Malice in the Highlands

by Graham Thomas

  “The thing is—and this is the strange part—they just kept going up for no obvious reason. I suspected that something had to be happening behind the scenes, but for the life of me I couldn't get to the bottom of it. I was getting calls from my broker twice a day to either put up more money or cover my positions and take the losses, neither of which I could afford to do. Eventually, I mortgaged my house and put everything I had into the market, still convinced that I'd be proven right in the end.” He looked at Powell with an odd expression. “And I suppose I was, in a way.”

  Fear and greed, greed and fear. “Why did you come to Kinlochy?” Powell asked.

  Sanders shrugged. “I had to know the truth. If there was something big in the works, I'd have no choice but to bail out and cut my losses. If, on the other hand, Murray's stocks were simply being driven by the usual promotional frenzy, I could afford to wait for the bubble to burst. So a couple of months ago I quit my job and began to work out a plan of action.”

  “That was a bit drastic, wasn't it, considering your financial position?”

  “Look, I know what you're thinking. The fact is I had nothing more to lose. If I got wiped out, a regular salary would benefit only my ex-wife. Even if I got lucky and didn't lose my shirt, I wanted nothing more to do with the market. Either way, I intended to travel and freelance.”

  “Go on.”

  “As soon as I arrived in Kinlochy, I set myself up at the guesthouse and began to nose around. My intention was to spend a few days getting the lay of the land and then try to get an interview with Murray. I'd met him a few times in Vancouver, so I figured there was a good chance he'd agree to see me. When I saw Oliver Pickens in the pub I became more convinced than ever that something was up. You already know the rest.”

  “So you never did find out?”

  Sanders shook his head.

  “I suppose it's academic now. You got what you wanted, after all.”

  Sanders stared at Powell with an expression of disbelief. “Do I look happy?”

  “Have you traded any shares since Murray's death?”

  “What? No, of course not—I mean I've had other things on my mind. Call my broker if you don't believe me.”

  “I'll do that.” Powell got abruptly to his feet. “We'll be in touch.”

  Barrett shook his head stubbornly. “You know it's not enough. There's not a shred of evidence that Sanders even talked to Murray, let alone killed him. Look, I'm not saying he couldn't have done it—I'm simply saying we don't have a case.”

  He glared at Powell with Cyclopsian intensity, his blind eye seemingly fixed on a point somewhere above and behind Powell's right shoulder. Powell resisted the temptation to look around.

  “In fact, he's nowhere near the top of my list,” Barrett continued.

  Powell flushed. “Just for once, get to the bloody point and tell me what you really think.”

  Barrett exploded, “You want to know what I think? I think it's time we got on with the fucking job.” He stormed out of the room.

  Powell sat motionless while the minutes slowly passed. At one point he became dimly aware that PC Shand was asking if there was anything he needed. Finally, he was alone. He had felt like this before; times when he could barely bring himself to get out of bed and face what his life had become. Burnout is commonplace these days, nothing at all to worry about. Take these, a bit of rest, a change of scene, and you'll soon be right as rain. Strange simile, that. He swore violently to himself. Dragging his mind kicking and screaming back to the task at hand, he knew now what had been bothering him—staring him in the face all along. He couldn't even begin to understand, but the unrelenting certainty of it crushed down on him. There was one more thing he had to do, still a faint hope, perhaps. He willed himself to move. He knew if he didn't, he'd be finished.

  CHAPTER 17

  Pinky Warburton was sitting alone in the lounge bar of the Salar Lodge sipping a sherry when Powell walked in and sat down.

  “You know, Erskine, I'm going to miss this place.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  There was something in Powell's voice.

  “Well, cheer up, you'll be back again next year.”

  “I don't know. A lot has happened.”

  “Nonsense. People will soon forget about Charles Murray. Things will be back to normal in no time at all. You'll see.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, I'm a pretty resilient sort of chap. I'll get over it. Although I must admit I'll sleep better when the villain is brought to justice. By the way, any progress on that front?”

  “Progress? I suppose you could say that.”

  Warburton smiled. “Is it classified information, old boy?”

  “I stopped in at Grant's Tackle Shop on my way over here. To pick up a pair of trout rods for Peter and David. Fishing is a good outlet for teenage boys, don't you think?”

  “Never did us any harm.”

  “I'd decided on a pair of those custom rods that old Peter Grant builds,” Powell continued in a monotone voice, “but I couldn't find any in the racks. There were plenty of Hardys, Bruce and Walkers, and even a few unmarked models, but none of Peter Grant's that I could see. When I inquired, the shop assistant informed me that Grant never signs his rods. The only identifying marks are the initials PG. stamped on the reel seat.”

  There was a lengthy silence.

  “I could have sworn,” Warburton said eventually, “the poacher's rod—I was certain it was signed Peter Grant in India ink, just above the grip. Perhaps the trauma of recent events has impaired my memory.” He shivered convincingly.

  Powell stared at him, expressionless. “There never was a rod, was there, Pinky?”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  “You made the whole thing up. The rod, the so-called attack, everything.”

  Warburton drew himself up indignantly. “If this is your idea of a joke, Erskine, I must say that it's in extremely poor taste.”

  “The joke's on me, I'd say.”

  “Are you seriously suggesting that I tried to drown myself as a lark?”

  “No, not as a lark. To eliminate any possibility of suspicion coming your way. I think you simply misjudged the risk, as I did myself when I attempted to reenact the event. In any case, your performance was most convincing. You certainly had me fooled. Although I wasn't in the best position to be entirely objective.”

  Warburton shook his head in disbelief. “Erskine, we've known each other for nearly thirty years. Do you realize what you're saying? I can't possibly see how my not remembering what can only be characterized as a trivial detail has led you to make these extraordinary and hurtful allegations.”

  Powell spoke abstractedly, as if thinking aloud. “Right from the start it didn't make any sense. Why would anybody attempt to commit a murder over a fishing rod? The implied connection with Murray's death served only to cloud the waters. I can see now that was the whole point. To lay a false scent. Ironically, it was another fishing rod that finally put me on to it.”

  “I must say, Erskine,” Warburton said irritably, “these cryptic allusions of yours elude me. Would you mind terribly getting to the point?”

  “It's been staring me in the face all along, but I couldn't, or wouldn't, see it. Why would you, after bringing in this rod as you claim, wade out to a dangerous perch on a slippery rock to examine it? You could have done it safely on the bank where you'd just laid down your own rod.”

  Warburton sighed. “I was hoping it wouldn't come to this,” he said. “But you know as well as I do that the evidence against me is circumstantial. None of it would stand up in court. And before you judge me, you should consider the real villain in this piece. Charles Murray was a scoundrel of the highest order. He richly deserved everything he got. Do you realize how many lives he ruined?” He searched Powell's face for a glimmer of understanding. “I'll tell you everything. Just promise me you'll keep an open mind.”

  “You know I can't promise you anything.
”

  “Then I'll have to take my chances.” He hesitated for a moment and then seemed to make up his mind. “You've heard about the Warburton troubles. I've never told you or anyone else how my father lost the family fortune, or what was left of it. I suppose I find it too embarrassing to talk about, although, God knows, I think about it constantly. Several years ago, Father was introduced to Charles Murray at his club by a mutual acquaintance. Murray was in London promoting his latest mining venture. It must have been quite a sales pitch.” He laughed bitterly. “The old man fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. A private placement to the tune of a half million pounds. Predictably, the pot at the end of the rainbow never materialized and Father's so-called investment ended up as so much worthless paper. You know the rest.”

  “That was a long time ago, Pinky.”

  “The bastard ruined my life and I never forgave him for it. I swore I'd get even. I've been planning it for years, as a matter of fact.” He leaned forward, visibly animated now. “One day I was checking the estate listings on the office computer when I noticed that Castle Glyn was up for sale. I was aware that Murray had purchased the place last year and I saw my chance. Almost without effort the outline of a plan began to take shape in my mind. I remembered that you came up here each spring and I reckoned that an invitation to join you for a spot of salmon fishing would provide me with the perfect cover. After all, who would suspect an old mate of yours of anything untoward?”

  “You took advantage,” Powell said quietly.

  “I know it sounds a bit mercenary, old chap, but I'm sure you can appreciate that I needed to keep my eye on the ball. Now where was I? Oh, yes. After you'd done your bit, I rang Murray up and told him that I had a prospective client but wished to view the property myself first. We agreed to meet on Monday, the day before I was scheduled to arrive at the Salar Lodge.” Warburton leaned back and smiled. “It went more smoothly than I could have imagined, although there were moments, I can tell you. If I'd known you were going to arrive a day early—well, I don't know what I'd have done. But it's all water under the bridge, in a manner of speaking.” He eyed Powell shrewdly. “I could use another sherry. How about you?”

  “I think not.”

  Warburton shrugged. “You may be surprised to hear this, Erskine, but I didn't really have a game plan. I intended to play it more or less by ear. Originally I thought I'd have to invent some pretext or other to lure Murray away from Castle Glyn. That wasn't necessary, as it turned out. He was most cooperative, I'll give him that.”

  Although there was no outward sign of it, Powell was engaged in a fierce inner struggle to stem the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. I mustn't lose control, not now, he thought. He spoke slowly, as if in a trance, “I must caution you, Pinky—”

  “Now, Erskine, we needn't bother with the formalities,” Warburton interjected smoothly. He seemed almost eager to continue. “I called Murray as soon as I arrived in Kinlochy. He suggested that I drive out to Castle Glyn that afternoon. He quite conveniently mentioned that he was alone, so I would be free to have a good look around. When I arrived, it was all hail fellow, well met.” Warburton's expression suddenly darkened. “Little did he know.” He drained his glass with a convulsive gulp. “He gave me the grand tour and all I could think about was the injustice of it all—Warburton money had helped pay for that pile. Then he suggested we nip down to the Old Bridge for a spot of fishing before dark. As I'm sure you can imagine, sport was the last thing on my mind, but he'd obviously had a few drinks by then and wouldn't take no for an answer.”

  “So it was you,” Powell said numbly, “fishing above the Old Bridge with the single-handed rod.”

  Warburton nodded. “He lent it to me. He didn't even have a proper salmon rod.”

  Powell swore violently, causing Warburton to start. “What a bloody fool I've been!”

  “How do you think I felt?” Warburton said indignantly. “Spotting you up on the bridge like that and praying that you wouldn't recognize me?”

  Warburton's words echoed strangely in Powell's head, as if they were being shouted from a great distance. He couldn't sort out whether he was more angry at Pinky for so callously betraying him, or at himself for refusing to acknowledge the truth for so long. Barrett knew. He was certain of that now.

  “It was a bit tense, I can tell you,” Warburton was saying. “But when you turned away I knew that I was going to pull it off.” He removed a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and dabbed daintily at his brow. “When we got back to the house,” he continued, “it was getting late. Murray insisted on fixing supper and I had no choice but to humor him. Frankfurters and crisps with cold beer,” he added parenthetically, pulling a face. “Time was running out and I was madly trying to formulate some sort of plan of attack when, out of the blue, he suggested that we drive into Kinlochy for a drink. I leapt at the chance and offered to take my Land Rover. It was a way to get him away from Castle Glyn. I just had to make certain that I wasn't seen with him.”

  “What time did you leave Castle Glyn?” Powell heard himself ask.

  “Going on ten, give or take a few minutes.”

  Powell's attention wandered to the large stone fireplace that took up most of the wall behind Warburton. Something Pinky had said had triggered an association. On the mantelshelf was a bronze casting of a leaping salmon, frozen in space and time by the sculptor and freed for eternity from its watery prison. Salar, the leaper.

  “As we drove,” Warburton was saying, “Murray's behavior changed. Previously his manner could be described as one of boisterous good humor, enhanced no doubt by his state of inebriation, but as we neared our destination he became sullen. He wasn't entirely coherent, but he did say something about settling scores with that son of a bitch at the Salar Lodge. My original intention had been to stop at some conveniently secluded location along the way and, well, do what needed to be done. But as Murray railed against Bob, an alternate course of action began to take shape in the old think box. Let him be seen raving drunkenly in public—with yours truly remaining discreetly in the background, of course—before falling victim to some unfortunate mishap. So I was more than willing to oblige when he insisted that I take him to the Salar Lodge.”

  Powell had to suppress a grudging admiration for the sheer audacity of Pinky's plan. “Didn't it occur to you that you might just bump into me at the hotel?”

  Warburton looked sadly at Powell, as if profoundly disappointed. “Erskine, really! I considered that possibility, of course. I would simply have had to abort the mission and fabricate some logical explanation for being there. However, I did take precautions. You may recall that it was a filthy night and the streets were more or less deserted. When we got to the Salar Lodge I dropped Murray off and then parked at the rear of the car park. When he emerged from the hotel about ten minutes later, I waited to make sure that he was alone before driving over to pick him up, stopping short so I couldn't be seen from the front entrance. He was rather annoyed at having to walk over to the car in the rain.”

  “I can see you had it all worked out.”

  “The rest was easy. As we drove toward town along the stretch of road beside the river, I had a flash of inspiration. After checking to make sure there was no traffic, I pulled off to the side. I told him that I needed to relieve myself. He muttered something about needing a piss, too. There was a short path through the trees to the river. I let him go first. As he was undoing his fly I picked up a rock and let him have it from behind, then I rolled him over the bank into the water. It would look like a tragic accident. I then drove to Grantown and took a hotel room for the night. The next day I appeared on schedule at the Salar Lodge.” As if finally unburdened, he heaved a huge sigh and sat placidly in silence.

  Powell could think of nothing to say, only of what he had to do. Eventually he spoke, as if to distract himself, “And the rod?”

  Warburton smiled. “As you guessed, a ruse to direct any possible suspicion in
the direction of Arthur's poacher and away from yours truly. I knew that you didn't believe Murray's death had been an accident. But Í can see now that my little diversionary tactic was a mistake. Oh what tangled webs we weave’ and whatnot.”

  “Bob Whitely's van was seen parked at the Old Bridge shortly before your little accident on Wednesday. Did you see him?”

  “He stopped by to see me. He wanted my opinion on the market value of the Salar Lodge, that's all.”

  Powell barely held his temper. “Did you at any time consider the possibility that you might be implicating an innocent person?”

  “Actually, the thought never occurred to me,” Warburton replied blandly.

  So it has come to this, Powell thought. He felt empty, drained of any capacity for action. “Why, Pinky? Why did you do it?”

  “I've told you why.”

  “But cold-blooded murder?”

  “I prefer to think of it as the extermination of a particularly odious variety of parasite.”

  “But how does it change things? You've been managing all right.”

  “That's easy for you to say,” Warburton snapped, his face turning a bright pink. “I'm sorry, Erskine,” he added quickly. “That was unfair; you've been most understanding. But you have no idea what it's like selling shirts to tourists in Jermyn Street. You of all people should know that I wasn't cut out to be a boxwallah. To answer your question—no, it doesn't entirely make up for what I've been through. But it bloody well helps.”

  “The point is you got caught.”

  “I guess I did at that, that is if you feel compelled to do your duty.” He hesitated. “But of course you do. Mind you, I could deny that this conversation ever took place.”