Malice in the Highlands

by Graham Thomas

  “Not at all,” Powell lied. “I'm just trying to understand the nature of your relationship.”

  “Then will make it easy for you. We were lovers. It just didn't work out, that's all. Bob has more than his share of problems, and he needed more from me than I was able to give him. I wasn't prepared to be his lover, nursemaid, and surrogate mother. It's true that my father didn't like him, but in spite of what you may have heard, the decision to end the affair was mine. It's as simple as that.”

  “Not quite that simple, Miss Murray, surely.”

  “What do you mean?” Involuntarily, she touched her cheek.

  “Do you know that Bob blamed your father for the breakup?”

  She shrugged. “That doesn't surprise me.”

  “And are you aware that your father went to the Salar Lodge the night he was murdered and threatened to put Nigel Whitely out of business if he didn't keep Bob away from you?”

  She seemed to grow even paler. “I—I'd told Father about going away with Bob to Pitlochry. He was livid of course, but I believe in being honest with people, Mr. Powell, don't you?” Her eyes searched his.

  Powell thought it best not to answer.

  “If I'd thought… but it doesn't matter now, does it?”

  “You've said that you returned to Castle Glyn on Monday evening, but Bob didn't get back until the following morning. Where was he?”

  “We'd originally planned to come back on Sunday, but I decided to stay an extra day and take in a play at the festival. Bob went on to Aberdeen Sunday afternoon.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “He said he was going to look for a job.”

  “Just like that, a bolt out of the blue?”

  “Look, Mr. Powell, I'd made it clear to Bob that it was over as far as I was concerned, but he seemed unable, or unwilling, to accept it. Perhaps a stint on an oil rig seemed a little like joining the Foreign Legion. You know, to forget.” Was there a hint of self-mockery in her voice?

  Curiously detached, Powell marveled at the inevitability of it all. Questions and answers, like those little Russian dolls, one within the other. “How is it then, Miss Murray, if it was all over, as you say, that you and Bob were seen together in Kinlochy less than a week after your father's death?”

  At first she did not reply. When she did, she seemed more disappointed in him than anything else. “After my father's death, Bob paid the obligatory visit to Castle Glyn. It was all very proper, I can assure you. Then a few days later I happened to meet him in the High Street.” She paused. “On that particular day I was feeling—well, not exactly on top of things. Perhaps vulnerable is a better word. Women are supposed to feel vulnerable, aren't they, Mr. Powell? It was a mistake, I can see that now. He probably thought I was leading him on.”

  Powell noticed that she had begun to tremble slightly, but he resisted the temptation to go to her. He felt faintly irrelevant.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked eventually.

  “Are you willing to bring forward a complaint?”

  “Have you thought about Nigel?”

  “That's not a consideration.”

  “Isn't it? It would probably kill him.”

  “You're aware that he'll probably do it again—to somebody else? They always do, you know.”

  “Perhaps he needs help then, not a jail sentence.”

  Powell experienced an all too familiar sense of frustration. He often got into similar debates with his sons. “It's your decision, of course,” he said stiffly. “You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”

  “Right now, I just want to put this sordid little chapter of my life behind me. Now, if there's nothing else …”

  “I assume that you stand to inherit your father's estate.”

  “Yes.” She appraised him cooly.

  “Did Bob know?”

  “He probably guessed, don't you think?”

  “Miss Murray, I want you to consider my next question very carefully before answering. Do you think Bob Whitely is capable of murder?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “If you'd asked me before, I'd have thought it a ludicrous suggestion. Now, I'd have to say I—I just don't know.”

  Powell wondered as he drove back to Kinlochy what in God's name he was going to do.

  CHAPTER 16

  Barrett arrived on schedule the following morning. He and Powell conferred in the dining room over coffee.

  “Where's Pinky?” Barrett asked.

  ‘Out for a stroll with Shand, I expect.”

  Barrett stirred his coffee interminably with an irritating clinking of spoon against Spode. “While you were languishing here Speyside,” he said when he was satisfied with the result, “I managed to dig up a few interesting tidbits.”

  “Such as?”

  “To start with, it seems our friend Sanders is not only a reporter, but a reporter specializing in financial matters. He used to be business editor for the Vancouver Sun before he turned to freelancing.”

  “That explains quite a lot.”

  “And there's this.” He casually tossed over a thick brown envelope. “It just so happens I have a contact at Mountie Headquarters in Ottawa with whom I've consulted on a number of previous occasions. I explained our problem and he was able to get a warrant.”

  The envelope was labeled BRITISH COLUMBIA SECURITIES COMMISSION. Powell extracted the contents of the envelope and quickly leafed through the pages. It was a veritable gold mine of information. For each brokerage house there was a printout of the account statements of clients with short positions for the companies of interest. It took him a few minutes to find what he was looking for. Under the heading WESTERN SECURITIES LTD., 1659 HOWE STREET, VANCOUVER, B. c. was the following entry:

  JOHN G. SANDERS

  ACCOUNT # 3051-35 MARGIN SHORT BROKER 58

  09/21/94 Westgold Mines, Inc. 76,500 S

  11/09/94 Int'L, Silverload Ltd. 50,000 S

  12/29/94 Aurora Mining Corp. 5,000 S

  08/02/95 Cons. Grizzly Gold Ltd. 65,000

  CASH BALANCE: $449,625 DATE: 03/31/96

  “What does it mean?” Barrett said.

  “In a nutshell, Sanders sold something he didn't own in order to make a profit.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  Powell did his best to explain.

  “Forgive me, Erskine, but so what?”

  “I should have thought it was obvious. Sanders was in a position to profit handsomely when the prices of these shares fell on the news of Charles Murray's death. As I understand it the indicated cash balance of nearly four hundred fifty thousand dollars represents the proceeds of his short sales. If the value of the shares were to fall by, say, fifty percent, his profit after he covered his positions, that is after he bought the shares back, would be about two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars, less commissions. A tidy sum in anyone's book.”

  “Hmm.” Barrett examined the entries with renewed interest. “But does it not strike you as curious that these, urn, positions, as you call them, were established some time ago? Why would he wait so long to act?”

  Powell shrugged. “I'll put the question to Paul Ritchie in London. And we'll need to have your Mountie friend contact Sanders's broker in Vancouver to see if he's done any trading since Murray's death.”

  Barrett leapt to his feet. “Consider it done. Now let's have a shufty around the Old Bridge.”

  Powell regarded his uneaten scone forlornly. “McInnes and his men have already gone over the area with a fine-tooth comb,” he protested.

  “Erskine, one can never be too thorough.”

  Powell knew better than to argue.

  Later that morning Powell rang up Paul Ritchie in London, hoping he'd be in the office on a Saturday.

  “Chief Superintendent, this is an unexpected pleasure. How goes the battle?” Ritchie went on to explain that he often came in on weekends to catch up on his paperwork— free from distractions.

  Powell found it hard to imagine the broker without
a phone in each ear and an eye on his quotation machine. “We have a few leads. That's why I'm calling. We've turned up a possible suspect who, interestingly enough, has been an active short seller of the shares of several of Murray's companies.” Powell recited the entries in Sanders's brokerage account statement.

  “Interesting, but hardly conclusive. After all, your chap would not have been alone in his skepticism about the prospects of many of these companies. I can only assume that you have other reasons for your interest in this fellow.”

  “You've missed your calling, Mr. Ritchie. But please bear with me for a moment. It strikes me that these transactions were made over a year ago. If the idea was to kill Murray and then reap the rewards when the share prices collapsed, can you think of any reason why he'd wait so long to act? It seems to me that by delaying he'd run the risk of the share prices going up.”

  “Quite right, Chief Superintendent, because that's exactly what did happen and no one could have predicted it. You see, gold shares generally track the price of gold bullion, and since 1980 when the price peaked at eight hundred forty-three U.S. dollars an ounce, gold has been in an extended consolidation phase. And until quite recently, the junior resource markets have been in decline. But Charles had an uncanny knack for swimming against the tide. His last promotion is a case in point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Early last year one of his smaller exploration companies, Grizzly Gold, made a discovery in Mexico—not significant enough to justify the subsequent rise in the price of the stock, but promising nonetheless. A fortuitous rally in the price of gold, coupled with Charles's undisputed promotional abilities, enabled him to capitalize on the situation. The other companies in Charles's stable were pulled along on Grizzly's coattails.

  “Even after Charles retired, the stock continued to do well in anticipation of more positive results from the property. There's a major new drill program planned for this summer, as a matter of fact. The short sellers were no doubt getting squeezed, so, for them, the recent setback would've been something of a godsend.”

  “Can you think of any other reason for the increase in the share prices, something happening behind the scenes, perhaps?”

  “Nothing official. Securities regulations require the disclosure of any change in material facts that might affect the price of a company's shares. But there are always rumors, of course.”

  “Rumors?”

  “There was speculation a few months ago about the possibility of Grizzly being taken over by a major, but nothing ever came of it.”

  “A major?”

  “A large mining company.” Ritchie paused. “There is also talk of a joint venture between Grizzly and one of the other companies in the stable.”

  “I see. Tell me, Mr. Ritchie, if you were one of those short sellers, what would you have done in light of recent events?”

  “I'd have begun to cover my positions last week when the share prices started to rally. But getting back to this fellow you're interested in, even if his timing had been perfect and he'd managed to cover at the lows, he'd have done well to break even.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Despite the decline after Charles's death, don't forget that the share prices had already increased substantially since the short positions in question were established. Furthermore, without getting into the intricacies of margin accounts, a good portion of the balance in the account represents money the client had to put up himself to cover potential losses when the market went against him. I'm just checking the charts and doing a rough calculation …”

  Powell waited impatiently. He could hear the rustling of paper in the background.

  “I was right,” Ritchie said presently. “In fact he would have ended up slightly in the red.”

  “But better a small loss than a big one,” Powell commented.

  “That goes without saying, Chief Superintendent.”

  “I've been wondering about something …”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you suppose Murray retired?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “Difficult to say, really.”

  “He was apparently doing well with his latest promotion, yet I recall his daughter hinting that he'd been more or less forced to step aside,” Powell continued. “You wouldn't happen to know anything about that?”

  “These things happen in the business, Chief Superintendent.”

  “I see. Thank you, Mr. Ritchie. I won't take any more of your time. Once again you've been most helpful.”

  “Not at all, Chief Superintendent.”

  After ringing off, Ritchie sat for several minutes staring at the blank monitor of his desktop computer terminal. Almost imperceptibly, his expression tightened into a frown.

  * * *

  After a hurried conference with Barrett, Powell rang up Shand and issued some brief instructions.

  When Powell and Barrett arrived at the Kinlochy police station fifteen minutes later, John Sanders was seated in the tiny office looking distinctly ill at ease, while Constable Shand busied himself fixing tea.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Sanders,” Powell said heartily. “Tea? No? Well, you won't mind if Mr. Barrett and I partake. Many thanks, Shand.” He took a soothing sip.

  Shand couldn't help wondering about Chief Superintendent Powell's uncharacteristic ebullience, coupled with the fact that Chief Inspector Barrett seemed oddly restrained.

  “I'd like you to have a look at this,” Powell said. He removed a sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Sanders.

  The Canadian stared at one particular entry outlined with a red circle.

  “The choice of ink was purely fortuitous, I can assure you,” Powell remarked breezily.

  Sanders looked blankly at Powell. “Where did you get this?”

  “It's all perfectly legal, I can assure you.”

  Sanders's expression tightened. “Look here,” he protested halfheartedly, “this is an invasion of privacy.”

  “That's as may be, Mr. Sanders. But this is a murder investigation, in case you'd forgotten.” Powell reached out and retrieved the paper without encountering any resistance. “Do you have anything to say?”

  “What the hell is this all about?”

  Ignoring him, Powell turned to Barrett. “You know what strikes me about Mr. Sanders's share portfolio, Alex?”

  Barrett stirred languidly. “Pray tell.”

  “I'd say that he's got all his eggs in one basket. Golden eggs, at that. And in this case they're worth more with the goose dead.”

  “What are you driving at?” Sanders asked sharply.

  ‘Only that you stood to benefit from Charles Murray's death.”

  Sanders buried his face in his hands and moaned. “Oh, God! It's not what you think.”

  “Let me tell you what I think. Over the past two years you've aggressively sold short the shares of various resource companies in which Charles Murray was involved. When you'd built up your positions you followed Murray over here on the pretext of doing a story on him, and then, when the opportunity presented itself, you killed him.”

  “No!” Sanders whispered.

  “And when Pinky stumbled onto something that might link you with Murray,” Powell persisted relentlessly, “you tried to kill him as well.”

  Sanders looked helplessly at Barrett, his emotions seemingly stretched to the breaking point. “It's not true! You must believe me”

  Barrett yawned. “You'd better come clean, then, hadn't you?”

  Sanders ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. “I think I'll have that cup of tea, after all.”

  Barrett gestured to Shand, who obliged with a discreet absence of commotion.

  The cup and saucer clattered loudly in Sanders's hand. He recoiled with a look of alarm, spilling half the tea in the process.

  “Get Mr. Sanders a napkin, will you, Shand?”

  Sanders brushed frantically at his jacket. “I'm sorry— I—” He checked himself, set the
cup down carefully, and took a steadying breath. “Look,” he said, “this is ridiculous. You've actually got me believing that I've done something wrong.”

  “But you have, Mr. Sanders; you've already admitted it.”

  Sanders looked exasperated. “I don't mean the poaching. Look, I'll admit there's a grain of truth in what you've said, but you're dead wrong about Murray and Pinky. And Erskine, it's John, please. At least give me that.”

  Powell experienced a growing sense of apprehension as Sanders continued.

  “You probably know by now that I used to be the business editor for a Vancouver daily. In the natural course of things I became involved in various penny stock promotions. You know how it is. You begin to think you're smarter than everyone else—that you can beat the market. Well, to cut a long story short, I got in over my head.”

  Powell shook his head. It didn't ring true. “Surely, having covered the scene as a journalist, you'd know better.”

  Sanders smiled thinly. “That's exactly the point. The majority of companies listed on junior stock exchanges represent nothing more than pipe dreams. They are, in effect, diminishing assets. Once the original premise of the venture proves untenable and the promoters bail out, the shares become so much worthless paper. It's unavoidable, really; it's simply the way venture capital markets work. It's no different than scientific research, or evolution, for that matter. Only a very few experiments ever work out—the majority are dismal failures. Once you understand this basic truth, there are essentially two ways to play the market. One approach is to buy new issues, that is newly listed shares with promotable stories, and hope for the best. It's a bit like playing darts blindfolded. The other strategy, and the more reliable one in the long run, is to short stocks that have already had a good run, knowing that the vast majority of them, with Newtonian inevitability, will eventually come down again. That's why I was so sure I couldn't lose.” He shook his head ruefully. “Little did I know.”

  He paused and sipped his tea, his hand steadier now. “I'd decided to concentrate on companies in Charles Murray's stable. They'd generally done well in a poor market, owing in large part to Murray's abilities as a promoter, but based on my technical indicators I'd identified four stocks that I felt were due for significant pullbacks. Also, there'd been rumors on the street about him retiring, which had put additional pressure on the market. Anyway, I loaded up on the short side, but things very soon began to go wrong. One of his companies got some interesting drill results in Mexico last year. It was just my bloody luck. The rest of his stocks were swept along on the rising tide of euphoria.