Hook or Crook

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘He’s probably been sent offshore,’ Eric said.

  Tony grunted. ‘I’ve been on the phone to his employers. They haven’t seen him since Monday. Probably he has bolted for home. Or maybe not. Are you going back to the river now?’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ said Eric, folding his paper. ‘No salmon makes a fool of me and lives.’

  ‘I can tell you about the poachers.’

  ‘We know about the poachers.’

  ‘Oh. I was wondering,’ Tony said, ‘whether one of you might not come with me for a few minutes. I phoned the sergeant, but he said to carry on as best I can. He told me that he is going in to Aberdeen for a meeting, but I think that he just wants to start his weekend and not be bothering himself over what he thinks is a red herring. But I want a witness with me, just in case.’

  Eric, I could see, was tempted, but the pull of the fish was greater than the attraction of poking his nose into police business. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said. I looked at Eric. ‘You can manage for an hour or two on your own?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, with dignity. ‘I hold the stick in my hands and tie one of those hooks with feathers on the end of the string. I’ll go and make a start.’

  ‘Don’t be an ass,’ I said. ‘Ready when you are,’ I told Tony.

  We set off on foot. The day was dry and warm but still clouded, with a light breeze. The morning’s mist had lifted.

  ‘I was sent over here to do liaison and collation work,’ Tony said as we walked, ‘but I seem to be doing every damn job, all at the same time. In between typing statements, I’ve been on the phone most of the morning. The Met and the local police in Esher were asked for help, and information has been trickling in. It seems that the man really was Hollister, whatever he might have been calling himself. Or, at least, there’s a Mr Hollister from Esher seems to have dropped out of sight and he owns the motor-caravan.’ Tony slowed almost to a halt and glanced around but the village street was bare of eavesdroppers. ‘Somebody else was making enquiries about him last week. An Arab — from one of the embassies, they thought.’

  ‘Not our local diplomats?’

  ‘They don’t know yet. And there’s a daughter somewhere. They’re trying to find her. She’ll have to make an identification.’

  ‘Did his cheque to the estate office have the name of Hollister printed on it?’ I asked. ‘Or was it on a new account?’

  ‘It had his name on it, but he explained to the estate office. When he arrived the girl asked him, more out of curiosity and to make conversation than for any other reason, how a Mr Robinson had paid for his fishing with somebody else’s cheque. He said that the fishing holiday was a present from his brother-in-law, in return for a favour.’

  ‘Reasonable,’ I said, ‘but apparently untrue. So what was Mr Hollister, alias Robinson, up to, apart from fishing?’

  ‘We have not the faintest idea,’ said Tony. ‘It may be that he has a lady-friend somewhere near by. But Mr Hollister was a widower. He had no need of a false name to protect his own identity.’

  ‘Unless there was an angry husband somewhere who would be on the look-out for the name Hollister,’ I suggested. ‘Harry Codlington jumped to the conclusion that we told you he’d been in Granton. He seems very touchy on the subject of just what he was doing there on Monday.’

  ‘Then he should be more careful where he parks his car,’ Tony said. ‘One of the traffic wardens took a note of his number. He was not so badly parked as to be worth a summons, but she noted the number in case he sinned again.’

  ‘We thought that it was something like that.’

  ‘He seemed to feel that I should accept his assurance that he was not there with murderous intent and he took umbrage when I persisted with my questions.’ We walked a few yards in silence. ‘But,’ Tony said, ‘there is something I haven’t told you which gives cause for worry. The local police say that Hollister had a two-four-three deer rifle registered in his name. There was a half-used box of ammunition for it in his caravan, but no rifle.’

  ‘Probably left over from some previous stalking trip,’ I said.

  ‘We hope so. If the daughter doesn’t turn up very soon, they’re going after a search warrant. If the rifle isn’t in his house, it is possible that he may have been killed for it. In which case, who has it now and for what?’

  Before I could try to think of an answer to his questions, which were anyway unanswerable, he came to a halt. The scattered houses of the village were giving way to a wood of mixed conifers, beyond which were open fields.

  ‘Last on the left,’ Tony said. ‘I’m not convinced that he isn’t there. It doesn’t feel empty. I’m going to knock on the front door. Then I’ll nip round the back in case he makes a bolt for it. If anyone opens the front door, call me. All right?’

  ‘Almost all almost right,’ I said. ‘I’m not grabbing a possible murderer. I don’t have the authority or the motivation. Or the guts.’

  ‘If he makes a run for it, it will be from the back,’ Tony said comfortingly. ‘After a couple of minutes, if he’s still sitting tight, start hammering on the door.’

  The ‘last house on the left’ had been built later than its old stone and slate neighbours, with a granite front but roughcast sides and a tiled roof that came up almost to a point, so that the chimneys at either end stood alone and phallic instead of growing out of their gables. I thought that it was probably more comfortable to occupy than its neighbours but it looked out of place, like a child among pensioners. The curtains were drawn. A prefabricated garage stood, as though ashamed, to one side in a labour-saving garden which was mostly planted with shrubs and heathers. A neat sign, saying no milk, hung on the gate.

  A gravel drive led to the front door, but Tony led the way silently across a small lawn. Our footsteps crunched as we crossed the last few yards on gravel.

  Without delaying, Tony rang a long peal, rapped with his knuckles and called out, ‘It’s the police, Mr Vahhaji. Open up, please.’ He made a long jump onto the grass and hurried round the corner of the house.

  I waited. The house seemed silent but, as Tony had said, it did not feel empty. Perhaps there was warmth or tiny sounds and smells, below the level of conscious perception. The curtains never moved. I was becoming convinced that we were wrong, that Imad Vahhaji was offshore or out of the country, but I followed instructions and hammered loudly on the door. Fists and knuckles produced only a sound muffled by flesh, so I picked up a stone and rapped on the glass panel.

  Almost immediately, I heard a voice and footsteps.

  The front door was opened by a thin man in his middle thirties with a narrow moustache and curling black hair. In a face that looked no darker than a light tan would have looked on a European, his eyes were large and soft, just as Alec the barman had described them. He was immaculately shaved and even in corduroy trousers, Turkish slippers and a dressing-gown he gave an impression of dapperness. Close behind him Tony McIver seemed to tower, although the difference between them was only a few inches.

  In despondent silence, Imad Vahhaji led us into a small sitting-room.

  ‘The time for hiding in the dark is over,’ Tony said. He drew back the curtains and daylight swept in. The furnishings were commonplace and had evidently been rented along with the house, but the few personal possessions in the room were obviously of the best. Lights were flickering on a hi-fi set-up that I frankly coveted and the headphones that had been laid on top of it were muttering. Vahhaji’s lack of immediate response to our arrival was explained.

  We sat down on a small, hard settee finished in moquette. Vahhaji turned off the hi-fi and perched on the edge of a matching armchair.

  ‘You have no difficulty with English?’ Tony asked him.

  Vahhaji was clearly in a state of apprehension but he managed a small smile. ‘I was educated in England,’ he said gently.

  Tony produced his notebook and opened it on his knee. I noticed that he wrote fluent shorthand.

  ‘You are Im
ad Vahhaji?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I have to ask you some questions about Mr Bernard Hollister. And I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence. You understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You may have known Mr Hollister as Mr Robinson, but you know who I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know that he is dead?’

  Vahhaji hesitated and then said, ‘I had heard so.’

  ‘Last Sunday, the fourteenth, in the evening, you had a fight with him. Tell me about it.’

  ‘It was a fight. We disagreed. If you have heard all about it you will know that no lasting harm was done.’

  ‘But you were the aggressor?’

  ‘Under great provocation!’ Vahhaji’s fear was transformed to something close to anger. ‘I am not a man of violence. I spoke to him in the hotel. I was only trying to be friendly in my clumsy way. The barman had told me something of the tragedy in Mr Robinson’s life and I was sad for him. I have known what it is like to lose one who was dear to me. Mr Robinson had seemed a very quiet man, very controlled, but when I spoke with him he heard me out in silence at first, so that I thought that he was listening with understanding. Then he said something so unspeakable, so terrible, so unforgivable that I . . . I lost my head. It was only for a moment and I was ashamed afterwards.’ Vahhaji’s hands were twisting together and there were real tears in his eyes.

  There was a pause while Tony’s shorthand caught up.

  ‘You spoke with him again later?’ Vahhaji remained silent. ‘Come on, now,’ Tony said brusquely. ‘Mr Hollister was seen walking towards this house late on the following evening.’

  ‘He came to see me.’

  ‘And there was more violence?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ Vahhaji said indignantly. ‘Write this down, Mr Policeman, it is the truth. He came to me to apologize. He said that he was under great strain and something I had said stung him, as we say, on the raw. But he realized that I had not meant to offend and indeed I was not at fault, and he was sorry for what he had said. And he told me that there was no truth in it, for which I was very much thankful although since then I have wondered whether he was telling the truth or only trying to spare my feelings. It was a most gracious apology, but what he had said was, as I told you, unforgivable, so I said to him that, while I accepted his apology and would not mention the matter to anyone, I would prefer not to speak with him in future. He said that he quite understood and he went away. I never saw him again.’

  Tony finished making loops and squiggles. ‘What was it that he said to you?’

  ‘I am not saying.’

  ‘It may contain something relevant to my inquiries.’

  Vahhaji shook his head violently. ‘It does not! It was wholly irrelevant. And, I have already told you, it was beyond repeating.’ He paused and lowered his voice, speaking more calmly. ‘I have made up my mind that I shall never speak of it again unless I am forced to, and then it would be only in the presence of my solicitor.’

  ‘Who is your solicitor?’

  ‘I shall find one.’

  Tony seemed to have run out of questions but it seemed to me, from long experience of cases in which my partner had been involved, that there were one or two loose ends to be tied up. ‘You might care to ask him,’ I said, ‘how and when he heard that Mr Hollister was dead.’

  Tony looked the question at Vahhaji.

  ‘Everybody in the village knows it.’

  Tony had caught up with me. ‘They know it now,’ he said. ‘But you have been keeping to the house with the curtains drawn, not showing a light or making any noise, for several days.’

  Vahhaji drew himself up and tried to thrust out his gentle jaw. ‘Arrest me if you will,’ he said. ‘I am not saying any more. I have told you the truth. He spoke the words which began the trouble but mine was the first physical violence. I accept that. But nobody was hurt.’

  ‘Alec, the barman, seems to have taken a punch in the face,’ I remarked. ‘Was that from you or from Mr Hollister?’

  Vahhaji shook his head so violently that I thought he would do himself an injury. ‘Why would either of us hit the barman? He was unmarked.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be difficult to find out when Alec first showed signs of bruising,’ I pointed out to Tony.

  ‘He did not receive any bruises at my hands. Nor at those of Mr Hollister. Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’ Tony demanded.

  ‘Unless there was more trouble when he went back . . .’

  ‘He went back? To the inn?’

  ‘I am assuming so. After we had spoken, it was time for the hotel to close. He looked at his watch and said as much. He said that he would have to hurry if he was to catch the barman. I assumed — I still assume — that he intended to offer the man just such a gracious apology as he had made to me. That is all I know.’ And no further questions could extract any answer from him other than a shake of the head.

  ‘I don’t want to have to take you into custody,’ Tony said at last. (My guess was that he was uncertain of his powers.) ‘Not unless you force me to. I suggest that, for the moment, you voluntarily surrender your passport to me.’

  Vahhaji willingly produced his passport from a crocodile-skin briefcase and handed it over. He came with us to the door. ‘I may go to my work on Monday?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. But don’t go offshore without speaking to me first.’

  ‘I never go offshore. I have not yet passed the course.’ Vahhaji peered cautiously through the door. The road seemed deserted. ‘And, please, I do not wish the local people to know that I am here.’

  ‘Why not?’ Tony asked quickly.

  But the door was shut firmly behind us and a few seconds later the curtains were closed again. Tony hesitated, on the point of going back and demanding an explanation, but he shrugged and came away.

  *

  We walked back along the nearly empty street. A van went by and up ahead two women were pushing prams, but otherwise we had the place to ourselves.

  ‘Now they will just have to put some men back on the job,’ Tony said. ‘It was all very well, leaving me to waste my time here alone. But now . . . It has the makings of a strong case.’

  ‘Against Vahhaji? If poachers were duffing up the ghillie and the bailiff and if Hollister’s rifle was stolen and if the barman who had already had a dust-up with Hollister collected a battered face all in the same area and on the same night, the defence could present several good red herrings.’

  ‘If we don’t find more evidence,’ Tony agreed. ‘We don’t know yet that the rifle is missing nor, if it is, where it was stolen. But the point is that there was a fight just before the man died. House-to-house inquiries will have to begin again. Somebody must know whether Mr Hollister left Vahhaji’s house alive and whether he went back to the hotel and whether Vahhaji went out again that night.’

  ‘Do you really see the Arab as a murderer?’ I asked.

  ‘That is neither here nor there. On the basis of five minutes’ acquaintance, I can imagine him finding a polite excuse to avoid a fight, or just plain running. Frankly, I am surprised that Hollister managed to lay hands on him at all. But the mildest of men can become tigers when given enough provocation. Only the evidence counts. There was a fight. They met again. One of them has died.’ Tony was silent for a few yards. ‘I wonder what it was that Hollister said.’

  I was wondering the same thing. If there were magic words to reduce an opponent to a state of gibbering fury in a matter of seconds I would have liked to know them if only so that I could say them to Keith when he was at his most irritating.

  We stopped our discussion as we passed a group of ladies chatting at the door of the village shop, a converted cottage which looked as though it could do no more than satisfy the villagers’ most humdrum daily needs but which in fact carried a remarkable range of hardware, clothing and . . .

  ‘Food,’ I said suddenly as we drew c
lear.

  ‘You surely can’t be hungry again already.’

  I ignored the irrelevancy. ‘You entered through the back door of Vahhaji’s house. Did you see a freezer?’

  ‘No. There was a fridge. They usually have a freezer compartment. Why?’

  ‘Vahhaji wasn’t expecting a quarrel,’ I said. ‘Nor a second encounter. He knew that Hollister was dead, either because he had killed him or because somebody told him. He — Vahhaji — decided to stay indoors and keep his head down until he heard that it was safe to emerge. But heard from whom?’

  ‘I think that I see what you mean,’ Tony said doubtfully.

  ‘What I mean is this. Vahhaji wouldn’t have been expecting to be housebound for most of a week. And it doesn’t look as though he’s been out and about during the hours that the village shop has been open.’

  ‘He’s thin. He could have been getting by if he had a loaf and a few tins in the house,’ Tony said.

  ‘Perhaps. But I think that somebody has been feeding him. I heard noises in the night around the hotel. So I’m wondering if the same person hasn’t been feeding him information as well as good plain cooking.’

  ‘If he was the killer, he wouldn’t need information,’ Tony said doubtfully. We walked a few more paces in silence. ‘Who could it be?’

  ‘That’s for you to find out. But,’ I said, ‘you might start with the daughter of the house.’

  ‘Which house?’

  ‘The public house. I thought that she was looking nervous, but I hadn’t set eyes on her since she was a teenager and maybe she always looks like that. Then at breakfast this morning she looked at though she had been short of sleep; and she has just the plump, blonde prettiness that sends them mad in the Middle East.’

  ‘Oho!’ Tony said. He looked round at me sharply and walked into a forsythia which overhung a garden wall. ‘Dash it,’ he said mildly. ‘I must see the young lady and then use the telephone, in the hope that any one of my myriad of superiors is working today.’

  ‘You have your kind of fishing,’ I said, ‘and I have mine.’

  ‘I would happily exchange with you,’ Tony said gloomily as we entered the hotel.