by John Burke
Anna stared at Stuart. He stood frozen by the cash desk, his wallet half open, a note halfway out between his fingers.
‘What the hell?’
‘We’d better get back.’ Anna forced herself to stand up, clinging to the edge of the table. It was all unreal. Impossible to believe what she had just heard in this ordinary little café with its harsh little radio burbling away. ‘When . . . how on earth . . .?’
When they were on the road up to the bypass, she turned the car radio on, but it was not the time for a news bulletin on any of the channels. Anna tried to force some sort of coherence on to the impossible ideas.
‘Who’d have wanted to kill him?’
‘Lots of people.’
‘Oh, I know lots of them would talk that way. But who’d actually get round to it?’
‘No doubt the police are asking that very question right at this minute. And they’ll be including us in their enquiries.’
She turned off the main road on to the twisting road over the hills, climbing and falling like a badly proportioned roller-coaster, and accelerated.
‘But just a minute. They didn’t say it was murder. They just said his body’s been found. Might have died in his sleep.’
‘But they did say it was a police matter.’
‘But when d’you suppose it happened? After we’d left this morning? Or during the night?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough.’
Over a blind summit she plunged the car down into a pool enclosed in the dip, and emerged with the wheels fighting to escape from her control. Slowing and ordering herself to take things easy, she said nothing for a few miles. But then something floated up through her memory. At the time, the shock of the radio announcement had blotted out everything else. But now it came back to her. Even in that moment of shock, she had noticed that Stuart’s wallet was well stuffed with twenty-pound notes. He had gone out to buy a few small items for the workshop, supposedly spending money rather than acquiring it.
Without thinking, she said: ‘Just where did you get to last night?’
‘I was in the house. And then I left. And turned back because I was getting wet. You were there.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘You can vouch for me, right?’
‘Not all the time. I mean, you didn’t join the general gathering.’
‘Like I told you, I was fed up with all that crap. I just put one or two things in place. Like that picture of the Campbell girl.’
‘You didn’t see anything while you were wandering about the house last night?’
‘I wasn’t wandering. Just putting things where Chet wanted them.’
‘Or see anything while you were outside?’
He wasn’t laughing now. ‘Look, if you’re going to set up as a detective, I’d rather wait until I’m grilled by a real one. For crying out loud, you’re not trying to pin something on me when we don’t even know what happened or when and where?’
‘It’s just struck me. That shape I thought I saw, behind Stables Cottage. Maybe I really did see it. It wasn’t just part of a game, or a trick of the light. Was that where it happened?’
‘What the hell are you on about?’
Safer not to say anything. Wait until they were put properly in the picture. Anna concentrated on getting safely home.
There were two cars in the yard. Neither of them belonged to the couple who called themselves Maxwell. One was the Robinsons’ Honda. The other, to her dismay, was Queenie’s yellow peril.
Anna was only halfway out of the Volvo when the farmhouse door was flung open and Queenie erupted.
‘Wherever have you been? This dreadful news, and I couldn’t find you anywhere. Surely you couldn’t —’
‘We went into Ayr quite early,’ said Anna. ‘We only heard the news on a radio there.’
‘It’s dreadful. And it’s my fault. All my fault.’
‘What happened? Some accident?’
‘Oh, no. He’s been murdered. And it’s my fault. If I hadn’t told him, he’d still be alive. I should never have told him.’
*
The footprints and ruts, filled with water and mud, had been distorted almost beyond recognition into a quagmire, but the two Scenes Of Crime Officers had been right. Enough remained to suggest that Brunner’s body had been dragged some distance uphill before being left in the position where he was found.
‘It’s a bit of a mess down there, but he could have been clobbered not far behind that cottage on the left.’
McAdam turned to Sergeant Brodie. ‘Do we know who’s staying there?’
‘Mrs Chisholm — the younger one — can probably tell us. She lets them out and looks after the places.’
‘Better go and check with her. But take it easy. We don’t want a couple of innocent holidaymakers complaining of police harassment.’ She turned back to the two white-coated men stooping over the sodden grass, delicately poised as if to make sure that not a trace of their breath should disturb whatever evidence might lie there waiting for them. ‘Let me know what else you come up with. I’ll be in the house interviewing a certain Mr Pitcairn.’
This proved to be an optimistic statement. Harry Pitcairn had apparently left and gone home.
‘Left?’ She glared at Alec Chisholm. ‘But I told everybody to stay put until I’d questioned them.’
‘He went last night, late on. I thought I’d mentioned that.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘Said he’d had enough of being insulted. I told you his attitude about that. And surprised he ever came in the first place. Anyway, he’d had enough and he was going to walk home.’
‘Was he, indeed. Before or after Mr Brunner went off and left them to it?’
‘Afterwards, I think.’
So young Mr Pitcairn could have met the man he hated most out in the open, with nobody else nearby?
She said: ‘You’ve got his home address?’
‘Glengorm Castle. Just over the brae there, to the east. Along the old cart-track. But if you’re thinking of driving over there —’
‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking of doing.’
‘It’s a quarter of a mile along the village road, and then there’s a single-track road with passing places on your left. Another half mile or so, and you’ll see the gates of the drive. One of them’s a bit dicey — likely to fall down any day now. Best not to scrape it.’
His description was all too accurate. The gateposts might once have born heraldic beasts, but now only one of them retained a lump of stone which had been decapitated at some time. The other one was cracked all the way down, and threatened to split open down the middle like a tree struck by lightning.
The house, at the end of a short gravelly drive, was little better. Despite being called a castle, it was little more than a decayed stone house with three pepperpot towers, probably added by some Victorian trying to keep up with the baronial fancies of the time.
The front door had a rusted iron knocker in the shape of what might have been a coil of rope, a serpent, or a conger eel. When McAdam hammered on it, the door was opened by a young man with close-cropped brown hair and a square, stubborn jaw.
‘Mr Pitcairn? Mr Harry Pitcairn?’
‘Yes.’
She slipped out her warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector McAdam.’
‘Police? What can I do for you?’
‘May I come in?’
‘Well . . . look, what’s this about? We don’t have any double yellow lines to park on round here. And I certainly haven’t been exceeding the speed limit. Not on these roads.’
But he stood back and let her in. The interior was in keeping with the exterior. The entrance lobby was squashed into the dimensions of a suburban semi-detached. Beyond, what in any real castle would have been the grand hall was shrivelled here into a cramped drawing-room. The long oaken table in the centre emphasized the smaller scale.
Harry Pitcairn grudgingly indicated an armchair beside an empty fireplace, and propped himself against t
he end of the table.
‘Now, what’s all this about?’
McAdam was sorry she had accepted the armchair. She had to look up at him, in a commanding position in his own household. She made a point of speaking with clipped authority. ‘It’s about Mr Brunner. You were at his house last night.’
‘I was.’ His eyes had a puppyish melancholy in them, but his mouth went hard, and when he spoke he jarred his teeth together in a grating, unsteady rhythm. ‘What about the bastard? Getting mad because I walked out on his scruffy charades?’
‘You mean you haven’t heard the news?’
‘What news? Poisoned by his own lousy food — or his own bile?’
‘He has been murdered.’
Pitcairn’s hands tightened on the rim of the table. He leaned towards McAdam until she was afraid he was going to topple over into her lap. ‘Murdered? Who by?’
‘That’s what I’m attempting to establish.’
‘Good God.’ He began rocking to and fro. ‘Just fancy that! Give him my regards when you find him. Or her. If I had any spare cash, I’d gladly contribute towards the defence fund.’
‘You really hadn’t heard, Mr Pitcairn? You don’t listen to the radio?’
‘At this time of day?’ He made it sound like the habit of a pervert.
‘Can you tell me your movements yesterday evening? And why you left, when I gather the charades, as you call them, were by no means over? Hadn’t you paid for the full course, if that’s what you call it?’
‘That’s not what I’d call it. A con is what I call it.’
‘But you paid to attend?’
‘I wanted to see if there was any way I could get at him. See just what he was up to, what sort of scam he had in mind, what way there might be of showing him up. Oh, hell, I don’t know why I thought I stood any chance of skewering a wheeler-dealer like Brunner.’
‘So you left in disgust. And how did you get home?’
‘I walked. Took the route that that spiteful bastard’s been trying to close off.’
‘What time would this be?’
‘Damned if I remember. Oh, one thing — it was just before the rain started. I got home just before it started tippling down.’
‘May I ask you what your profession is, Mr Pitcairn?’
‘I work for Forest Enterprise. And Brunner would like us to cut down on that. Forever complaining about the noise of saws, and encroaching on his land. Which isn’t so.’
‘You do feel very bitter about the whole situation.’
‘It’s difficult not to. Wouldn’t have been so bad if the estate had gone into the hands of someone who knew the traditions hereabouts. Someone who belonged, and would keep things going in the accepted way of these things. But of course everything had to be twisted into his own pattern. Even when he’d driven us out and taken over Balmuir, he couldn’t leave it at that. Kept pestering us, sneering at us. When he found that we’d had to move into this dump — more of a stump than a castle — he made a big thing about offering to film a series here, with us dressed up as clan chieftains, going through mock skirmishes.’
A door at the far end of the room creaked open. An elderly man leaning on a gnarled stick hobbled in, slow but stiffly upright.
‘Thought I heard the door.’
‘Father, this is Detective Chief Inspector . . . er, sorry, I . . .’
‘McAdam. Sorry to be troubling you, Mr Pitcairn, but —’
‘Colonel Pitcairn,’ the young man corrected her.
The older man had the same chin as his son’s, but fat, self-indulgent lips which made him look permanently supercilious. There was no pretence of being a courteous host. ‘And what might a police officer be wanting from this household?’
‘She’s investigating a murder, father. Of Chet Brunner.’
Colonel Pitcairn stamped his stick on the floor. ‘That’s the best news of the season. But why would you be bringing us the glad tidings in person, officer?’
‘Your son may have been a witness to some crucial aspects of the case.’
‘Hmph. He should never have gone there. Can’t imagine what he was up to.’
‘I told you, father. I was hoping I might somehow catch him on the wrong foot. Show him up for what he was, in front of his friends.’
McAdam risked a ranging shot. ‘Or find some way of disposing of him?’
Colonel Pitcairn stamped his stick against the floor again, this time aggressively. ‘If you’re going to throw accusations like that about, young woman, you’d better give me time to call our family solicitor.’ He accentuated the word ‘family’ with smug hauteur.
McAdam turned back to Harry. ‘Can you give me exact details of where you were during the evening?’
‘Hanging about most of the time. Our host had chosen to wander off and leave us to our own devices. Typical. No manners. Clears off and doesn’t come back.’
‘No explanation at all?’
‘None. Mrs Chisholm came in with some message for him, and he upped and went. And the next we know about him is here and now, with what my father just called the glad tidings.’ There was a tart relish in Harry Pitcairn’s voice. ‘Murdered. And not before time.’
‘You didn’t follow Mr Brunner when he left the room?. Or catch up with him later?’
‘No, I didn’t. Ask some of the others. They’ll vouch for me saying what I thought about the whole disgraceful set-up, and then leaving before he came back.’
But when you left, thought McAdam, did you go off in pursuit of Brunner? And catch up with him?
He looked a fit enough, sturdy enough young man to tackle an enemy head on. Brunner might have been a large, heavy man; but he was flabby, and no match for someone who probably took plenty of healthy exercise.
Aloud she said: ‘It was Mrs Chisholm, you say, who brought him a message? A telephone message from her husband at the railway station, maybe?’
‘I’ve no idea. But he certainly went off with her fast enough.’
Did he, indeed? Queenie Chisholm hadn’t mentioned this when questioned. But she was such a twitterer that it was quite possibly just one of many things during the course of that evening that had been muddled with others. And yet, if she had been the last one to see Brunner alive . . .
‘I didn’t kill Brunner, you know. I’m sorry I didn’t. I’d love to have done it. But I didn’t.’
As she drove back, McAdam noticed serried piles of trimmed, sharpened stakes which had been assembled in pyramids beside the road. As she passed the phalanxes of jabbing points, she remembered that terrific gash in Chet Brunner’s forehead.
*
Jilly-Jo was sprawled tragically on the couch in the sitting-room beside the main hall. As the DCI appeared, she began dabbing her eyes, and produced a few ready-made tears. Yes, she was eager to agree that she had not taken the train but had been driven down by this dear friend of hers, who had been so helpful in her time of distress.
Tam Hagan shifted his bulk on the incongruously delicate Rennie Mackintosh design chair, eyeing her like an adoring dog quite capable of turning into a snarling beast if his mistress was disturbed in any way.
‘And what time would it have been when you last saw your husband?’
‘Oh, he wasn’t around when we got here.’
‘And you weren’t worried?
‘I thought he must have been hatching another game, keeping everyone in suspense. He was like that.’ She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘Such a man! So full of ideas. Our wedding — who else would have thought of anything so romantic? Miles up in the Highlands, in the ruins of an ancient monastery — just him and me, and a few close friends in the business. Oh, and that lovely old priest, of course. Just like someone out of . . . oh, you know, that historical novelist. And a lonely old wayside inn, and a housekeeper who just wept and wept. It was so beautiful.’
Georgina Campbell swept in like an actress impatient for her cue. ‘You really can turn on the tap, can’t you? Screeching about a divorce one minute,
and then getting all lovey-dovey. Talk about putting on an act.’
‘You common little bitch. At a time like this, all you can think of is making a scene. And when it comes to scenes, what about that stuff we found in Glasgow? If it hadn’t been for my friend here, checking on one of the shops in his security services contract, would I ever have had the evidence? Filthy pictures, that’s what. Pictures of you.’
Georgina went a shade of pink which might have been pretty but was not. ‘I may have done a few artistic poses early in my career, but there was never anything filthy about them.’
McAdam said: ‘Please, ladies, I do have some questions to ask.’
‘And taken,’ Jilly-Jo was raging on, ‘in my dressing-room. Here, upstairs, in my room. Over my own dressing-table chair. Disgusting.’ She turned to McAdam. ‘That’s probably where he was when I got back. With that floozy. Only they scuttled off when they heard me coming.’
‘I’d got nothing to be afraid of,’ crowed Georgina. ‘You wouldn’t catch me scuttling away. And any pictures you might have come across — well, your friend here probably has experts at touching up photographs for sale in his shop. Not the only thing he fancies touching up, either.’
Hagan stirred threateningly. Before he could say anything, the two Chisholm women came into the room.
McAdam was about to ask them to wait until she had finished questioning Jilly-Jo, who had changed from a grieving widow into a battling virago, when Anna Chisholm almost pushed her mother-in-law forward and said:
‘All right. Go ahead. Tell her.’
Chapter Ten
The view from the farmhouse window was tranquil enough. The windows on the other side of the yard gave no sign of life — or death. The only movement was a glimpse of the hem of a blouse fluttering behind Covenanter’s Cottage. Each cottage had its own concrete base about three feet square with a carousel for drying the tenants’ washing. Nothing moved behind Stables Cottage.
McAdam had phoned for armed back-up. She was beginning to wonder if they needed to wait. The Watermans’ car had gone, and most likely would not be coming back. Huddled here in the kitchen, they were letting valuable time go by.