Snare (24 page)

Miss Pink shook her head. ‘That's impractical. If a lad is holding a gun on an adult, he keeps his distance. You need another ... that's it! Another person. Flora came back and they killed Campbell between them.'

‘She was in Edinburgh.' The tone was dull; Beatrice was beyond shock. ‘You brought her home two days later.'

‘She could drive, she could have borrowed a car. Let's work it out. We need a road atlas.'

The distance between Sgoradale and Edinburgh was 250 miles. ‘Six hours at the very least,' Miss Pink said. ‘She wouldn't risk going fast for fear of attracting attention from the police. She could drive here in the afternoon and evening, leave the car on a peat track out on the Lamentation Road, meet Hamish and they'd kill Campbell at the cove. She'd have time to get back to Edinburgh before dawn, and if she'd made the right excuse to her hosts no one need know she'd ever been away.'

‘The owner of the car would find it had done 500 miles overnight.'

‘She stole it and replaced it close to where she'd taken it from. If the owner had reported its loss, he might be so pleased to have it back undamaged he might not bother to mention to the police it had been taken for such a long joy-ride. And if he did, who'd connect that with a murder in the northern Highlands?'

‘How would she steal it?'

‘The thief operating in the car park here had keys; Pagan didn't mention finding keys in Hamish's room, but Flora could have kept them for him. I doubt if she stole from cars; the practice seems a trifle tame for her.'

‘Tame?'

‘Juvenile, I mean. Not much risk attached.'

‘Mm. Yes.' Beatrice seemed to be following a line of her own.

Miss Pink said, ‘When you suggested Hamish was homosexual, were you implying the boy was soliciting back in the summer?'

‘What explanation do you have for the naked man not reporting the loss of his clothes – and car keys?'

‘I wonder what happened to that man. Could he be traced? He had to repair his window. What kind of car did he have? Who'd be likely to know that?'

‘There was the man who saw him trying to get into his car – the one who spread the story around. He was in the hotel.'

‘So he was.' Miss Pink lapsed into silence. ‘And it would get you off the hook,' she murmured.

‘I'm on the hook?' Beatrice asked politely. ‘Pagan isn't interested in motivation; he wants to know who delivered the final blows to Campbell and Hamish, and where the boy's body was kept for two days. The rest is surmise so far, the product of what he'd call a hyperactive imagination. Apart from the nudist, I think the clue to the mystery lies in Flora's activities. I think she came here to kill you last night, probably in the same way that she killed Hamish – with a pillow over his mouth –'

‘The person who did that got Hamish drunk and hit him with a piece of wood first.'

‘Or they were drinking, and they quarrelled and she hit him.' Miss Pink thought for a moment and came to a decision, ‘I'm going to Edinburgh. Will you be all right on your own?'

‘With the police on the gate, yes. And the naked man?'

Miss Pink stood up. ‘I'll see Butchart and find out if he can remember where that other man was staying. Since both men probably lived south of here, I may be able to kill several birds with one stone. What was the name of the barrister whom Flora was staying with?'

‘Neil Fleming. Just a moment ...' as Miss Pink headed for the door. ‘Did Flora repeat that 500-mile drive the following night in order to kill Hamish?'

Miss Pink halted, her lips pursed, then her face cleared. ‘She didn't go back to Edinburgh. She stayed on, holed up somewhere – in an empty cottage perhaps. She returned to

Edinburgh on the Sunday night, after killing Hamish.'

‘Having concealed the body somewhere.'

‘Ye-es.'

‘And you brought her home on Tuesday, and she found some way to put the body in the sea on Tuesday night. You could do with some help in tracing her movements. Shall I come with you?'

‘No. You've had enough excitement. And I have contacts, fixed points to start with. They'll lead to others.'

* * *

‘I remember that fellow,' Butchart said, ‘Ice in his whisky and complaints about my barman putting his cigarette in the ashtray while he was serving. Then he asked for the menu – and who was the chef? Then he said he'd decided he could make it for dinner at his own hotel, after all. Yes, I remember that customer!'

Miss Pink smiled in sympathy. ‘And which hotel did he think was superior to this one?'

‘He was staying at the Claymore in Morvern. Their chef can only do something called country cooking.'

‘Was he well-known?'

‘Who?'

‘The photographer. The man who stayed at the Claymore.'

‘I didn't know – oh, yes, he was sitting in his car changing a film, wasn't he? I don't remember that he mentioned his name.'

* * *

‘He was called Osgood,' Alec said, tightening the pup's leash to prevent his jumping up at Miss Pink. ‘I didn't meet him, but my dad did. He was staying at the Claymore and the date was August 4th.'

‘How on earth do you remember that?'

‘I went to the car park next day, to see if it was true, and I saw the broken glass on the ground. It wasn't like ordinary glass; a car window breaks into bits like tiny gravel.' He stopped and Miss Pink waited, her eyebrows raised. ‘She hurt her paw,' he muttered, refusing to speak the poodle's name, ‘and I remember dates when they had to do with her. I thought she got a bit of glass between the pads, but she was better next day.'

* * *

The receptionist at the Claymore wanted to play it by the rules. ‘Shouldn't you tell me why you want to know?' she asked.

‘He's a photographer,' Miss Pink explained. ‘I allowed him to take a picture of my house on condition he sent me a copy. He did and it's quite exquisite. I want Christmas cards made from it. The trouble is copyright, you know?'

He stamped the back of the print with his name and phone number, but I can't get any reply. It must be an old stamp.'

The receptionist was turning back the pages of the register. ‘August 4th, you said? Here it is: Hedley Osgood, Aberdeen. That doesn't help you much.'

Miss Pink thanked her effusively and drove south. It was six o'clock before she managed to get Hedley Osgood on the end of a telephone line. The number Directory Enquiries had given her was for his home address and she'd tried it three times, shivering in desolate call-boxes on the open road. Finally she booked a room in the Caledonian at Inverness, not wanting to go further until she had spoken to Osgood. When she did reach him he was off­hand at first, but intimidated as soon as she adopted an exaggerated air of authority. Her voice, naturally deep, could pass for a man's when she chose. She was, she told him, a detective inspector involved in the Sgoradale murders. He was amazed to find that his own odd experience could interest the police, but he agreed to meet her the following lunch­time. There was a pause while she pretended to note down the address of a city bar. ‘One other thing,' she said before ringing off, ‘What kind of car was he driving?'

‘AVW Golf. White.'

‘Why do you remember it so well?'

‘I took a picture. It's pinned up over my desk. I'm a supermarket manager.'

‘You didn't happen to get the registration number?'

‘No. I can let you have a print though.'

‘I'd be obliged.' She rang off. He might contact Pagan when the mythical detective inspector failed to materialise in Aberdeen, but she wasn't bothered. By that time Pagan should have more important things to think about.

The
Yellow Pages
gave her the Volkswagen garages in the area and by mid-morning next day she had the information she needed. This time she posed as an insurance agent, but it was the confidence of her bearing as much as the bogus occupation which persuaded the manager of the relevant garage to produce his records. She was in luck; the motorist with the smashed window had paid his bill by cheque and the office had his address: ‘We always ask for it in the case of a cheque.' The driver's name was J. P. Geddes and he had given an address in Stirling.

* * *

Montrose Gardens was a fairly new estate on the outskirts of Stirling and No. 16 was what agents refer to as ‘ranch style'. A picture window gave a bleak view of a room that extended the depth of the house to another wall that was mostly glass. The room was sparsely furnished in grey and pale yellow, with a lot of bare shelves and a music centre. There was a light over the doorbell but no one came to Miss Pink's ring. After some minutes a woman in her thirties came out of a house opposite and crossed the road.

Are you looking for Mr Geddes? Can I help you?'

Miss Pink looked confused. ‘Not Geddes. Jameson – Mr and Mrs Jameson. She's my niece.'

‘You must have the wrong address. Have you got it written down anywhere?'

‘I have it committed to memory. 16 Montrose Gardens.'

‘That's the address, but Mr Geddes lives here and he's not married. He's all on his own.'

‘Geddes,' Miss Pink repeated, ‘It doesn't even sound like Jameson.'

‘And your niece is married, so you're looking – hold on! Are you all right?'

Miss Pink's eyelids drooped as she swayed on her feet. ‘Just a little dizzy,' she breathed, ‘I'm not as young as I was.'

‘Look, come into my house and let me make you a cup of tea.'

She was helped across the road and into another bleak living room, this one in beige. Beyond the window No. 16 returned her stare enigmatically. When the tea was brought she had a story ready about being homeward bound to Berwick from a visit to an old friend in Dingwall. Her hostess's name was Jefferies and she was good-hearted but not over-intelligent. Miss Pink invented a brother in Falkirk who would disentangle the mistake in the address, then she looked back at No. 16. ‘Who lived there before him?' she asked.

‘Now that I don't know. We've only been here eighteen months and he's been in that house at least three years. He bought it when he started at Earl's Hill – that's the local school; John is a schoolmaster. But wouldn't you have known if your niece left Montrose Gardens three years ago?'

Miss Pink looked embarrassed. ‘She could have given me her new address and I remembered the old one. You know how it is.'

‘Never mind. Have another tea-cake.'

Miss Pink ate greedily as old people do, mesmerised by the huge window. ‘So sad,' she said. ‘A young man living alone.'

Mrs Jefferies smiled indulgently. ‘He has interests – hiking and mountain climbing, and he takes kids on trips. This weekend he's youth hostelling in the Trossachs with a group and he won't be back until Sunday night.' Miss Pink listened with polite interest, visibly recovering her energy with the tea.

She drove away hoping that the woman didn't have the wit to wonder why her doddery old visitor should own a sporty Renault GTL. The last thing she wanted was for Geddes to come home to the news that someone was making enquiries about him. What had terrified the man two months ago might have even more power to terrify him now.

* * *

Neil Fleming, the barrister, lived in a Georgian terrace north of Princes Street in Edinburgh. The door was answered by a middle-aged person who showed Miss Pink into an airy room overlooking a walled garden. After a few minutes an attractive woman entered. She was a slim blonde and, like Coline MacKay, looked far too young to have a grown daughter.

‘I'm Sidonie Fleming,' she said, none too warmly. ‘Did you have an appointment with my husband?'

‘Perhaps you can help me,' Miss Pink said, ‘It's about Flora MacKenzie. I'm from Sgoradale.'

The woman caught her breath and her eyes blazed.
‘Coline
sent you?'

‘No one sent me,' Miss Pink said quietly.

Mrs Fleming made an obvious effort to pull herself together, nevertheless her response was menacing. ‘You've come on behalf of the MacKenzie girl?'

‘I'm a friend of Beatrice Swan, the old lady who shot Flora. My name is Melinda Pink.'

‘Ah, that could make a difference. And Coline MacKay doesn't know you've come to see me? So why did you?'

‘Neither Coline nor anyone else had any idea of what was going on. Flora appeared to be a healthy captivating girl, a little young for her age perhaps –'

Mrs Fleming gave a sardonic laugh, but her eyes were furious. ‘Captivating is not the word I'd have chosen. Flora was a slut, and the only thing that surprises me is that she was shot by accident. If I'd been here, I'd have strangled her with my bare hands.'

‘Why did you invite her here?' Miss Pink was the picture of innocence.

‘I
didn't!
I was in the Seychelles and she invited herself in my absence. I'd never have left two young girls alone in this house without adequate supervision. I'd be thinking in terms of
loco parentis,
my God – and I'd have been a world away from the reality of the situation. You think I'm exaggerating; you imagine she just – what? Made a pass at my husband? Held all-night parties in the house with hard drugs? All right, you haven't come from Coline but when you go back to Sgoradale, you can tell her about what I'm going to show you. Unless you see it you won't believe it. I didn't; my daughter had to show me.'

Miss Pink was driven to another Georgian terrace, to a house that was less immaculate than the one she'd left and where the hall and lift held an air of seedy transience. They rode to the third floor and Mrs Fleming produced a key which opened the door of a large room. Inside was a double bed, a dressing table and easy chairs either side of an old-fashioned gas-fire. There was a glass ash-tray on a bedside table, under a lamp with a dingy shade. On the dressing-table were a bottle of whisky half-full, one of gin unopened, and several bottles of tonic water and bitter lemon.