Death of a Prankster (6 page)

Hamish shook his head. ‘You cannae go around questioning the niceties of police behaviour in the middle o’ a murder inquiry.’

‘No?’ Enrico patted the pocket of his dark jacket which held the tape. ‘When Mr Blair calms down, he will realize that anyone in this house could have taken the knife from the kitchen at any time. I did not have any birds to joint in the last couple of days, so it could have been missing at any time during that period.’

Hamish looked around the living room again. It was neat and clean but somehow characterless: three-piece suite, coffee table, bookshelves with some magazines and paperbacks, and two pot plants. Above the fireplace was a framed photograph of the Ramblas, the main street in Barcelona.

‘You said your wife was very religious,’ said Hamish slowly. ‘But there are no religious paintings here, no crucifix, no religious statues.’

‘I said my wife was religious,’ said Enrico. ‘I am not.’

Hamish looked thoughtfully at him. Enrico’s dark brown eyes looked blandly back.

‘I’ll be talking to you later,’ said Hamish.

He went up to the library and told the furious Blair about the knife and about the fact that there was no way of getting that tape. ‘I don’t think Enrico will send it off unless you start accusing him of deliberately tampering with the evidence – which you could have done,’ said Hamish, ‘if you hadn’t put his back up. There’s one thing you could do, however.’

‘And whit’s that?’

‘Get Mrs Jeffrey Trent in here and accuse her of having paid the servants to lay out the body and clean the room.’

Blair goggled at Hamish.

‘Aye,’ said Hamish. ‘A guess. But a good one, I think. Enrico and Maria are not the sort to become sentimental about the death o’ their late master. They’re hard-headed. They already own property in Alicante and it’s my belief they’ll leave after the reading of the will, no matter who is the new master or mistress here. It was only hope of getting something in that will that kept them here. When the body was discovered, Mrs Jeffrey ran straight to her son’s room and found him gone. For some reason, she’s protecting him. The reason could be that she’s simply a rather neurotic and possessive mother.’

‘Oh, well, I’ll give it a try,’ said Blair sulkily.

‘And make it official,’ said Hamish. ‘Recorder and all.’

When Jan came into the library, Blair, Anderson and Hamish were there and there was an official tape recorder on the desk in front of Blair.

‘How much did you pay Enrico to lay out the body and clean the room?’ demanded Blair.

She went a muddy colour. ‘Who says I paid them?’

Hamish’s quiet Highland voice interrupted. ‘It will be easy to find out. Whatever it was, I doubt if you would have that amount of ready cash on you. So you would give him a cheque – a cheque which will show up at your bank.’

‘I want a lawyer,’ she said faintly.

‘Mrs Jeffrey Trent,’ intoned Blair, ‘I must warn you that you have a right to remain silent, but everything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.’

She suddenly collapsed and began to cry. Through gulps and sobs, she said she was overwrought. She had not been trying to protect Paul. She thought old Andrew had died because of a joke that had gone wrong. That was her story and she was sticking to it.

When she was finally allowed to leave, Blair said with satisfaction, ‘I’ve got that bloody Spaniard now. Taking money to pervert the course o’ justice.’

‘And he hass still got you,’ said Hamish. ‘He’s got that tape.’

Blair swore viciously.

Then the phone rang. It was the Inverness police. Paul Sinclair and Melissa Clarke had been picked up at Inverness station and were being brought back to Arrat House.

Melissa had never been so happy. She was sitting on a red plastic seat in Inverness station beside Paul. The London train was almost due to arrive.

They had skied across country as far as Lairg, where they had taken the train to Inverness. After arranging for the skis to be sent back, they had gone for lunch and had joked and laughed and giggled like schoolchildren.

They would come back to the Highlands on their honeymoon, thought Melissa dreamily. Although Paul had not proposed marriage, she was sure he would, some time in the near future. Her mind was filled with glorious images of snow-covered moorland and soaring mountains. She felt tired and happy and her face still tingled from the exercise and the cold, biting air.

Policemen came into the station, policemen of various ranks. Two guarded the entrance. Melissa watched them with that rather smug curiosity of the law-abiding watching the police looking for some malefactor.

Her wool ski cap was suddenly making her head feel itchy. She pulled it off and her pink hair shone under the station lights.

And then all the police veered in their direction.

An inspector stood before them. ‘Paul Sinclair and Melissa Clarke?’ he asked.

Paul blinked up through his glasses. ‘Yes, that’s us. What’s up? Has anything happened to Mother?’

‘You are to accompany us,’ said the inspector stonily.

Bewildered, they rose to their feet. Two policemen relieved them of their rucksacks. They walked out of the station. A white police car was waiting in the forecourt. They got in the back. A thin policewoman got in beside them and two policemen in the front. The car sped off.

‘What is this?’ demanded Melissa. ‘What has happened?’

The man in the front passenger seat slewed round. ‘Mr Andrew Trent was found murdered this morning at Arrat House. We are taking you back there for questioning.’

Paul buried his face in his hands.

‘But what has his death to do with us?’ protested Melissa. ‘We left at dawn this morning.’

‘Although the body was found this morning,’ said the policeman, ‘it is estimated that Mr Trent was killed the night before.’

‘How … how was he killed?’

‘He was stabbed to death. Now, if you’ve any more questions, put them to Detective Chief Inspector Blair, who is in charge of the investigations at Arrat House.’ He turned to the driver. ‘No use taking the Struie Pass in this weather, Jamie. You’d best go round by the coast.’

Paul remained huddled up, his face still in his hands. Melissa shivered with dread. What did she know of him? What did she know of any of them? The countryside which had seemed so glorious in the morning sunlight now looked alien and forbidding, bleak and white in the headlights of the police car.

Back to Arrat House. Back to where among those overheated rooms was a murderer. She reached out to put an arm around Paul and then shrank back. The man she had been dreaming about getting married to was now a stranger to her.

While Melissa and Paul were speeding on their way back to Arrat House, Hamish was sitting quietly in the library, listening to Blair interviewing Charles Trent.

The young man interested him. He was surely old Andrew Trent’s heir. Charles was saying that Andrew had adopted him while he, Charles, was still a baby. No, he said amiably, he didn’t know who his real parents were and had never been curious.

What had his relationship with the dead man been like? Charles looked serious, opened his mouth to say something, and then shrugged. ‘Why pretend?’ he said. ‘He despised me. It seemed I couldn’t do a thing right as far as he was concerned. I wanted to go into the business instead of going up to Oxford, but he said nastily it was a successful business and I would probably ruin it. He did all right by me in material ways, best school and all that, but I never remember him particularly wanting to have me around. I’m not upset by his death … yet. The shock is still too great, so I don’t know whether I am going to grieve or not.’

‘Did you speak to him at all just before he died?’

‘No, I was out in the snow, talking to my fiancée.’

‘With whom you spent the night?’

‘Gosh, did she tell you that? Yes.’

‘And when you went to her room, didn’t you see the body?’

‘No, the room was in shadow apart from a little pool of light from a lamp beside the bed. I looked at Titchy, you see. I didn’t look anywhere else.’

‘What were you and Miss Gold talking about?’ asked Hamish suddenly.

‘Well, lovers’ talk, you know, things like that.’

‘Why did you go outside in the cold?’

‘Needed a breath of fresh air. This house is always over-heated. When will I know what’s in the will?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Blair. ‘About eleven o’clock provided the roads stay clear.’

When Charles had left, Blair rounded on Hamish.

‘Why were you so interested in what he was talking about?’

‘I just wondered,’ said Hamish, ‘whether they might have been quarrelling. I mean, he brought her up here and she must know it was because he hoped the old man was really dying. It turns out he’s not. She gets awful jokes played on her and then her dresses are cut. Charles Trent got a modest yearly allowance from Mr Andrew Trent. So he had to work but he doesn’t seem to be able to keep a job for long or get a successful one. I wondered if maybe Titchy had decided to dump him.’

‘It’s an idea,’ admitted Blair ungraciously. ‘But mark my words, that Jan Trent knows Paul Sinclair did it. It’s jist a matter o’ breaking him down.’

Hamish stifled a sigh. Blair’s bullying methods rarely got him anywhere but he never seemed to understand that.

‘What are you going to do about Enrico?’ he asked maliciously.

‘I’ll deal wi’ that one in my ain good time,’ snarled Blair. ‘Look, why don’t you shove off, Hamish? It’s getting late. I’ll see this Paul Sinclair and his girl and then start again tomorrow. We’ll have the will and the autopsy report then.’

Hamish knew Blair wanted to be rid of him because the detective was sure that Paul Sinclair was the murderer and he didn’t want Hamish around to share in the credit.

He walked out of the library and collected his overcoat from a peg in the hall. Then he heard a scrunch of car wheels on frozen snow and went outside.

Melissa and Paul had arrived. Paul was white-faced. Melissa looked tired and scared. Hamish watched as they were ushered inside. He felt sorry for them. Blair would give them both a hard time of it.

He drove slowly homeward, the great bright stars of Sutherland burning fiercely overhead. The roads had been gritted and salted but were beginning to freeze in a hard frost.

The police station would be freezing cold, he thought gloomily. Maybe if he could solve this murder, he would offer Blair the credit in return for a suggestion to police headquarters that central heating was installed. Instead of going straight home, he turned into the drive leading to Tommel Castle Hotel. Landowner Colonel Halburton-Smythe had turned his home into an hotel after he had lost a great deal of money. The suggestion had come from Hamish. The hotel had quickly become a great success, but the colonel never gave Hamish Macbeth any credit for the idea, perhaps because he frowned on the village bobby’s friendship with his daughter Priscilla.

The guests had finished dining and were having their coffee in the hotel lounge, formerly the castle drawing room. Jenkins, once butler, now
maître de
, frowned at the sight of Hamish, for Jenkins was a snob, but reluctantly said that Priscilla could be found in the bar. The bar was in a room off the entrance hall. What had it been before? wondered Hamish, trying to remember. Priscilla was behind the bar checking some accounts.

‘Still working?’ said Hamish. ‘I thought now that Mr Johnson had taken over as hotel manager you would be able to lead a life of ease.’

‘There’s still a lot to do,’ said Priscilla, shutting a ledger with a firm bang. ‘Besides, the barman’s off with flu – not that the bar gives me much work. This party of guests like their drinks in the lounge and the waiters cope with that. Mr Johnson and I have finally talked Daddy into getting a computer for the accounts. Have a whisky on the house, and tell me your news.’

Hamish watched her as she poured him a shot of whisky. She was as cool, blonde and competent as ever in a severe black dress and black high heels.

‘I refuse to stand behind the bar any longer,’ said Priscilla with a sigh. ‘It’s been a long day. Let’s take our drinks over to the table at the window. If anyone comes in, I’ll get Jenkins to find one of the waiters to take over.’

‘The morning room,’ exclaimed Hamish. ‘I couldnae remember what room this used to be.’

‘Changed times,’ said Priscilla. ‘We’re making money hand over fist and we’re booked up all year round, but if I suggest to Daddy that he might now go back to being lord of the manor, he turns green at the gills with fright. Losing that money scared the hell out of him. What brings you here?’

‘I wanted to see you,’ said Hamish, remembering briefly the time when he had been so much in love with her that he would have been unable to say anything as honest as that. ‘Besides, I’ve got a murder. Arrat House. I’ve been there all day. It was the thought o’ going back to that freezing police station, apart from wanting to see you, that brought me here.’

‘Where’s Towser?’ asked Priscilla. Towser was Hamish’s dog.

‘At the station, but Priscilla, that animal doesn’t feel the cold.’

‘Hamish, you are so lazy! A fire takes no time to get going. Drink up and we’ll both go to the station and warm that poor dog and feed it.’

‘Towser can look after himself,’ pleaded Hamish, but Priscilla replied that she was going to fetch her coat.

Proof that the mongrel could indeed take care of itself was discovered when they found Towser snuggled down under the blankets on Hamish’s bed. Hamish wanted to tell her about the case but had to wait until she had lit the kitchen stove and prepared food for Towser.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘that’s better,’ and Hamish wondered again how it was that someone so elegant and with such a pampered upbringing should have turned out to be such an efficient housekeeper.

He told her all about the murder and she listened intently. ‘You see,’ finished Hamish, ‘there’s one thing I’m sure of. Not one of them knew what was in that will. If just one of them looked or sounded as if they knew and if that someone turned out to be the beneficiary, then I think I would find the murderer.’

‘You mean, his millions are the reason for the murder?’

‘What else?’

‘Well, his jokes, Hamish. You’ve forgotten something. He played jokes on people in the village as well. They hated him like poison. Everyone knows that.’

Hamish’s stomach rumbled and he coughed to conceal the noise. He was hungry, but if Priscilla knew that, she would start clattering pots and pans to make him a meal and he wanted to discuss the case.

‘Aye, that’s right,’ he said slowly. ‘Mind you, someone would need to be a lunatic to kill him over a joke.’

‘There are jokes and jokes,’ said Priscilla. ‘He might have humiliated someone quite dreadfully and you Highlanders are a terribly touchy lot.’

‘I’ll go over to the village in the morning,’ said Hamish.

‘Is Blair allowing you in on this case?’

‘For the moment. I’m covering MacGregor’s patch, so I have every right to be there.’

Priscilla leaned forward. ‘Is it any use pointing out to you that promotion would mean more comfort? If you like it so much here, why didn’t you rush back to feed your dog instead of coming to the hotel?’

‘I told you,’ said Hamish stiffly, ‘I wanted tae see you. Iss there anything wrong in that, Miss Halburton-Smythe?’

She studied him thoughtfully and then gave a rueful smile. ‘I should be flattered, Hamish Macbeth, but I happen to know you are a moocher.’

‘Well, if you want to think I wass after the free drink and the free heat, that iss your damned business.’

Priscilla stared at him in amazement. He coloured but turned his head away and sat with his arms folded.

‘I’m off,’ she said suddenly. ‘It’s a good thing I brought my own car. Call on me again when you’re over your sulks.’

Hamish felt like a fool when she had gone. What on earth had possessed him to snap at her like that? His stomach gave another rumble. That was it. He was hungry. It was not as if he were still in love with Priscilla and sensitive to her every remark. But he shouldn’t have left Towser behind in the freezing cold. He would take the dog with him in the morning.

*    *    *

Titchy Gold and Charles Trent were snuggled up in bed, his bedroom, Titchy’s being still sealed off. ‘So you didn’t mean that about leaving me,’ said Charles.

‘Silly,’ she giggled. ‘I was out of my mind with all those hellish jokes.’

Charles clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. ‘I just hope you aren’t pinning your hopes on that will. I’m not.’

‘Oh, yes, you are,’ said Titchy. ‘You’ve been strung up all day.’

Charles gave a reluctant laugh. ‘Terrible, isn’t it? But I am his son and so he’s got to leave me the bulk of it.’

And at that remark, Titchy ended the conversation by becoming very amorous indeed.

Along the corridor in their room, Betty and Angela Trent lay awake. Betty kept snivelling dismally and the tip of her nose was pink.

‘I don’t know why you’re so upset,’ complained Angela. ‘I mean, we were both shocked at first, but it’s good in a way to be rid of him and it’s no use pretending otherwise.’

Betty shivered. ‘That’s a sinful thought. Do you believe there is a hell, Angela?’

‘No, but then I don’t believe in heaven either.’

Betty shifted restlessly. ‘I suppose Charles will get the bulk of the money and then he’ll marry that little tart and
she’ll
get her claws into it.’

‘Just hope he’s left
us
something,’ said Angela, ‘or we’ll be in real trouble.’

Jeffrey was striding up and down his bedroom, berating his wife, an odd state of affairs, for in their marriage it was usually the other way around. ‘What on earth possessed you to get the servants to take the body away and clean up?’ he kept asking. ‘You dote on that boy of yours and yet you’ve landed him in terrible trouble and all because you were frightened he had done it. You must be mad. That wimp couldn’t kill anyone.’

Jan found her voice. ‘Don’t you dare criticize my son,’ she said in a thin voice. ‘At least he earns decent money, which is more than I can say for you.’

‘I was earning very good money when you married me,’ pointed out Jeffrey acidly. ‘I am not responsible for the recession in this country.’

‘You’re responsible for a lot of hare-brained deals. Pinky told me.’ Pinky was a colleague’s wife.

‘So that’s your idea of loyalty? Gossiping about me behind my back? Poking into my affairs? I could wring your scrawny neck.’

‘Try it,’ she jeered. ‘Just try it.’

‘Oh, shut up, you bitch,’ he muttered, suddenly weary. He climbed into the double bed beside her and both lay as stiff as boards, not touching, each plotting ways on how best to hurt the other. I’ve still got my looks, thought Jan, to whom extreme thinness was beauty. If he doesn’t get any money in that will, then I’ll find someone else.

Jeffrey thought, if I don’t get any money, I’ll take everything we’ve got left and disappear to Spain. That’d serve the bitch right. She might even have to find out what it’s like to work for a living. In the last few years, failure and frustration had taught him to hate. He now hated his wife every bit as much as he had hated his brother. He forced himself to relax. In his mind’s eye, he lay on a Spanish beach in the blazing sunshine while a buxom Spanish girl with bobbing breasts and not one anorexic bone showing brought him a long cool drink.

Melissa was sick for the second time that evening. Sweating and shivering, she climbed into bed. She would never, even in her left-wing days, have believed the police could be such pigs. She could still see Blair’s face, bloated with rage as he hurled questions at her and Paul. And a fat lot of good Paul had been. He had cringed before Blair, apologized for his very existence on this planet, thought Melissa savagely.

Blair had turned over her whole life, her family, her career, and he had obviously regarded her pink hair as a sure sign she took drugs. Good God! He had even got that thin policewoman from Inverness to examine her arms for needle marks. And she had been so happy just that morning, so free, planning a life with Paul. A fat tear rolled down her nose and plopped on the sheet.

Down in his living room, Enrico sat with his pocket calculator and his bank books and counted his savings. ‘We’ve done very well,’ he said in Spanish to his wife, not the lisping Spanish of the south but a hard Catalan accent. ‘We’ll wait to see what’s in that will and then we’ll leave. Hey, Maria, back to Spain after all these years in exile. We can live like grandees.’