced a growing sense of unease, like a storm brewing over a Highland loch.

  When she arrived at her car she suddenly wondered if she shouldn't buy some more lamb. She didn't really feel up to it, but she had promised Mr. Powell. With a sigh she unlocked the passenger-side door, carefully arranged her packages on the seat, locked the door again, and then set off for the butcher shop, giving wide berth to Sol-way's House of Scones.

  Dr. Alisdair Campbell cursed as he replaced the receiver. It was the second time this month that Morrison had canceled their weekly golf game. He wondered whom else he could call on such short notice. There was Dr. Fletcher in Aviemore, who, being retired, was usually available—he glanced at his watch—but, no, there wouldn't be enough time. He stroked his clipped mustache in a characteristic manner. He was thinking about the postmortem he had scheduled for the following morning. That Murray chap. He frowned. From all appearances it was a straightforward case. If he got started right away and there were no complications, he reckoned that he should be able to finish before seven, although he had to admit that he didn't much fancy the thought of a dissection so close to dinner. Regardless of how many one did, one never got completely used to the idea of carving an inanimate lump of meat, which had, only hours before in some cases, been a living, breathing human being with thoughts, emotions, hopes, and aspirations. The thing was, he decided pragmatically, if he got the job over with that afternoon, he might be able to squeeze in a round of golf with old Fletcher first thing in the morning. Humming to himself, he rang up the hospital to make the necessary arrangements.

  Colonel John Furness, assistant chief constable of the Northern Constabulary, was fuming. It was nearly five o'clock, the time he customarily departed the office for home, and all hell was breaking loose. Only moments before he had been informed by the chief constable that a party of minor royals had departed more or less unannounced from Balmoral that afternoon—for a motor tour of Moray, for God's sake!—and that he would be responsible for coordinating the local security arrangements. And that wasn't the worst of it. The chief had suggested that he consult that insufferable arse from Special Branch, Smythe-Cowan or whatever in hell his name was, who'd been sent up from Glasgow to help prepare for next week's visit by the Polish Minister of Economic Development. The umbrella brigade's role in such matters, Furness had learned from hard experience, was generally along the lines of skiving, while the locals were left to do all the legwork.

  He had already resigned himself to doing his bit for international relations, but this Balmoral business meant diverting even more personnel from their normal duties. The force was hopelessly overtaxed at the moment and, in spite of the usual law-and-order rhetoric from the latest in a long line of stingy regimes, there was no relief in sight. Furness, however, remained philosophical. Governments come and go—he had seen quite a few in his time—but the civil service, thank God, abides.

  To further complicate matters, earlier in the afternoon he had received an inquiry from the Secretary of State's office concerning some Canadian VIP—he riffled through his notes—a certain Charles Murray who had most inconveniently snuffed it the day before in Kinlochy. A simple case of death by misadventure, as far as he could tell, but he decided that he'd better get in touch with Chief Inspector Keith in Grantown for a full report.

  He placed the call and was informed by the duty sergeant that Keith had put his back out digging his garden on the weekend and would be out of commission indefinitely. Furness then spoke to Keith's second-in-command, an Inspector Ferguson, who, he decided immediately, was a hopeless case. The man mumbled something about having received a report from the local constable in Kinlochy about Murray's death, but then had the bloody cheek to admit that he knew nothing more about it. Mounting a Herculean effort to control himself, Furness thanked him with thinly veiled sarcasm (which he su
spected was wasted in any case) and rang off.

  He ruminated for a moment and then began to rummage through his desk for the current duty roster. He'd be damned if he'd call HQ on this one. He ran his finger down the list. “Gordon!” he shouted, seemingly to no one in particular.

  There was a scraping and scuffing in the next room and an instant later a portly and florid sergeant materialized. Furness never ceased to be amazed by the speed at which Sergeant Gordon, in spite of his considerable bulk, could move.

  “Sergeant, I see that Chief Inspectors Barrett and Mac-Donald are both on leave at present. Find out if either of them can be reached. It's important.”

  Faultlessly efficient, as always, Gordon reported in an impenetrable Glaswegian rumble, thick with glottal stops and elided labials, that Inspector MacDonald was out of the country, trekking in Bhutan, but that Chief Inspector Barrett was presently Speyside on his annual fishing holiday.

  Furness remembered now. How providential. “Very good, Gordon. Get in touch with Mr. Barrett and have him call me here tonight. And, oh, yes, send out for some Chinese, would you?”

  When he was alone, Furness permitted himself a fleeting smile. Barrett was not going to like this and he only wished that he could be there to see his chief inspector's reaction. In this damnable job, he thought grimly, one takes one's amusement where one can.

  Powell sighed contentedly. He was a bit sore from wielding his fourteen-foot spliced-cane rod all afternoon, but that was more a result of rusty technique than anything else. By the end of the day, he had been able to Spey cast thirty or so yards of line, so he really couldn't complain. As usual, Barrett had ragged him about the old rod while showing off his own latest carbon fiber weapon. Chacun à son goÛt, Powell thought equably. He downed his whisky with a gulp.

  The afternoon had not been uneventful. Although the river had not yet come into good fishing form, he'd managed to get into a salmon, but after one good run the hook had come away. As chance would have it, neither Barrett nor Warburton had touched a fish. A good omen, Powell decided, well satisfied with himself. Despite their lack of material success, they'd had a grand day on the water and, to Powell's considerable relief, Barrett and Pinky seemed to have hit it off. Salmon were showing in all the pools and if the river continued to drop and clear, conditions promised to be perfect for tomorrow.