Hook or Crook

by Gerald Hammond

  We parted in the hall. I collected my new rod and other gear. Waders are easier to wear than to carry, so I donned my chest waders and waddled off towards the Dee.

  The path to the river began as a narrow slot between two houses and then opened up into a broad track sloping down between a wood of mature conifers and a granite garden wall. The height of the wall cut off the view of anything but the highest treetops in the spacious grounds, but when I reached the chain bridge I glanced back. The ambassador’s house — which had once been occupied, I remembered, by a charming old lady who loved to entertain visiting fishermen to drinks and snacks on the lawn — was a large and rather rambling dwelling set in several acres of walled garden. It was just as I remembered it except that the old lady would never have tolerated a small helicopter on the lawn.

  Further down the pool that began at the bridge, two figures were standing close together in the water near the south bank. The one which towered above the other was easily recognized as Eric but it took me a few seconds to realize that the other was Bea, looking very masculine in chest waders, a plaid shirt and an old fishing hat. Their hands were locked together on his salmon rod and she seemed to be instructing him in a tidy switch cast.

  Making way for a woman with two German Shepherds on leads, I completed my crossing of the bridge, descended to the river bank and followed a path made by a thousand fishermen and dog-walkers beneath the overhanging trees until I came abreast of the two anglers, where an old but well-varnished split cane rod was safely propped against a tree. I sat down on a root with my back to a sturdy trunk and prepared to comment favourably or otherwise on the lesson. A warm breeze was tracing patterns on the surface of the water and keeping the midges at bay, but whenever the breeze dropped the midges swarmed to the attack. I dug in my fishing bag for the Jungle Formula.

  The murmur of a river, with quiet voices and the occasional swish of a cast, is as soporific to me as the sound of a distant cricket match. And I had been up early. I was on the point of dozing off before the pair in the water realized that I was there.

  Bea waded ashore. ‘You don’t have to let me spoil your fun,’ she said earnestly. ‘We’re only using one rod and, anyway, Johnny said that three rods would be all right as long as I was one of them and nobody on the other bank objected.’

  The late Mr Hollister, alias Robinson, had been fishing the opposite bank. ‘As long as at least one of us stays below the bridge,’ I said, ‘there’s nobody in a position to object. I’ll go and try a cast or two further upstream.’

  Eric was still thigh-deep in the river but he was listening. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Did you find Imad Vahhaji at home?’

  ‘He was at home all right,’ I said. ‘Don’t let Tony McIver know that I’ve talked out of school, but Vahhaji says that Mr Hollister only came along to apologize.’

  ‘I could believe that,’ said Bea. ‘From the little I’d seen of him, he seemed to be that sort of man. Friendly but apologetic with it, like a spaniel that’s unsure of its welcome.’

  ‘Vahhaji refused point-blank to say what the row was about. He also said that he’d prefer that nobody around here knew that he was at home.’

  ‘I wonder why,’ Bea said, frowning.

  ‘He wouldn’t say,’ I told her. ‘Offhand, I could only make a wild guess.’

  ‘You tell me your wildest guess,’ Eric said, ‘and I’ll tell you mine.’

  ‘No deal,’ I told him. ‘I came for the fishing, not for fruitless guesswork.’

  Irritated, he mistimed his cast and wound the line round his rod. I picked up my bag and the new rod and walked back to the bridge. To avoid the winter spates, the bridge was set high above the water. Rather than climb the steep slope up to the main footpath and down again, I pushed through the weeds that grew on the bank between the water’s edge and the concrete base below the pillars.

  Half-way up the next pool, several rocks showed above the water and swirls on the surface showed the position of others. These would provide perfect small areas of slack water where a travelling salmon might rest and indeed the map had shown favourite lies in the vicinity. I tied on a Waddington, waded in further up and began to cast across and downstream.

  Because of the slope of the ground opposite, my new position gave me a good view of the wide granite house and its spreading garden. Movement caught my eye. Two men came out of the french windows and walked down the garden past the resting helicopter.

  At my second cast, a fish took hold and drew out a yard of line. I waited for it to turn before striking, but the line went slack. I made a note of the place to try again later, moved a yard downstream and cast again.

  Casting downstream to one’s right can pose a problem for right-handers but the lack of three fingers from my right hand has forced me to be largely ambidextrous. As a result, I can change hands and cast off either shoulder without difficulty. But the woman with the dogs was on her way back and had lingered while one of them anointed a corner of the garden wall. Harry Codlington, in waders and carrying his fishing gear, had paused on the bridge to glare at me. I could see Bea and Eric through the bridge and I thought that they were watching me. The two men had come out of a gate in the wall onto the opposite bank and another had emerged from the french windows. The place was becoming as crowded as a shopping centre in the week before Christmas.

  With so many eyes on me, I was tempted into using the double Spey cast, a showy cast which looks both elegant and skilful when performed properly. The perfect figure of eight drew itself in the air, the fly brushed the water, but just when the line should have rolled out across the river the hooks caught the one twig that reached far enough over the water.

  The woman walked on. Harry sent a sneer in my direction before following. Eric and Bea turned away, no doubt laughing. Feeling the complete idiot, I set about recovering my line.

  Controlling a fifteen-foot rod while trying to pull down a springy branch and then get hold of it to detach a barbed hook which has whipped several times around it and taken a good grip on a twig calls for more fingers than I possess. Indeed, a third hand would have been useful and a fourth would not have come amiss. It was several minutes before I had the line clear and was able to reel in.

  After so much disturbance, any fish remaining nearby would have been put off taking for some time. Deciding to move to the next pool upstream and work my way down again, I waded out.

  The two men from the big house had crossed the bridge and were waiting for me. They were dressed in neat suits with white shirts and their ties were suggestive of the better sort of club, but there was no mistaking what they were. Their skins were dusky and their noses were proudly hooked. They were Arabs, but of Bedouin origin, North African rather than Middle Eastern. They would have looked more at home with a camel, a burnous and a snaphaunce jezail apiece.

  But their English was good. The taller of the two spoke first. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Usually, I take people as they come, be they black, white or purple. If he had spoken to me with even moderate courtesy I would have responded in kind and have forgotten almost immediately any racial difference between us. Conversely, any equally arrogant but stupid question would have put my hackles up coming from an English duke, and had done so in the past.

  ‘I am knitting a hang-glider out of barbed wire,’ I said slowly and distinctly. ‘What are you?’

  They were both large men. The less tall, but distinctly broader, companion of the first speaker pushed forward. His suit, I noticed, had come off the peg and it only fitted where it touched. ‘You are trying to be funny?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Are you trying to be clever?’ I also invited them to go away. There are ways and ways of telling somebody to go away, and I chose the rudest that I could call to mind in the heat of the moment. I do not take kindly to being pushed around.

  The expression that I had used, which might well have been incomprehensible to a delicately reared Briton, seemed to be within his compre
hension of the English language. I thought that he was going to hit me and I prepared to toss my rod out of harm’s way and reverse into the river, pulling him in with me. Nothing takes the fight out of a man like finding himself fully dressed in cold water. They were beginning to crowd me but the taller man put his hand out to restrain his companion and said something soothing in Arabic.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked me.

  ‘None of your damned business,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’ Even as I spoke I thought that it was a question almost as stupid as their opening gambit. I could guess perfectly well who they were.

  Somebody disagreed. ‘Good question,’ said another voice. We all looked round. Tony McIver was approaching from the direction of the bridge. Despite his youth he managed to exude an air of calm authority. They stepped back and we waited in silence until Tony reached us.

  ‘I am a police officer,’ he said, rather grandly. He waved an identity card but I noticed that his fingertip concealed any mention of his lowly rank. ‘I know Mr Wallace James and I know that he has a permit to fish this beat. Now let’s get back to his question. Your names?’

  The taller man, as well as being much the better dressed, seemed to be the senior and the more diplomatic. ‘I am Ibrahim Imberesh,’ he said, producing a smile which struck me as seeming spontaneous by dint of a great inner effort, like the practised smile of a dancer in mid-lift. ‘This is Ali Bashari. We are responsible for the security of His Excellency Abdolhossein Mohammed Flimah.’

  ‘The ambassador?’

  ‘Exactly so. It is our duty to know who is going about within gunshot of His Excellency. Truly, officer, there was no call for unpleasantness. Mr Wallace James need only have explained what he was doing here, on His Excellency’s beat.’

  ‘His Excellency’s beat is on the other bank,’ I pointed out.

  ‘But you were fishing much of the way across the river,’ Imberesh said.

  ‘That is quite usual,’ I said patiently, ‘especially when the other bank is unoccupied. When His Excellency fishes from his bank, he’s welcome to cast his fly across here.’

  ‘You are very kind,’ said yet another voice. The third figure had emerged from the gate onto the further bank and his voice came clearly across the water. The two bodyguards stiffened and bowed their heads in what was almost a salaam.

  His Excellency was shorter than his employees and much more rotund but he had the same dusky skin, proud nose and dark, hooded eyes. He was dressed and equipped for fishing and even from a distance I could see that his gear was expensive and nearly new. He fired off a burst of Arabic which caused his henchmen to flinch.

  ‘Please ask your men to open their jackets,’ Tony said. ‘I wish to be sure that they are not armed.’

  ‘Let it be so,’ said His Excellency, and it was so. ‘I shall go up and start from the head of my beat,’ he continued smoothly. ‘You may fish your own beat here in peace, Mr Wallace James. I had word that you were here. I have read your words of wisdom with great pleasure. I enjoyed your article on early season nymphing in the current issue of Salmon, Trout and Sea-trout very much. In fact, you may fish from this bank if you wish. You may manage better. There are fewer trees to interfere with your cast.’ And he set off upstream, probably chuckling to himself, leaving me ready to grind my teeth. A diplomat, I supposed, becomes adept at choosing the most effectively barbed insult and slipping it into the conversation as if by accident.

  ‘We shall be watching you,’ Imberesh said. The look he gave me suggested that, whether or not his master had offered me the hospitality of the other bank, I would be very rash to accept it.

  Refastening their jackets, the two bodyguards faded into the trees, keeping pace with their master on the other bank.

  Chapter Eight

  I relieved my feelings by wading into the water and repeating the double Spey cast. This time it worked to perfection and I felt better, although my audience seemed to have melted away. Tony was looking gloomily after the retreating backs. ‘I would have liked the chance to ask a few questions,’ he said. ‘That house has a grandstand seat overlooking the bridge and an oblique view of most of the beat the late Mr Hollister was fishing.’

  ‘Not a good time,’ I said, wading out again.

  ‘No. Confidential investigations are not conducted by shouting across a river. Unfortunately, the inspector already made a clumsy approach to them and they retreated behind their diplomatic immunity. I shall have to ask that somebody more senior makes a formal request for an interview. Foreign diplomats have to be handled with care.’

  ‘Not by me.’

  ‘So I noticed. I never realized that you had such a short fuse.’

  ‘It’s a long fuse,’ I told him. ‘Very long. But there’s more than a little explosive on the end of it. I was about to move anyway,’ I added as I finished reeling in. ‘The splashing and arguments will certainly have put the fish down for the moment. His Excellency’s gone upstream so I think I’ll try further down.’

  We trod the narrow path in single file and passed under the bridge. Eric was fishing near the tail of the pool under the eye of Bea, who had taken a seat on the bank. We joined her. Bea and I, being in waders, could sit comfortably on the bank with our feet in the water but Tony had to perch uncomfortably on an uneven rock.

  ‘Eric’s casting better,’ I said. ‘Apparently he listens to you.’

  ‘He pays attention to my voice,’ she said seriously, ‘because it resembles Amy’s. How are you getting on?’ she asked Tony. She treated me to a wink from the eye that he couldn’t see. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘Ask away. I seem to have few if any secrets from your companions and you’ve already been of more help than most of my colleagues. It was you who told me about Mr Hollister visiting Vahhaji. Also, you may be able to help some more. You know the area and the people.’

  Bea waited for him to go on, but evidently Tony was expecting more specific questions. ‘Did you find Imad Vahhaji?’ she asked.

  ‘You haven’t heard?’ Tony gave me an approving but undeserved glance and went on to explain briefly what had happened at Vahhaji’s house. ‘Mr James suggested that the girl at the hotel, Jean Bruce, the landlord’s daughter, might have been feeding him and keeping him informed. I have just seen her. She was getting upset until her father stormed in and told her not to answer any more questions, which was quite unnecessary because up to that point, apart from denying that she had ever even met Vahhaji, she had not answered any.’

  ‘Well that, at least, is nonsense,’ Bea said. ‘I’ve seen them together, walking by the river hand in hand. Not very often, because their leisure hours tend not to coincide, hotel work being what it is, but I’ve seen him in the hotel mooning over her. Mooning in the British sense, not the American,’ Bea added hastily, in case we should suspect Mr Vahhaji, in addition to murder, of baring his behind at the girl. Bea looked at her watch. ‘I’ll have to go soon. Can I leave my trappings with you and come back later?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

  She got to her feet and began to work out of her waders, revealing a pair of trousers which, to my surprise, were not as unflattering as trousers usually are on the fuller female figure. Although she was plump, her plumpness was evenly distributed and she had not run to hips and thighs. Eric was visibly impressed.

  ‘You leave Jean Bruce to me,’ she told Tony. ‘I was her teacher when she was in Primary and she still treats me as though I’m going to give her lines for inattention. I’ll get the truth out of her. And I can deal with Sam Bruce any day of the week.’

  In the face of such confidence, Tony McIver could not protest. ‘I just hope that you can,’ he said. ‘I have been on to Aberdeen. The day being Saturday, the officers on duty were not the ones I should have been speaking to and I found myself connected to a very senior officer, a detective chief superintendent, no less,’ Tony said respectfully. ‘He had me tell him the whole story. He agrees that I have something. Not enough to bring a
whole lot of men back on weekend duty, but he promises some officers for house-to-house inquiries on Monday and in the meantime if he can clear his desk he will come through here — not, I think, to look into the case but to see for himself what the middle ranks have and have not been doing. Well, I for one do not intend to cover up for them. I think that Traffic Division may be due for a sudden influx.’

  ‘I should think so too,’ Bea said severely. She arranged her rod and waders in a neat group.

  ‘So,’ Tony said, ‘I would like fine to have made some progress before he comes.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that that would be a feather in your cap. I’ll have a word with the girl and point out that she’s doing her boyfriend no good and probably a lot of harm by being evasive. She’ll believe it from me even if she might not from you. What else do you want me to tell you?’

  ‘I want to know who I should speak to. This area, around the bridge, is constantly trodden by dog-walkers. To save me from having to stand here all day accosting them, tell me who they are.’

  ‘I can give you a few names,’ Bea said, ‘but why not start with me? I live this side of the bridge but all my friends are in the village, I shop there and I sometimes have a snack at the hotel to save cooking for one. I suppose I walk over the bridge as often as anybody.’

  ‘You used to see Mr Hollister fishing?’

  ‘Often. He could cast a beautiful line. And when I met him walking between his caravan and here we usually stopped for a few words about the weather or the fishing. His path from where he kept his caravan joined my path from the house. He seemed very agreeable,’ Bea added. ‘Not at all the sort of man to get into a fight in a pub. But I thought he was nervous, although I couldn’t tell you why I thought so.’

  Tony hesitated but moved on. ‘Was he ever carrying anything?’

  ‘Just his rod and fishing bag, and occasionally some shopping.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  The breeze had fallen away for the moment. While she considered her reply, Bea flapped ineffectually at the midges. ‘He was fishing for most of Monday. I crossed the bridge half a dozen times and he was always in view. He seemed to have taken a fancy to this pool. Once, he had a good fish on the bank. He held it up for me to see and I gave him a little round of applause. I’m sure that it was Monday, because I was invited for after-dinner drinks with friends in the village and on my way home, around nine, he was still there.’