‘I understand,’ Keith said. ‘So, after she was killed and her money seemed to have disappeared, you felt that least said, soonest mended. And that included the defence solicitor.’
She looked happier. ‘That’s it exactly.’ A clock chimed somewhere in the house. ‘I’ll have to go soon,’ she said.
Keith wanted time to think before he pushed her any further. He changed ground. ‘What happened on the morning she died?’ he asked. ‘Did you go to your work?’
‘I was late. Mary usually came back and left again in her Mini before I biked off, because she had further to go. But that morning she didn’t come back. And I was worried, because of what she’d said. So I waited a bit and then I phoned the farmer and he said he’d keep an eye out for her. And then the hotel phoned, to find out if I was ill or something, and I said no, just a domestic crisis and I was coming right away.’
‘I know that it’s a journey you do every day,’ Keith said, ‘but, if you can remember that morning in particular, did you see a car parked where the big sycamore is, about a mile from here?’
‘I remember very well,’ she said. ‘You see, I was worried about Mary, so I was watching the farmland as I went, instead of riding along in a dream as I usually do. And yes, there was a car parked where you said. At first I thought that it was Mr Donald’s car, the one which he usually parked just down the hill from here, but it didn’t look quite the same.’
‘Was anybody in or near it?’ Keith asked.
‘No. But I saw a man coming down that little valley. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like, because as soon as he saw me glance up he stepped behind a bush. Frankly, I thought that he’d gone there to have a widdle,’ Miss Carlogie said delicately.
‘Was that in the precognition which you gave to the Fiscal’s office? And the burglary?’
‘Both of them,’ she said. ‘But they had me sign a shorter copy before the trial.’
‘What else did they leave out?’ Keith asked quickly.
‘Nothing much that I can think of. Except for the phone call. I’ll tell you about it. Just a few days before she . . . died . . . there was a phone call. I answered it and it was a man’s voice asking for Mary. She was in and she took it over. I don’t know what was said but it seemed to upset her. That was when she started warning me not to talk to anybody, but I didn’t say anything about that in my statement.’
‘You didn’t hear her end of the conversation?’
‘She didn’t say much, just listened. If it helps, the man’s voice sounded just a bit deeper than yours, but there was no accent that I noticed.’
‘Could it have been Hugh Donald’s voice?’
‘I told them I was sure that it wasn’t. He phoned up once, before he took Mary to court. His voice was higher, and over the phone there was a north-of-England accent which you don’t notice otherwise. And now, I really must be going in a minute. I’m on duty tonight. Tomorrow I’m working all day and off in the evening,’ she added, as if this was a matter which could not possibly be of interest.
‘I’ll remember,’ Keith said.
While they talked, she had unconsciously been adjusting her posture to be a mirror image of his own, and yet modifying it so that the outline of breast or thigh was shown to advantage. And Keith, who was sensitive to such things, detected signs of arousal, even, as they got up to shake hands, the smell of it beyond her faint perfume. He thought that somebody as shy as Jenny Carlogie, and with as much repressed sexuality, would be a pushover for any seducer, male or female.
Chapter Six
Miss Carlogie was pleased to accept a lift to her work, with her bicycle stowed beside the dogs and hanging half over the back seat. She set the alarms carefully before leaving home. The hotel, she explained, could usually find her a bed if the snow became too bad, but she was well used to the ride in all conditions. Her manner towards Hugh Donald was friendly, curious and slightly flirtatious.
They dropped her at the hotel and turned back for Aberdeen. Hugh opted for the cross-country road again and nursed the car carefully over the new carpet of snow.
‘At least we can be sure nobody’s following us around,’ Keith said.
Hugh cocked an eye at him. ‘You’re expecting something like that?’
‘Not necessarily. But it’s always possible when someone’s got something to hide and may be getting uptight about it. Lock your doors and keep looking over your shoulder until this is all over.’
‘What a way to live!’ Hugh said. ‘All I want now is get back to a normal life. Did you get anything out of the old biddy?’
‘That’s no way to speak of a charming lady,’ Keith said. (Hugh gave a snort.) ‘Yes, I got plenty. She may yet turn out to be a key witness on your side. But I don’t have it in context yet. Her late chum was up to something dodgy but the money’s missing and her papers were stolen. I think I’ll have to go back again. How about yourself? Were any dark deeds perpetrated during your absence from work?’
‘I don’t know yet. I have my suspicions. I’ll go back to the office tonight and do a check, without anyone looking over my shoulder.’
‘Join me for dinner first?’
‘Not this time,’ Hugh said, ‘if you don’t mind. I’ll take a sandwich into the office and get on.’
‘Fair enough. You can drop me in Chapel Street. I want to put some more notes on tape and phone Glasgow again.’
Keith fell into silent thought for a few miles. They rejoined the Skene road. Warm tyres had cleared the tarmac and Hugh made better time.
‘There’s one thing Shennilco could help with,’ Keith said suddenly. ‘We must, simply must, try to trace that other gun. It may have been bought and altered in the shop which was burned last night, but I doubt it. The place is more of a retail outlet. They’d accept a gun for alteration but they’d farm the work out. Somewhere, there may be a gunsmith who did the alteration and has the measurements on record. The police could find out. We don’t have their resources. But Shennilco must have resources to match.’
‘Easily,’ Hugh said.
‘I couldn’t see Sheila phoning round every gunshop in the country and listing the details of several thousand guns,’ Keith said. ‘Do you think Shennilco could put several people onto it, and allocate a separate number for calls back?’
‘I wouldn’t expect any problem if the office is quiet.’
‘Or should I go through Jeremy?’
‘You can go through him with a load of shot for all I care,’ Hugh said. ‘He’s a slob. The Old Man thinks the sun shines out of his arse, so we’re stuck with him. But I’ll fix what you want. We’ve got an admin. officer who thrives on that sort of thing.’
‘They’ll have to be persistent,’ Keith said. ‘Most shops won’t want to be bothered. Have them do it in Prather’s name, and mention mine. Drive gently and I’ll jot down the questions to be asked.’
‘They’ll be bothered,’ Hugh said. ‘At least, they will if they want to pick up a cash reward for information. The Old Man’s got his teeth into this one.’
‘Fine,’ Keith said. He finished jotting. ‘Did you manage to think of anybody who might want you out of the way?’
‘I didn’t tackle that myself,’ Hugh said. ‘It’s not human nature to think of yourself as a universal target. The Old Man’s PA and his secretary got together on it, consulting other departments where necessary. Last I heard they were nearing two hundred names and still going strong.’
‘You must fairly go around stamping on people’s pet corns,’ Keith said.
‘Not as often as that. But if you add up the suppliers whom I’ve black-listed for poor service or late delivery, the people who don’t get orders any more because they’ve tried to bribe me or because I’m strict about like-for-like tendering, a few members of staff who might expect promotion if I was gone and some who got passed over or fired because I couldn’t trust them, the list does rather tend to go on and on.’
Keith thought about it. The list of people who might
want him out of circulation could be counted on the fingers of one foot. At least, he hoped so.
*
Keith stood in Chapel Street and watched the car drive away. There were no evident watchers but a great many doors and windows.
While he looked, he made up his mind what to do if somebody jumped him. He had been a notable brawler in his younger and wilder days, but those days were behind him and he had had to learn that the first seconds of an attack were no time to spend trying to remember the techniques of yesteryear.
There was nobody in the hallway, nobody on the stair and when he locked himself into Jeremy Prather’s office it was deserted. There was no sound from upstairs and there had been no light in the flat. Jeremy Prather, presumably, was out on the town again.
He settled in the typist’s chair and dialled his first call to Glasgow. While he waited for a connection he skimmed through the notes which Sheila had left for him. There was nothing which could not wait until morning.
The newspaper’s telephone was answered. Keith’s friendly reporter was standing by, but the evening had become quiet and he had adjourned to a nearby pub. The newspaper’s telephonist gave him the number. A barman with a Glasgow accent so thick as to be almost unintelligible took the call. The reporter came to the phone. He sounded well lubricated but businesslike.
‘I’m glad you called,’ he said.
‘Have you any news for me?’ Keith asked.
‘Possibly. Mr Calder, what’s this on the wire about you being hired to investigate a murder in Aberdeen?’
‘I haven’t seen the Shennilco handout,’ Keith said, ‘but you can take it as factual.’
‘Add something. Give us a quote. Any link with the fire you were asking about?’
Keith thought quickly. ‘If I give you an extra quote, will you sit tight on my interest in the fire until I tell you? Then I’ll give you a story and a half.’
‘It’s a deal.’
‘All I can add at the moment is that I’m trying to trace some men who seem to have dropped out of sight or gone abroad but who may be back in Scotland. There may or may not be some connection.’ Keith gave a list of three fictitious names and added M Naulty to the end of it.
‘What’s the connection?’
‘One of them may once have owned the shotgun which was substituted for Hugh Donald’s gun. Now, what do you have for me?’
‘Hold on.’ Keith could hear the sound of rustling paper at the other end above a rumble of male voices and the clink of glasses. It sounded like a good party and he wished that he could join in. ‘Mr Calder, could you suggest why there should be a substitution of guns, instead of simply stealing Mr Donald’s gun to do the job?’
Keith sighed. ‘Because the best time for the crime coincided with a time when he would be out with his gun. The intention was to frame Hugh Donald. That wouldn’t work if he’d already reported the theft of his gun.’
‘But—’
‘That’s the lot,’ Keith said firmly, ‘and you could have worked that much out for yourself. If you want to be first in on the story when it breaks, you give me what you’ve got.’
‘All right. And thanks. About that fire, nobody’s making any statements. But a tip from inside the fire service is that arson’s been confirmed. No guns seem to be missing, but there’s a gangland connection ’though nobody’s letting out what it is. Does that help?’
‘It might,’ Keith said. ‘But don’t print that.’ He hung up.
His other call was to the Strathclyde police. It took a few minutes of argument and of being switched from extension to extension before he found himself speaking to Superintendent Gilchrist. Keith had once done Gilchrist a favour and never allowed him to forget it.
‘You’re working late,’ Keith said.
‘When did I ever not?’ said the superintendent’s clipped voice. ‘And what’s this enquiry of yours about last night’s fire?’
Keith was familiar with the need to give some information before collecting in return. The rule was to give as little and to get as much as possible. ‘Have you seen the evening paper?’ he asked.
‘When do I get time to read evening papers?’
Keith sighed. It was time to stop conversing entirely in questions. ‘I’m looking into the murder of Mary Spalding, near Aberdeen,’ he said. ‘The case against the accused was found not proven and his employers aren’t too happy about it. It seems possible that there was a substitution of guns. A gunshop in Aberdeen burned shortly after the murder. Now another one in Glasgow goes up, just after I’ve pointed out to the High Court that, if the gun had ever belonged to the defendant, it had certainly been in use by somebody else between times. So I’m wondering whether somebody’s trying to eradicate traces of his possession of that gun.’
There was a pause while Gilchrist thought it over. Keith looked again at the notes in front of him.
‘Somebody will be up to see you within the next day or two,’ Gilchrist said suddenly. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘Gregor’s Hotel,’ Keith said. ‘Your friends in Aberdeen won’t go much on the idea, you understand. It makes them wrong.’
‘We’ll make up our own minds,’ Gilchrist said. ‘All I’m prepared to tell you at the moment is that, if you’re right, the man you’re after has money and is using it to hire professional help. The arson was a skilled job, but the fire officer was experienced enough to be suspicious of a fragment of mechanism when he came across it. He brought it to us, and the m.o. was recognised. A professional arsonist, brought up from the Smoke. He was still in Glasgow and we found him lying low in a small hotel.
‘He’s saying nothing. And very wisely, because it seems likely that he was working for Harry Snide.’
Keith had heard the name. ‘Ouch,’ he said.
‘You’re right,’ Gilchrist said. ‘Probably more right than you realise. Snide has got bigger and cleverer during the last few years. Professional hard men, killers included. Some robbery, but mainly hiring out for intimidation or murder. We’d love to put him away, but all we ever get our hands on is his muscle. And even then a top-money brief turns up to give them the best possible chance of an acquittal. Some we win, of course. We sent down two of his men a couple of years ago. McHenge and Galway. When they came out, Snide sent them up to be based permanently in Aberdeen – partly, I suppose, to keep them out of our way, but mostly because Aberdeen’s where most of the dirty money is these days. If you run into them, turn round and run the other way. They’re not only rough, they’re slick as well.’
Keith swallowed. Shennilco was not paying him enough. ‘How will I know them?’ he asked.
‘Galway’s a large, smiling, Irish type with a snub nose, bald as an egg. McHenge is smaller, dark and hatchet-faced. That,’ Gilchrist said, ‘is just off the top of the head. If you’d like to call me again tomorrow I’ll have better descriptions.’
There was a silence on the line.
‘Thanks,’ Keith said. ‘I don’t like what you’ve told me, but thank you for telling it.’
‘A pleasure. But if you learn anything which I ought to know, you pass it straight on. You hear me?’
‘I do indeed,’ Keith said. ‘And the same to you.’
He hung up thoughtfully. He was making progress and yet the road was getting worse and its end more remote. If professional hit-men were involved, Hugh Donald’s innocence was going to be very difficult to prove.
He dictated for half an hour, bringing his notes up to date. But silence and solitude were making him uneasy. He left the cassette on top of the typewriter where Sheila would find it first thing in the morning. Then he locked up the office and walked back to Gregor’s Hotel, staying carefully among the bright lights and avoiding doorways.
*
At the reception desk a note was waiting for him. Radio Northsound hoped that he would agree to be interviewed. Keith dropped it into one of the bronze ash-trays. Two reporters, from rival papers, were also awaiting him and were less easily disposed of.
He gave them his short list of names and referred them to Shennilco’s PR department.
Too many ideas were buzzing in his head. They collided and confused each other. He put them firmly out of his mind while he ate a light dinner, only to have them flutter back when Jeremy Prather dropped into the other chair at his table and puffed smoke at him. The solicitor still looked sprucer than usual, but he had backslid in the matter of cigarette ash. There was also egg on his tie and a new burn on his lapel.
‘I was just going to order coffee,’ Keith said. ‘Have you come to join me?’
‘Have it in the lounge,’ Jeremy said. ‘There’s somebody I want you to meet.’
Keith signalled for his bill. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘An accountant. I’ve spent most of the day finding the right person to talk to,’ Jeremy said irritably. ‘And asking the police stupid questions about a dead rabbit, for God’s sake! They still have it, by the way, but they’re not sure where exactly. I was supposed to be fixing up a divorce for a couple of my own clients. Well, they’ll just have to learn to rub along together a little longer.’
Keith signed his bill and they walked downstairs together. A stout individual with a pale face and pig’s eyes, and wearing a bold, pinstripe suit, was waiting for them. At that hour, custom had moved to the bars and dining room and the lounge was almost empty. Piped music secured the privacy of the corner table. They ordered coffee.
‘Our friend would prefer to remain anonymous,’ Jeremy said. ‘You could probably identify him if you wanted to, but he’d just as soon stay nameless. He can tell you what you want to know, but after that, you’ve never seen him in the street.’
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