Hook or Crook

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘Now we move from fact into what a court would regard as pure speculation. The ambassador arrives. He wants to start fishing — which, after all, is the reason for his visit. But he would never accept as coincidence that a man who has good reason to hold a grudge against him is in possession of the neighbouring beat. Coincidence or not, something has to be done about him. Mr Hollister comes and goes, but he is still fishing late in the evening, staying close to the bridge and waiting for his man to show himself. It seems that he had made no plans for his own escape. He was prepared to face the music if the ambassador was not.

  ‘Imberesh and — what was the other man’s name? — Bashari head for a confrontation with Mr Hollister. They may have intended no more than to disarm him and to warn him off. Or they may only have wanted to confirm his identity before reporting him to the police. We may never know. But Mr Hollister was in an excitable state. We may suppose that they came to blows and he was struck, fatally, perhaps with his own priest.

  ‘Consternation. A full-scale diplomatic incident seems imminent. They carry the body into the ambassador’s garden. They have been lucky, there are no witnesses. But if Mr Hollister is found near by, or if he disappears after having last been seen in their vicinity, the most rudimentary investigation would reveal the discrepancy of names, which in turn would uncover his grudge against the ambassador. But if he were found somewhere else, the death would have more chance of being accepted as a fishing accident. They decide to move the whole scene to the Spey.

  ‘A reason that I am not inclined to credit Imad Vahhaji with the killing is that that theory leaves the ambassador’s household up in the air, only involved by a remarkable coincidence. But if it happened as I have just suggested, we have an explanation for Vahhaji’s involvement.

  ‘Let’s suppose that one of the ambassador’s staff comes up with another idea for a fallback plan. There is a resident in the village who has had a violent quarrel with the deceased. He is a nervous man, easily intimidated. If he can be manoeuvred into behaving in a manner which could be interpreted as guilty then, even if attention focuses on the village here, any investigation would be unlikely to look further than him. They were reckoning without a persistent — and lucky — acting detective constable, but of course they always had diplomatic immunity to fall back on as a last resort. That, I take it, is how you were seeing it?’

  ‘Exactly, sir,’ said Tony.

  ‘There is one more piece of evidence in favour of that solution,’ I said. They all looked at me in surprise. I think that my presence had been forgotten. ‘I visited an old friend last night,’ I said. ‘He lives near here on the other side of the village street. Being old and a poor sleeper, he sits up in his dormer window for much of every night. He was sitting up on the night in question and he saw only one camper or motor-caravan go by. He described it as a van with windows. It didn’t turn into the hotel’s car-park, which is in his view, but he heard it stop outside his field of vision. What he said suggested the driveway to the ambassador’s house. I’ll take you over and introduce you to him whenever you like.’

  Tony McIver looked up from his notebook, nodded to me and then looked at the Detective Chief Superintendent. ‘Sir, I’m puzzled by one thing . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why would they go to so much trouble when they were already covered by diplomatic immunity?’

  Goth shrugged. ‘Who knows how people will think during an emergency?’

  ‘They killed my mother,’ Mrs Walton said flatly. ‘Now it seems that they have also killed my father. Are you about to tell me that they’re going to get away with it again?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Goth said. ‘Let’s take it a step at a time. At the moment, we don’t even have enough evidence to satisfy ourselves.’

  ‘But even if you get a dozen eyewitnesses and a confession, they still have diplomatic immunity. That man who shot the policewoman in London was only sent home with a black mark, and he wasn’t even an ambassador.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Goth.

  Mrs Walton’s face had a pinched expression. She looked less feminine and much less soft. ‘As I understand it,’ she said in a voice that shook, ‘you have my father’s possessions, here and in Granton. They will be mine now.’

  Detective Chief Superintendent Goth produced what I think was intended as a fatherly smile although his broken nose rather spoiled the effect. He could have told her not to be a fool or he could have acted as a heavy-handed policeman would. But he decided to be gentle. ‘When your father’s estate has gone through probate, and if you are the legatee, and if by then you have obtained a Firearms Certificate, and if we are satisfied that you have good reason for ownership, we shall be happy to deliver the rifle to you,’ he said.

  As my ear became attuned to Goth’s voice his accent of origin emerged from behind the veneer of education. In Scotland, and particularly the north-east, accents change every ten miles. His, I thought, had once been Aberdeen City rather than Aberdeenshire. There was a contrast there with Tony’s sibilant Highland lilt or Fergusson’s Central Belt growl.

  ‘But that could take months,’ Mrs Walton protested.

  ‘Quite so. And by that time His Excellency will, I rather think, be out of the country.’

  ‘And beyond justice.’ Mrs Walton, her tears forgotten, was taut with fury. ‘That’s unacceptable. It’s unconscionable. It just must not be.’

  ‘Have patience,’ Goth said. ‘We may agree with your sentiments. But I am a servant of the law. This is the time for seeing what evidence can be uncovered. We’ll worry about diplomatic immunity once we can be sure who’s guilty.’

  ‘There’s one possible witness who’s been overlooked,’ I put in. They all looked at me again. I struggled on. ‘You’re short of evidence. There’s only one avenue I can think of for positive evidence one way or the other and the man you want was in the bar, the last time I came through there. If you’ll excuse me for a moment . . .’

  ‘Bring him in here by all means,’ Goth said.

  I went through to the bar. Imad Vahhaji was sitting by himself, backed into a corner and clutching a large, amber drink as if for moral support. He caught my eye and looked a nervous question but I shook my head and made a sign which I hoped suggested both encouragement and patience.

  Harry Codlington, looking slightly more cheerful than usual, was telling fishing stories to a small group of other disenfranchised anglers. When he arrived at what is called in television circles a ‘natural break’ I tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Spare a minute?’ I asked. ‘Somebody wants some information. It’s important.’

  ‘What it is to be popular!’ Harry said to his companions. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t leave me out of the next round or I’ll sue. Who wants me?’

  ‘The police,’ I said. ‘They want you to help them with their inquiries.’ Harry stopped dead. ‘I put that badly,’ I said. ‘I haven’t dropped you in it and they don’t suspect you of anything. You may have seen something useful and that’s all.’

  I led him into the coffee room and performed introductions. With us, we brought Harry’s drink and the rich smell of a bar in full flood. I saw Eric’s nose twitch. ‘Would anybody like a drink?’ he enquired.

  Goth smiled. ‘I think we might stretch the rules for once. Why not?’ he said. Eric made a long arm and stabbed the bell. Goth nodded to me.

  ‘Harry told us that he was in Granton on Monday,’ I said. ‘This may be a waste of breath, but if he came back late enough —’

  ‘Quite right,’ Goth said. I pulled up another chair to the coffee table and we sat.

  ‘We’re still inquiring into the death of Bernard Hollister,’ Goth said. ‘You know what I’m talking about?’ Harry nodded. ‘I can’t say more than that for the moment. Tell me about Granton on Spey.’

  Harry’s eyebrows went up. His mildly expansive mood seemed to have been short-lived but he decided to play along, picking his words. ‘I went through for the day, to get some coa
ching from a fishing instructor and . . .’ He paused.

  ‘We need not concern ourselves with the reason for your journey,’ Goth said. I gathered that Tony’s report had made mention of Harry’s love-life. ‘You went over the Lecht?’

  ‘Of course I went over the Lecht. Why wouldn’t I? Any other road that isn’t about three times as far is very little better.’

  Jean Bruce came in and tried to look questions at me while she took an order from Eric. Despite Mr Goth’s assurance, Harry Codlington was ill at ease and refused the offer of another drink. Fergusson also decided to abstain. Goth asked for a large malt, Mrs Walton for a small brandy and the rest of us for beer.

  ‘What time did you start back?’ Goth asked.

  ‘Late. It was dark. I was perfectly sober,’ Harry said indignantly.

  Goth hid a smile. ‘I am not concerned with that, except in so far as it may have affected your memory. In fact, if you happened to have put a dent in a certain oncoming vehicle I might even be grateful.’

  I saw Harry relax. He had, I decided, not only gone to Granton in amorous pursuit of his friend’s wife but had celebrated his success before driving back. ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said, but more cheerfully. ‘No dent. I can’t help you there.’

  ‘On the way back, what other vehicles did you meet?’

  ‘Very few. You don’t get a lot of late-night traffic over the hills. Most drivers try to time their journeys by daylight. When there’s low cloud, it’s like driving in thick fog and the headlamps throw beams of milk. On that sort of road, it’s no joke.’

  ‘How was it that night?’

  ‘Clear. Some cloud in two places on the peaks.’

  ‘What other traffic did you meet?’ Goth asked again.

  ‘I was paying more attention to staying on that truly awful road,’ Harry said. ‘I do remember . . .’

  Jean Bruce interrupted us again to distribute drinks. Eric signed the chit. The Detective Chief Superintendent added a single drop of water to his malt whisky and sampled it with satisfaction. ‘Yes?’ he said to Harry. ‘You do remember . . .?’

  ‘This side of Tomintoul, I was going down one of those incredible one-in-five hills and hoping my brakes would hold, when I met something struggling up. I thought it was a van — I couldn’t see much because he never dipped for me — but as I went by I saw that it was one of those caravanette things. And there was a car behind it, I remember, waiting for a chance to overtake.’

  ‘And did he overtake?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I had a look in my mirror because, after I’d gone by, my lights picked up a wet stripe in the road as though one of them, presumably the caravanette, had been blowing steam, and I wondered if he’d make it to the top. The car was still behind. They were nearing the cloud line and the driver probably didn’t want to face the risk of an oncoming car popping out of the fog all of a sudden.’

  ‘What kind of car was it?’

  Harry waved a hand in the exaggerated gesture of the slightly drunk. ‘I have the impression of something large and dark.’

  Fergusson stirred. ‘At what point in the journey did you meet the white Mini?’

  Harry looked at him blankly. ‘I don’t remember any Minis, or anything white,’ he said.

  ‘Yellow?’ Tony enquired. ‘A yellow sports car?’

  ‘Nothing yellow and no sports cars. In fact, I think the caravanette and the car following it were the only two vehicles I saw between turning off the main road near Granton and arriving back at Deeside. Apart from an old rattletrap of a van near Cock Bridge.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Goth. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.’

  Goth raised his glass in what was almost a toast. ‘You were more help than you know. On your way back, would you ask Mr Vahhaji to join us?’

  ‘The thin, dark chap? All right.’ Harry looked as though he would have liked to ask a few questions of his own, but after a momentary hesitation he turned and left the room. ‘I think that we may be beginning to dot the i’s and cross the t’s,’ Goth said. ‘We’ll get Mr Vahhaji out of the way.’

  My time for a little dry fly fishing for trout was ebbing away. ‘Perhaps we should leave you to it,’ I suggested for the third time. Eric and Mrs Walton sat firm but I had just got to my feet when Imad Vahhaji sidled in, looking very neat and smart but more nervous than ever. He shot a terrified glance around the group, one known police officer and four strangers, and turned to me as the only person there who had sent him a message of comfort.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  Goth shrugged, so I sat down again. Vahhaji squatted on the very edge of the chair vacated by Codlington and laced his fingers together.

  The Detective Chief Superintendent introduced himself and Fergusson, which did nothing for Vahhaji’s peace of mind. Goth spoke to him gently. ‘At the moment, evidence coming to us suggests that the statement which you gave to Mr McIver is true. But you must see that any lies and evasions can only count against you and make it more difficult for us to confirm what you’ve told us.’

  Vahhaji looked at me. ‘This is true?’

  ‘Quite true,’ I said. ‘If you’re guilty of anything, you should ask for a solicitor to be present. But if you’re innocent, you can only save trouble for the police — and for yourself — by speaking up.’

  As I spoke, I realized that my comment was double-edged. If Vahhaji now asked for a solicitor, it would be a confession of guilt — at least in the eyes of the police. It was a trap as old as justice itself. But he took it at face value. ‘What do you wish to know?’

  Goth led him first through what was no more than a repetition of what Bea had extracted from Jean Bruce. ‘When you went out again, after Miss Bruce came to you,’ Goth said, ‘what did you see?’

  ‘The caravan was gone,’ Vahhaji said. ‘A policeman came suddenly out of the shadows. I nearly ran away. Then I decided that I was trapped. He asked me what I was doing there. It seemed to me that all that had been said to Miss Bruce must be true. I said that I couldn’t sleep and had come out for a walk. I showed him that I had pyjamas on under my jacket and trousers and he seemed satisfied. I nearly fainted from relief.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘There were lights. But my distance vision is not good.’

  ‘Lights, where?’

  ‘At the ambassador’s residence.’

  Goth came at last to the missing element. ‘Please understand,’ he said, ‘that we must know everything about Mr Hollister, his attitudes and anything that anyone might be holding against him. We can’t accept your story in full if we don’t know the reason for your attack on Mr Hollister. If it’s irrelevant, it will be forgotten. But we must know.’

  Vahhaji’s hands were clasped together so tightly that I could see whiteness spreading through the dusky skin. He glanced at me and I nodded encouragingly. ‘If I tell you this,’ he said, ‘I must again open old wounds and say things which I had hoped to forget. But I will do it, not because I am afraid but because I wish to help you to find whoever did this terrible thing. It is true that I fought with Mr Hollister, but later I came to know that he was a good man despite what he had said.’

  ‘Get on with it, man,’ Fergusson said. Goth frowned him into silence.

  ‘Take your time,’ Goth said.

  DCI Fergusson looked out of the window at the hotel’s fecund garden and sighed.

  Vahhaji took a few moments to settle down. ‘Alec,’ he said at last, ‘the man serving at the bar, had told me of Mr Hollister’s great loss and I was sad for him, because I am another who knows the desolation of the soul that comes when one loses a loved one. So when Mr Hollister asked for directions to the filling station which is always open, I sat down with him and told him how to find the place. He thanked me politely but his manner was stiff — I thought because of his pain. And, meaning no more than to help because my heart was sad for him, I told him of
my own loss.

  ‘I had a very dear sister, the baby of the family, and when our parents died I became as a father to her.’ Vahhaji looked from one to the other of us. Tears were running down his cheeks but he managed to retain a slender dignity. ‘We were very close. When she smiled the birds sang, or, if they did not, I sang for them. I wanted only her happiness. I hoped for a good marriage for her, but while I waited I allowed her to go to the university. There she became involved with a man and I thought that he might be the man for her.

  ‘I did not know it at the time but he was a member of Islamic Jihad. He persuaded her to run away and join their ranks. I was frantic, but not all my efforts nor money nor family connections could find a trace of her. From time to time, perhaps three or four times a year, a message would reach me. Usually it would be a short letter pushed through the door during the night with not even a stamp or a postmark to tell me where it was from. It would tell me that she was alive and well and that she still loved me and sometimes it would ask for the understanding that I could not give her. That would be all. I could not have answered her even if I had known what to say.

  ‘The last news that I had of her was three years ago. I learned that she had died when a car bomb that she was driving through Jerusalem exploded prematurely. It was left to me to identify her, but all that they could offer me was the remains of a necklace that I had once given her. It was all that was left.

  ‘All this I told him. I was about to tell him of my grief and then to explain that one can forget and go on living. An old hurt and a new happiness may exist together. Miss Bruce is helping me to know it and I hoped that I could help him.

  ‘That is when he said what he did and for a moment I went mad.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Goth asked patiently.