Snare (7 page)

‘Training?'

Flora shot her a glance. ‘How's this for a scenario? I train as a journalist, and when I'm eighteen I buy a newspaper?'

‘What do your parents say?'

‘My mother, you mean. She expects me to marry. The MacKenzies are old-fashioned and won't hear of me going into television or advertising, or catering for an up-market takeaway. That would mean living away from home, and there are all kinds of evils lurking out there.'

‘You'd have to leave home to study journalism.'

‘It would have to be a residential college, or lodging with friends of Mum's. I'm a marketable property, a dynastic pawn. There, have I a way with words?'

‘You have indeed.'

‘So perhaps you would speak to my mother about a college?'

‘And you do some homework in Edinburgh: go to libraries, read some careers books.'

‘I could do that.'

Flora's interest was spiked with boredom. When animated it was as if she never talked to other adults. As they were crossing the bridge over the Beauly Firth, Miss Pink said, ‘You're friendly with Hamish Knox.' Flora's face became set. ‘I saw you riding with him yesterday,' she went on. ‘Did he hurt himself when he came off?'

‘He was shaken up a bit. Where were you?'

‘I was on the cliff above your house. I had a bad moment; I anticipated the worst – that it would be Alec who was run down.'

Flora said nothing.

‘Unfortunate about the dog,' Miss Pink added.

‘Did it get kicked?'

‘I suppose so. Or the pony fell on it.'

Flora was looking hard at her. ‘Did it have to be put down?'

‘No, it was killed instantly, or so I understand. Didn't you know?'

The girl stared through the windscreen. She sighed, ‘I'm sorry. How would I know? Hamish came back to the yard, but he didn't know either. Alec attacked him and he ran away as fast as he could. And I've not spoken to Hamish since, so I didn't know about the dog. I'll bring a puppy back from Edinburgh and give it to Alec.'

‘I shouldn't do that. Wait until he gets over his loss. And Hamish should be the one to make amends; he was whipping that pony like a madman.'

‘He was? I didn't look back – we'd had words about the jumps. He wanted to raise them for the gelding – but you're not interested in shop talk. The point is, they're my ponies and I won't be dictated to, not by him anyway. I taught him to ride; no way is he going to tell me how to train my animals. He got mad.' Flora grinned. ‘I guess I let the relationship get out of hand. He got pushy yesterday and I had to come the
grande dame.
'

‘And what does he plan to do with himself?' They were on the outskirts of Inverness and Miss Pink's attention was on the traffic.

‘I've no idea. He's a drifter. No doubt he'll end up as an estate worker once he's learned to control his temper. Most of them do. End up working for us, I mean.'

Miss Pink dropped her passenger at the railway station and, Flora having declined an invitation to luncheon, lunched herself at the Station Hotel before setting out to find a man to mend her typewriter and to buy delicacies unobtainable on the West Coast. But the afternoon was warm and the city streets stank of exhaust fumes, so it was with relief that she crossed the last item from her list and, the boot stacked with boxes of food and drink, started back to Sgoradale.

She returned by a more westerly route than the central moors. The sun had set by the time she reached the coast and the tide was high. Water lay like pools of opal silk in coves where ragged stacks were silhouetted against the afterglow. As she came round the bend of the Lamentation Road, the lights of crofts were twinkling on the far side of the loch. When she pulled up on the turf and cut her engine, she could hear the water lapping a few yards away, and the air smelled of seaweed and salt.

After supper she relaxed in an armchair, a brandy at her elbow,
The Times
within reach.

As she went to pick it up, she became aware of a sound in the kitchen, like someone knocking on the window pane.

Her thoughts flew to Esme Dunlop. There was no escape; her car was outside, her light was burning. She rose heavily and went to the kitchen. She was prepared for a face at the window pane so was not alarmed to see one, but there was no Cheshire cat grin and when she switched on the outer light and opened the back door, it was not Esme blinking in the glare but Ivar Campbell, and he looked terrified.

‘The light,' he gasped. ‘Put the light out.'

‘Damn it,' protested Miss Pink. ‘Pull yourself together. And don't give me orders.'

‘Please! Let me in. Have you got a drink?'

‘I'm on my way to bed.'

‘I must have a drink.'

‘The bar's open.'

He shook his head helplessly. Aware that she could be asking for trouble but too tired to argue, she retreated. ‘Close the door,' she told him curtly. He did so, and bolted it.

She seated him beside the fire and gave him a tot of brandy. He was haggard: unshaven, dirty – black dirty. There were smears of soot on his face and hands. He didn't remove his cap. She waited but so did he, and the silence gave her time to select her course of action.

‘Were you followed here?' she asked.

‘There's no doubt of it.' The response was apathetic. She'd chosen correctly, not exciting him.

‘And Debbie and the children? They're on their own?'

His eyes were desperate. ‘You don't have to worry about them any more.'

A cold hand twisted her gut. She started to speak, but he was muttering about a fire. ‘
Fire?
' She heaved herself to her feet. ‘Your house is on fire?'

‘No!'

She checked and started to breathe deeply; she must not let him rile her. She sat down carefully.

‘Are Debbie and the children safe?'

He wouldn't meet her eye. ‘I guess so.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘It means I don't know! How would I know?' Now he did look at her: angry, bewildered, lost. ‘She left me.'

‘When?'

‘Probably in the forenoon some time. I came home this afternoon and she was gone.'

‘She'll come back.'

‘She's taken all her clothes, and the kids' things. Someone took her away; she couldn't have carried all that stuff on her own.'

‘You're not suggesting she's been abducted?'

He looked startled. ‘I hadn't thought of that. You mean held to ransom?'

Miss Pink considered this reaction, then asked, ‘What did you say about a fire?'

‘The place was set fire to. It was in flames when I got home. I been fighting it, that's why I'm ... like this.' He spread his filthy hands,

‘It's still burning?'

‘No, I managed to put it out.'

‘Mr Campbell – Ivar – are you sure your wife and children are safe?' Someone should check which parts of this story were fact and which fantasy, she thought, although the soot on his face pointed to at least part of its being true. Nevertheless, soot can be transferred from a fire-back to the face.

‘I didn't hear the fire brigade,' she said.

‘By the time I could have got to a phone, the fire was out. I don't have a telephone.'

‘No one helped you fight the fire?'

He was surprised. ‘Don't you know where I live? In the woods beyond the car park. The place could have burned to the ground and no one the wiser except them that set the fire.'

‘Why did they want to burn it?'

‘Ah!' The exclamation conveyed deep satisfaction. ‘They'd have hoped I was inside, but that wouldn't be all of it. They were after my records.'

‘Records?'

‘That's confidential.' He looked sly.

‘Of course. So you haven't informed the police?'

‘No way.'

‘You've left the records unguarded at this moment?'

‘The place is secure, and they won't try again tonight. They know I'll be waiting, and they'll be pretty sure I'm armed. Did you see any strange cars about today?'

‘No. Wouldn't they want to read the records before they destroyed them?'

‘That's a good point. Maybe they selected some, burned the others. The fire was started with paper; I was trained in forensics, so I could see how it started. They'd turned over the armchairs and put papers underneath and doused the lot with petrol. The house stinks of it. I'll be printing the place, but I doubt they wore gloves.'

‘You're taught to lift fingerprints too? But what use are they without comparison? Aren't these people strangers to you?'

‘I'll tell you,' he said quietly. ‘I got the feeling you could be the only one I can trust. I think there's a sleeper in this village. You know what a sleeper is?' She nodded. ‘So I've collected all their prints over the years. They don't know, of course. But if it's a local tried to burn my place down, and me in it and all my records, I got my comparisons, see?'

One of the obvious moves of the wife-killer is to tell his neighbours that the wife left of her own accord, taking all her clothes. The knowledge of this had been bothering Miss Pink since Campbell first told her that Debbie had left the village, and it continued to worry her throughout the night. She did get to bed eventually, after she sent Campbell home. Then she was inclined to doubt that the cottage had been on fire, because when she asked him where he intended to sleep he said that he would go home. He gave no indication that his house was uninhabitable.

He had left, using the front door quite openly, with no anxious glance to see what might be waiting for him outside. Watching him walk past the nurse's drive, illuminated by the last street light, his hands in his pockets, almost jaunty, she was struck by his change of mood. He appeared satisfied, as if he'd succeeded in his mission. To impress her, presumably, but in what respect? That he was a target for a killer, or cruelly treated by his wife?

She fell asleep quickly, only to wake an hour later convinced that Debbie had to be located. She went downstairs and sat over the dying fire with a cup of tea, considering whether she should go to the police or to Campbell's cottage. But if the man were merely riding his imagination on a loose rein, she didn't want some bumpkin of a policeman giving undue weight to her information. For all she knew, it could be the sympathetic hearing she gave his fantasies that was stimulating him to greater flights.

She didn't get to sleep again until the dawn showed behind her curtains, and then she slept late. She came downstairs feeling gritty and disgruntled and took her time over breakfast. She knew that she was resentful, not because her day was disrupted, but because she was indecisive.

The sputter of an outboard motor alerted her and she looked out of the open door to see
Blue Zulu
chugging down the loch. There could be little wrong if he were going fishing and, better still, she was free to investigate the cottage, to eliminate all doubt without danger or the fear of ridicule.

She drove up the Lamentation Road, passing the track which she now knew led to the car park, looking for another which would give access to the cottage, but there was none. She turned and came back to take the dusty trail to the car park. This was a space in the trees with a drive taking off from the far corner and a notice saying: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO ACCESS. Within a hundred yards she came to a whitewashed cottage nestling under the escarpment, with a stone barn off to one side. There was no sign of fire.

She opened the gate and walked up a flagged path to the front door. She depressed the thumb latch, smiling as she remembered Campbell's talk of fingerprints, but as she'd expected, the door was locked.

She moved to the window on the left. There was a sink below it with dishes on a draining board, a mop, liquid soap. She could distinguish a plastic-topped table and four chairs. She glimpsed shelves, tins of food, crockery, pans, a cooker, a refrigerator.

She crossed to the window on the other side of the door, but there was no question of seeing inside this room. The glass had a smoky bloom that rendered it opaque. The little she could see of the inner sill was thick with soot.

A door slammed. She turned and saw a police car parked behind her Renault and a man in uniform approaching. He came up the path favouring her with a smile that lit his eyes. This was no country bumpkin. He was fair, with blue eyes and a small moustache. He was a fraction overweight, like a rugby player a little past his prime, but his uniform fitted him well. He held out his hand.

‘Miss Pink, I believe. I'm Gordon Knox. You were looking for Campbell?'

‘For his wife actually.' She returned the smile as she shook hands. She was greatly relieved; there were no more decisions to make – at least for the time being. Let Authority take over. In the person of this man it seemed capable enough.

‘Mrs Campbell went away yesterday,' he told her. He glanced at the smoky window. And that's not going to bring her back neither.'

‘There's been a fire?' She drew it out.

‘Did you meet Campbell yet?'

‘Yes, we've had some conversation.'

And I believe you've been a magistrate, ma'am?'

‘I have.' She pitied anyone who tried to hide their past in a Highland village.

‘So you'll have come across situations like this before?'

‘I'm not sure that I know what the situation is, Mr Knox. There's been a fire, his wife has left ...' She trailed off and he met her eyes without subterfuge.

‘Exactly. He set the fire.'

‘How can you be certain?'

‘You're not surprised, ma'am. And you don't need to be well acquainted with Mr Campbell to see he's an exhibitionist. He set the fire to bring his wife back.'

‘I'd think it would only serve to drive her further away, particularly if she has the children with her.'