Shadows of Death (30 page)

‘Yes, Mr Norquist,’ Alan said, very gently, as though to a wounded animal. ‘We saw and talked to you at Skara Brae and High Sanday. Do you remember?’

‘No … I … and then Mr Fairweather told me about the dead cat and said everyone was blaming me, and I’d best go away, and I knew I’d never killed a cat, and he tried to put me in his car, and I ran away and went to ask Mother what to do, and she …’ His hand motions were entirely out of control now. His right hand flew out and knocked the tea cup to the floor, where it shattered.

Mrs Tredgold simply looked at us, and we nodded. Plainly the meds were wearing off, or else the frightful memories were too much for Charlie to cope with. We stood. ‘Thank you, Mr Norquist,’ said Alan. ‘You have been a great help. We’ll leave you now to get some rest.’

W
e stood in the entry for a moment, trying to decide what to do next. Nora had stayed with Charlie, to try to calm him a bit, and probably to give him another pill. The rain had almost stopped, or at least had paused. ‘Shall I bring the car around?’ asked Alan.

‘Don’t be silly. We’ll walk. We can change when we get back to the flat. And then … Baikie, do you think?’

‘Right. I’ll phone him straightaway.’

The conversation was brief. Inspector Baikie agreed that Fairweather had some explaining to do. ‘Though of course,’ Alan said when he’d ended the call, ‘the police will have to talk to Norquist at some point.’

‘Not now, Alan!’

‘No, not now. He’s in no shape to stand up to that sort of thing, the condition he’s in now. I hope they can pump enough drugs into him to get him relatively balanced soon. If Fairweather knows Norquist has talked to us, he’ll also know he’s under grave suspicion. That alibi he gave for the night of the murder is now no alibi at all, unless Norquist is lying his head off. And frankly, I don’t think the man is capable of formulating a lie at this point.’

‘He’s barely up to speaking at all, if you ask me. That mother of his … anyway, is Baikie going to let you talk to Fairweather, too?’

‘He gave that impression. He’ll phone when he’s located the man.’

I spent the rest of the morning on pins and needles, tidying up the flat to have something to do. Alan took Watson for a walk, never getting far from the flat, in case the inspector called. He was back, pacing the floor while I tried to think what to have for lunch, when the call came.

‘Nesbitt here. Yes. Yes? You’ve tried the museum? Yes. Certainly. As soon as we can get there.’ Alan clicked off. ‘They can’t find Fairweather. He’s not answering his phone, and they’ve tried his home and the museum and all the places he’s known to frequent. Baikie’s going out to the dig, in case he’s there. The mobile reception isn’t good on Papa Sanday.’

I nodded. ‘I think that’s the place to try. It’s the centre of all that’s happened, isn’t it? The dig is at the heart of the matter, I’m sure.’

‘Well, get a move on, love. We’re to meet Baikie at the Tingwall pier.’

‘It’s all right for me to come too?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ said Alan. ‘Better bring rain gear. It’s clear now, but who knows? And don’t forget your ginger capsules. And we’ll take Watson. He might be needed.’

If Inspector Baikie was surprised when Alan appeared at the boat accompanied by wife and dog, he made no sign. He greeted Watson with grave courtesy and ushered me aboard with some courtliness. He also gave me what looked like an ancient steamer rug for warmth. It was needed. The police launch was a fast and efficient boat, but it was built for utility rather than comfort. The sea was rough, but either I’d become inured or the ginger was doing its work, or else I was simply too absorbed by what we might find at High Sanday to think about being seasick.

It was raining again when we got to the island, not the deluge of the early morning, but hard enough to make us all thoroughly miserable in a few minutes. There was no sign of another boat, though Baikie’d had his pilot circle the island before we landed. ‘Doesn’t look promising to find him, but we might as well have a look, now we’re here,’ Baikie said. ‘He might have spent the night here and sent someone back with the boat, to fetch him today. The wee dog might find him, maybe?’

The wee dog had had just about enough of Orkney weather. He wanted to go back to the boat, where it was, if not warm, at least dry. Failing that, he wanted to explore a shed near the pier. He dragged at the leash and finally had to be spoken to sharply by Alan, who was better than I at discipline. I could see the dog’s point and was in hearty agreement with it, but I plodded along with the rest, sniffling. I was pretty sure my cold was coming back.

There was no sign of any human anywhere we looked, at least near the dig. We thought about going as far as Andersen’s place, but the thought of our probable reception kept us away. We could think of no reason why Fairweather would be there, and Andersen was the sort of man who would pitchfork first and ask questions later. The other crofters lived at the far end of the island, much too far to walk.

‘I’ll send for a ferry with a car if we canna find him elsewhere, but it’s no weather for a ferry today.’

Indeed, the sea was looking rougher every moment, and the wind blowing harder, though the rain had slackened a bit. There was no sign of Fairweather. ‘He should be here, though,’ I said through chattering teeth. ‘He should be here with a crew to put the place to rights. The rain isn’t doing the site a bit of good.’

Big plastic tarps which had, I presumed, been positioned over parts of the excavation had blown free and were snapping in the wind. The paint shop was getting soaked. ‘Just look at that, Alan! All those pigments are going to be ruined. It’s a crime.’

‘Not the only crime the gentleman’s committed, if we’re believing Mr Norquist,’ said Baikie grimly, becoming more Scottish by the minute. ‘I doot we’ll no find him on Orkney nae mair.’

‘I agree it’s becoming more and more likely he’s done a runner,’ said Alan. ‘We might as well go back to the boat. We’ll not find him here, at any rate.’

We were nearly back to the boat, Watson now trying to pull the leash out of my hand in his eagerness, when he suddenly stopped dead, stiffened, and growled.

I was freezing, fed up, and mightily annoyed with the dog. I tried to pull him along, but Baikie held out a restraining hand and bent to Watson’s level. ‘What’s troublin’ ye, noo?’

Another growl. A step backward. Watson’s eyes were fixed on a large, beat-up wooden box in front of the shed near the pier.

‘There’s something in that box,’ I said in a voice I could barely make function. It was big enough to hold a man, or perhaps the remains … I willed my brain to stop working.

Baikie moved slowly to the box and reached for the lid. Watson’s growls grew louder. Baikie raised the lid.

‘Why, it’s a wee moggie!’ And he lifted out a thin, wet, bedraggled rag of orange and dirty white fur, with one nicked ear and fire in its eye.

‘Alan!’ I said with a gasp. ‘It’s Roadkill!’

I
would not have recognized the sorry specimen as the belligerent Lord of The Street. The colouring was more or less right, and the battered ear and the attitude were familiar, but this cat was thin. Or perhaps it was just that his wet fur clung to his bones.

Watson knew, though. Appearances don’t fool a dog. This animal smelled like his nemesis.

‘You’d better be careful,’ I said. ‘I know that cat, and he’s not got the best reputation. Unless that’s his ghost. The latest bit of his reputation is that he’s reputed to be dead. Robert Fairweather said he found him with his throat cut, about a week ago, and he spread the rumour that Mr Norquist had killed him.’

‘Ah. So this is the puir wee beastie. Well, he’s not eaten for a good while, and I’ve seen cleaner cats, but he’s verra much alive. Aren’t you, lad?’

Baikie held the cat close in his arms and tickled him behind one ear. A sound as of cast iron being crushed in a meat grinder filled the air.

I looked at the oddly matched pair in disbelief. Roadkill was purring.

Watson could hardly believe that he had to share a smallish boat with That Cat all the way back to Tingwall. He cowered behind me, trying to make himself invisible. There had been nothing on board that was really suitable for a cat’s meal, but the starving beast devoured a muesli bar with no trouble and washed it down with several small plastic containers of coffee cream poured into the lid of a coffee can. After his repast, Roadkill sat on Baikie’s lap washing himself with great thoroughness, every now and then giving Watson a thoughtful look that made the poor dog whimper and try to scooch farther into the corner.

‘So that was another of Fairweather’s lies, that he’d found Roadkill dead,’ I said. ‘Why did he go to all that trouble?’

Alan answered that one. ‘Probably to give credence to the idea that Norquist was well and truly bonkers and had killed Carter for some mad reason. Things weren’t looking too good for Fairweather at that juncture, if you recall. Andersen had been released from jail, and Fairweather must have been sweating. He and Larsen had the best motive for Carter’s murder, and, his, Fairweather’s alibi depended on Charlie. And poor old Charlie had been acting very odd. Really, he gave Fairweather a beautiful opportunity for a spot of framing.’

‘And it all tied in with that unfortunate incident of the hen in May. I wonder who actually did kill the hen?’

‘I dinna like to pour cold water on your theories,’ said Baikie, roused from his preoccupation with Roadkill, ‘but we’ve no proof of Mr Fairweather’s guilt. Likely enough he’s lied about this, that, and the other, and provided himself with an alibi that’s no good, if Mr Norquist’s to be believed, but I’d be happier if we had one single piece of evidence I could take to the chief constable.’

‘As would I,’ said Alan.

‘Well, we’ve got Roadkill, alive and kicking,’ I pointed out.

‘That’s evidence of a lie, Dorothy. Or perhaps merely a misunderstanding. Fairweather could have confused another cat for this one. Well, it’s possible,’ he added, seeing my look. ‘We need something airtight. A smoking gun, to hark back to your American Watergate scandal.’

‘Hmmm.’ There wasn’t much more to be said, and as Roadkill seemed inclined to take fresh interest in Watson, I gave my poor dog an absent-minded pat now and then, and mused all the way back to Tingwall.

Watson was greatly relieved to be removed from the cat’s vicinity, and would have been even happier if he’d been able to understand that Baikie was taking him back to the police station. ‘For he’s in want of proper attention, the puir wee thing, some good food, and a good rest, and mayhap a trip to the v-e-t.’ He looked a trifle embarrassed at that remark.

‘We always spell that word in front of our animals,’ I hastened to assure him. ‘And we used to spell the one that means taking a constitutional, but Watson’s figured that one out. I’m so glad you’re looking after Roadkill, Inspector, and if I were you, I’d give him a new name. He might be a nicer kitty if he had a nicer name, and if some of his … um … personal attributes were removed. A woman in Stromness seems to think a good deal of his behaviour stems from too much testosterone. But before you go … do you have a search warrant for Mr Fairweather’s lodgings?’

‘We do. And of course we searched his room, earlier today.’

‘You searched it for him, or for some indication of where he might be. Did you find anything else of interest?’

‘Nothing that was reported to me. What are you hinting, Mrs Martin?’ He had dropped most of the accent and was sounding very official.

‘It’s just that I thought there was something else you might find. And if you did, and if you could find Fairweather and confront him with that evidence, and with the cat, the two things together might rattle him into a confession.’

‘And what would we be looking for, then?’

I told him, and he nodded, saluted, and strode to his car, the cat purring in his arms and giving one long last look at Watson.

‘Are you going to tell me what you said to him?’ Alan asked.

I told him, and added, ‘I hope they find Fairweather soon. I’d hate to go home with all this unresolved.’

‘There’s one thing that’s resolved, at any rate,’ said Alan, opening the car door, which he had left unlocked in conformity with established Orcadian practice. He had, however, taken the keys with him, defying the local custom of leaving them in the ignition. ‘In you get, dog.’

‘And what’s the thing that’s resolved?’ I got in the back beside Watson, who badly needed some cuddling.

‘That cat’s fate. Call him Roadkill, call him Sandy, call him anything you like, I’m calling him Baikie’s cat. I would not have believed that canicidal monster could have settled down into a purring pussycat.’

‘Yes, I do believe he’s found a home. Maybe Celia was right, and all he needed was a little love.’

‘More likely he’s decided that he’s lost three or four of his lives and had best preserve the ones that are left.’

It was far past lunchtime and we were all starving, and there wasn’t much to eat back at the flat. We’d been trying to use up our groceries, since we were going home in a day or two. So we stopped at a café in Kirkwall where we got a very satisfying meal and an extra roast beef sandwich for Watson, which he wolfed down in the car. Alan sighed over the mess he left on the floor. ‘I hate to think what we’re going to have to pay in cleaning fees for this vehicle.’

‘I’ll do the best I can with it before we drop it at the airport. Which reminds me. We’ll have to take the ferry back, I suppose, or else call our nice pilot.’

‘I have to phone in any case, to check on the status of our car. And how we’re going to get home if it isn’t ready, my love, I do not know.’

‘We’ll manage, by rail if we have to. We’ve made use of virtually every other form of public transport known to man on this little jaunt. A nice civilised train wouldn’t hurt us.’

All of us were ready for a nap when we got back to the flat, but I slept with one ear open, figuratively speaking. No call came, however, and after Watson had wakened us and we’d taken care of his needs, I began to be impatient. ‘They should have found him by now,’ I said to Alan. ‘They’ve enough evidence, surely, to warrant a full-scale search.’