Malice On The Moors

by Graham Thomas

  There would be time enough to pack his things in the morning. Right now another glass of the frim fram sauce with Ms. Krall, then lurch into unconsciousness past, one hoped, another lamppost. He dismantled the gun and returned it to its case.

  The next morning, a brief encounter with Marion at breakfast.

  “What time did you come to bed?” she asked.

  He avoided her eye. “Er, well, I don't remember exactly. I was getting my kit organized.”

  She seemed about to say something then apparently changed her mind. “There's a letter from Peter,” she said. “It's on the table.”

  Powell poured himself a cup of coffee. He prayed it wasn't decaf. He sat down and opened the letter. “He seems to be settling in all right,” he said presently. “I always thought Canadians were a boring lot, but that only applies to the male of the species, apparently. I wonder how he finds the time to study.”

  “You always managed.”

  “Look where it got me,” Powell rejoined.

  She looked at him with an odd expression. “You might have done worse.” She joined him at the table, bearing a rack of toast and a pot of marmalade. “I think you're just jealous. The experience will do him good.”

  He despaired at times that his elder son was so much like himself; David, the practical one, was definitely his mother's son. It was hard to believe—Peter off to university in Canada and David thinking about following him over next year. Where had the time gone? As the caffeine revitalized his brain cells, it occurred to him that his mood these days seemed to be pervaded by a general sense of summer winding down.

  “When are you leaving?” Marion was asking.

  He shrugged. “I've got to stop by the office first. I'm hoping to get away by noon.”

  She smiled crookedly. “Say hello to Alex for me.”

  Powell grunted.

  She looked at him, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “Do try and enjoy yourself, Erse.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, your last sporting expedition with Alex wasn't much of a holiday, was it?”

  “I didn't exactly plan it that way,” he said in a flat voice.

  She realized she was treading on dangerous ground. “I know.”

  They ate their breakfast in silence.

  “We need to talk about next year,” Marion said eventually.

  “Yes?”

  “My sabbatical.”

  “What about it?”

  “You know I'd like to get back into the field. I mean, I haven't been out of the classroom for years.” She hesitated. “I've had an offer from that chap I met at the conference last spring, a chance to spend a year at the University of British Columbia, starting next September. I've always had an interest in North American Native culture and, well, it's a wonderful opportunity.”

  “Really?” he said stiffly.

  “Can't we at least talk about it?”

  “What's there to talk about? It sounds like you've already made up your mind.”

  She brushed a wisp of blonde hair from her forehead in a gesture of exasperation. “I haven't, actually.”

  There was an awkward interval during which neither of them spoke.

  Powell looked at her. What was there to say after all these years? “Perhaps it's best. As you say, it's a chance in a lifetime, and you'll be able to keep tabs on the boys.”

  “What about you?”

  “I'll manage.”

  “You could come out for your holidays. It would do you good.”

  “Yes, right.” Not with a bang, but a whimper, he thought. He rose abruptly from the table. “Say good-bye to David for me, would you?”

  A few minutes later she heard him go out the front door. She stirred her coffee mechanically. “Good-bye,” she said quietly.

  From the window of Powell's office at New Scotland Yard, the Thames, cloaked in early morning mist, looked like a giant cotton wool snake slithering along Victoria Embankment. Detective-Sergeant Bill Black sat across the desk from him, looking slightly queasy.

  “What's up, Bill?”

  “You mean you haven't heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “It's Merriman, sir. He's going for it—” Black gulped “—the Full bloody Monty.”

  Powell groaned. “Good Christ.”

  Sir Richard Conway, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service and basically a decent chap, had recently announced his retirement. There had followed the usual flurry of maneuvering by the assistant commissioners who were in line for the job, with one notable exception: Powell's supervisor, nemesis, and archbureau-crat, Sir Henry Merriman. Sir Henry had announced early his intention to remain above the fray, being content, as he put it, to continue in a “hands-on” role. (But hands on what! Powell had wondered at the time.) It was obvious now that the whole thing had simply been a ploy to keep the competition off balance before throwing his hat in the ring.

  “You don't think he's got a shot at it do you?” Black asked, a plaintive I-believe-in-fairies note in his gruff voice.

  “This is it, then.” Powell said to no one in particular. Then a lengthy silence. Eventually he spoke. “Look at the bright side, Bill. With Merriman at the helm, we won't have to bother ourselves with sex killings or major drug deals anymore—we'll be able to devote our full attention to his Corporate Sponsorship Initiative.”

  Sergeant Black uttered an uncharacteristic expletive.

  Powell was referring to Merriman's latest brainchild, a scheme whereby private companies—an organization representing car hire-purchase firms, for instance— could “invest” in the salaries of police officers on a basis determined by the value of stolen goods recovered. The possibilities were both endless and mind numbing— rent-a-cops stumbling over bodies in the street in their haste to recover the property of their corporate masters. Powell looked out the window at a watery blue sky hovering ethereally above the fog. He turned again to Black. “You'll hold the fort while I'm away?”

  The stocky sergeant smiled. “Of course, Mr. Powell. And good luck up in Scotland. I used to do a bit of shooting myself as a lad. Rabbits, mostly, and the odd pheasant when we could get permission. Never grouse, of course.”

  Powell, uncomfortable with class distinctions of any kind, implied or otherwise, felt a little self-conscious. “Well, it's just a bit of walked-up shooting Alex has organized. Nothing too elaborate.”

  Black was grinning now. From what he knew of Mr. Powell and his mate, Chief Inspector Alex Barrett of Inverness, there would no doubt be a spirited competition for the best shot and biggest bag. “Give my regards to Mr. Barrett, sir.”

  “I'll do that—” The telephone on his desk began to beep insistently. He picked up the receiver. “Powell,” he barked. His expression darkened. “Right.” He slammed down the phone. “It's Merriman. He wants to see me after lunch.”

  Sergeant Black sympathized with his superior, but he realized that there was nothing he could say.

  Powell decided to make the best use of his time before his meeting with Sir Henry by indulging in an unplanned pleasure. He took the tube to Goodge Street station and strolled briskly amongst the lunch-hour bustle to his destination in Charlotte Street. Just ahead, sandwiched between a Greek kebab house and an American-style pizza joint, he could see the familiar green awning below the impressionistic sign suggesting the jagged peaks of the high Karakoram: K2 TANDOORI RESTAURANT.

  The restaurant was fairly busy; the two waiters on duty rushed back and forth, carrying trays laden with a variety of steaming and fragrant dishes. Powell's sense of anticipation, however, was tempered somewhat by the discovery that his usual table near the window was taken. Rashid Jamal, the energetic proprietor, was over in a flash. “Erskine, my dear fellow. This is a surprise. I wasn't expecting you back for a week.”

  Powell smiled sourly. “At the rate I'm going, I may never get away.”

  “I am sorry about your table, my friend, but wait— there is one over there, in the corner
…” There was a look of concern in Rashid's dark eyes.

  “Perfect. It's close to the bar.”

  “I'll bring you one of your usual, then?”

  “Only if you'll join me—if you're not too busy, that is.”

  Rashid grinned. “I'm never too busy for you, my friend.”

  A few minutes later they were chatting over their drinks, a lager for Powell, an orange squash for his host. “Any developments on the home front?” Powell inquired neutrally.

  Rashid sighed. “They will not listen to reason, my friend—they are determined to get married. It is very awkward. We come from two very different traditions and it will be difficult, but what can I say?” He shrugged sadly. “You know these modern young people as well as I do. They will not listen to their parents, or to anyone else, for that matter.” He looked at Powell, his dark eyes moist. “Nindi and I want only for them to be happy.”

  A few months ago, Rashid's eldest son, Ziad, had fallen in love with a Hindu girl. Powell had gathered that both Rashid and his wife, Nindi, were fond of the young woman but were concerned about their son marrying outside of their community. It seemed, however, that Ziad and his sweetheart were a determined young couple. Powell wondered how he would feel if he were in Rashid's shoes. “If they love each other, I'm sure they will be very happy.” He tried to sound reassuring.

  “I hope you are right, Erskine. Love can make ordinary people do the strangest bloody things.” He sighed sadly. “As my dear mother used to say, 'Life without love is like meat without masala.'” He looked at Powell with a questioning expression on his face. “And what about you, my friend?”

  “Me? Oh, fine—no complaints,” Powell replied offhandedly. “We got a letter from Peter this morning; he seems to be, er, getting into the swing of things at university.”

  Rashid grinned. “He is a bright boy, is he not? A chip off the old block?” He noted Powell's rueful expression. “Now, then,” he continued briskly, sensitive as always to his friend's mood, “how would you like today's special thali to fortify you for the northern climes?”

  “Rashid, I think I've died and gone to heaven.”

  When he got back to the Yard, Powell cleared off his desk, generously bequeathed a box of files to Detective-Sergeant Black, and then, exuding a cloud of garlic and fenugreek, went upstairs to see Merriman. Nothing like making a powerful impression on one's superior to further the career.

  Sir Henry Merriman, Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service, looked up from the single blue file folder on his desk. “Ah, Powell,” he said with obvious disinterest. “Sit down.” He turned his attention back to the docket and continued reading.

  Powell fixed his attention on Merriman's transplanted and immaculately coiffed hair. Having been precociously knighted for hatching various politically astute but harebrained schemes, such as the Metropolitan Police Green Plan, Sir Henry epitomized for Powell everything that was wrong with the police bureaucracy—the triumph of expediency over integrity.

  Eventually Merriman looked up and drawled, “Bit of trouble at t' mill, apparently.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There's been a suspicious death in Yorkshire.”

  Powell felt his stomach knot.

  “I imagine you've heard of Ronnie Dinsdale.”

  Powell refused to bite.

  “The owner and former managing director of Dins-dale's, the supermarket chain. Last week his son, Richard—known as Dickie—was found dead in a grouse butt on the Dinsdale estate in the North York Moors.”

  “What's it got to do with me?” Powell said evenly.

  Merriman ignored him, sucking in his breath in an affected manner. “The coroner has been unable to come to a conclusion as to the precise cause of death and the locals suspect foul play—”

  “I'm starting my holiday today,” Powell interjected.

  “I'm afraid you'll have to change your plans, old boy. This one is right up your alley.” He smiled coldly. “You being a shooting man …”

  Powell made a heroic effort to control himself. Merriman was sticking one up his alley all right. His mind raced as he considered his options.

  “It's a bit ticklish, you see,” Merriman continued. “You'll never guess who was found skulking about the estate the day before Dinsdale's death …” A farcical pause for effect. “Stumpy Macfarlane, the environmental activist—you must have read about him. Spends his time parading old tree stumps through the streets of London to protest the logging of the world's rain forests and generally obstructing progress.”

  This from the architect of the Met's Green Plan, thought Powell.

  Turning once more to the file on his desk, Merriman absently rubbed his prominent chin, a feature oddly enough not evident in an early photograph of him with his graduating class of police cadets that used to hang on the wall in the Metropolitan Police Training Centre. There he was, looking self-important in the back row, weak chinned and starting to go bald. One day the photograph had mysteriously disappeared, and ever since, the authenticity of Merriman's various body parts had been the subject of much ribald speculation amongst the rank and file.

  “On August twelfth of this year,” Merriman droned on, “Macfarlane organized a group of antis to protest the opening day of grouse shooting on Dinsdale's estate. It seems that things got a bit out of hand and old Stumpy sustained a few bumps and bruises during the proceedings.”

  “According to the newspaper reports, somebody beat the hell out of him,” Powell commented, against his better judgment.

  Merriman glared at him. “In any case, Macfarlane brought assault charges against the late young Mr. Dins-dale as well as the local police. As there could be a perception that the locals have an ax to grind, the chief constable has asked for our assistance”—here, a steely smile—”and I've decided to assign you to the case.”

  “Can't someone else do it?” Powell was getting desperate now.

  “I want you to do it.” Merriman said, obviously enjoying himself.

  “You're aware that I've already arranged my holiday?”

  “Bad luck, old man.”

  “If I refuse?”

  Merriman leaned back in his chair and regarded Powell dispassionately. “I'll soon have the top job in the firm. Jerk me around and I'll put you in charge of stationery procurement.”

  “You really are an utterly contemptible prick.”

  Merriman smiled. “I'll ignore that for the time being. I don't like you, Powell, never have. But you're useful to me. For some reason, which I am at a loss to understand, you seem to have a talent for this sort of thing. As long as you continue to be useful, I'll keep you in the field.” He smirked. “I know you better than you know yourself. You're dedicated to the job—obsessively so, some might say.” His expression hardened. “So, you see, you need me more than I need you. And, oh, yes, there's one more thing: I want you to take Detective-Sergeant Evans along with you. She could use the field experience.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I've got plans for her. We need more women in positions of authority. And I imagine with her along you'll be spending less time in the pub.”

  No bloody doubt, Powell thought with a sinking feeling. “Will there be anything else?” he said, carefully controlling his voice. He'd be buggered if he'd give Merriman the satisfaction of seeing how furious he was.

  “Your contact in Northallerton is Superintendent Cartwright…”

  Powell was already on his way out the door of Mer-riman's office. He slammed it behind him, his face burning.

  CHAPTER 3

  After explaining the situation to a grumbling Sergeant Black, who was clearly miffed at being passed over for Evans, Powell left a brief message for Marion on their answering machine. He then rang up Barrett to break the news. Before he could say anything, Barrett launched into a paean to the pleasures of grouse shooting: “Ah, the bracing moorland air, comely lasses beating through the heather, the clatter of wings over the butts, the smell of cordite, and the merry yipping
of spaniels. And later, after a wee dram or two in front of the fire, a climax of roasted fowl washed down with a bottle of good claret— I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this week, Erskine,” he expounded heartily. “Brings back memories of my lost youth.”

  A number of things went through Powell's mind (he didn't have the heart to interrupt) as he listened to Barrett wax eloquently, as only a Scotsman could, about his national bird. First off, driven grouse shooting, of the type described by Barrett, was an elitist and expensive pursuit. From what he knew of his friend's middle-class background, he thought it unlikely that he'd have had the means to pursue the sport. However, Barrett, who was blind in his right eye, had once let slip that a stray pellet taken while grouse shooting as a lad was the cause of it. Perhaps he'd preferred his grouse poached in those days, Powell speculated.

  When Barrett eventually paused to take a breath, Powell interjected abruptly, “There's been a change of plans, Alex. I can't come. I'm sorry.” The direct approach was usually best with Barrett.

  An ominous silence followed on the other end of the line, an imagined lit fuse to be followed at any moment by an explosion of expletives. The seconds ticked by. Then Barrett spoke in a surprisingly measured voice. “You'd better explain yourself.”

  Powell did his best, complete with an unsolicited diatribe about Merriman. “And that's not the worst of it,” he concluded glumly. “I'll be right in the middle of the best grouse-shooting moors in Yorkshire—bloody working!”

  This seemed to catch Barrett's attention. “Oh, aye?” Then a significant pause. “What about the lassie?”

  “Sarah Evans?” Powell shrugged. “She's all right. Young, bright, ambitious. Not exactly my choice for a traveling companion, though.”

  “Well, not to worry, Erskine,” Barrett said brightly. “I'll just have to carry on without you. I've got the time booked off anyway, and I know a lassie who might enjoy a wee taste of the, em, sporting life.”

  No bloody doubt, Powell thought, feeling a bit put out.