had to go back to work again. Yes, they had slept together over that period. Charles Paris felt a slight pang at the thought of Anna, but Detective-Sergeant McWhirter just thanked Mr Wanewright for his co-operation.
Charles stayed by the phone after the call, thinking. He had two independent witnesses to the fact that Willy Mariello had slept with a woman at his home during the three or four days before his death. Jean Mariello had spoken of blonde hairs on the pillow and she had no reason for making that up. And, according to Michael Vanderzee, Willy had called goodbye to someone upstairs when dragged off to rehearsal on the Monday before he died.
True, Willy’s sex life was free-ranging and the woman might have been anyone. But Charles could only think of one candidate with, if not blonde, at least blonded hair, and a taste for younger men.
It was nothing definite, but he still felt guilty about Martin’s death. If there was anything that invited investigation, he owed it to the boy’s memory to investigate it.
With sudden clarity, Charles remembered the first time he had seen Willy Mariello, on the afternoon of his death. He saw again the tall figure striding ungraciously into the Masonic Hall. Followed a few moments later by Stella Galpin-Lord, who was sniffing. Had she been crying? The memory seemed to be dragged up from years ago, not just a fortnight. But it was very distinct. He remembered the woman’s face contorted with fury in the Hate Game.
That decided him. He picked up the phone again and asked for an Edinburgh number.
At first there seemed to be a crossed line, a well-spoken middle-aged woman’s voice cutting across James Milne’s, but it cleared and the two men could hear each other distinctly. ‘James, I’ve been thinking again about some aspects of the case.’
‘Really. So have I.’
‘It doesn’t all fit, does it?’
‘I think most of it does.’ The Laird’s voice sounded reluctant. He and Charles had worked out a solution that was intellectually satisfying and he did not want their results challenged. It was the schoolmaster in him, the academic hearing that his theory has just been superseded by a publication from another university.
‘You may be right, James. But for my own peace of mind, there are one or two people I’d just like to check a few details with. So I’m coming back to Edinburgh.’
‘Ah. And you’re asking me to put my Dr Watson hat back on?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Delighted. You’ll stay here, of course?’
‘Thank you.’
‘When are you arriving?’
‘Don’t know exactly. It’ll be tomorrow some time. As you know, I’m out here at Clachenmore and getting back involves a taxi to Dunoon, ferry across the Clyde to Gourock, bus to Glasgow and God knows what else. So don’t expect me till late afternoon.’
‘Fine. And you’ll tell me all then?’
‘Exactly. Cheerio.’
Then something odd happened. Charles heard the phone put down the other end twice. There were two separate clicks.
Two separate clicks-what the hell could that mean? He was about to dismiss it as a vagary of the Scottish telephone system when a thought struck him. There were two extensions of the same telephone at Coates Gardens, one in the Laird’s flat and one in the hall. Perhaps what he had taken to be a crossed line at the beginning of the call had been someone answering the downstairs telephone. And the first click was that person putting their receiver down. In other words, someone could have heard all of the conversation.
Only one woman likely to be in Coates Gardens had a middle-aged voice.
The journey to Edinburgh developed another complication when he tried to order a taxi. The only firm for miles was in Tighnabruiach and there was a funeral there the following morning which was going to appropriate every car; they could not get one to the Clachenmore Hotel until half past two in the afternoon.
There was nothing to be done about it. It just meant another morning’s fishing and another of Mrs Parker’s gargantuan lunches. There were worse fates.
The next morning was very, very wet. Rain fell as if God had upturned a bottomless bucket. Frances decided that she would not venture out; she curled up on the sofa in the Lounge with Watership Down.
‘What do you think about fishing?’ Charles asked, hoping Mr Parker’s reply would excuse him from going out.
‘Yes, not bad weather for it.’
Damn. Charles started to pull on his anorak. ‘Actually,’ Mr Parker continued, ‘Tam was asking if I thought you’d like to go after some salmon.’
That sounded a lot more attractive than pulling worms out of damp clods in the hope of another five-inch trout. ‘Really? Is he about?’
‘Was earlier. There was a phone call for him. I’ll see.’
Tam was found and was more than willing to conduct a guided tour of the salmon pools (no doubt in anticipation of a substantial tip). His only reservation, which Mr Parker interpreted to Charles, was that he did not approve of women being involved in fishing, and did Mrs Paris want to come? Charles set his mind at rest on that point, and then took stock of his guide.
The gamekeeper was a man of indeterminate age and impenetrable accent. His face was sucked inwards and shrivelled like perished rubber. He wore a flat cap and a once-brown overcoat with large pockets on the outside (and no doubt even larger ones on the inside).
Tam’s mouth opened and uttered strange Scottish sounds which might have been asking if Charles was ready to go straight away.
‘Yes,’ he hazarded. ‘Will I need a rod?’
Tam laughed derisively. Legal fishing methods were obviously a myth created for the tourists.
They set off, following the burn up the hill. Conversation was limited. Tam would occasionally comment on things they passed (a dead sheep, for example) and all Charles’ acting skill would be required to choose the right ‘Yes’, ‘Really?’, ‘Too true’, ‘Did they indeed?’ or omnipurpose grunt. He did not have the confidence to initiate subjects himself, reacting was safer. Mr Pilch’s words came back to him. ‘They’re a proud lot, the locals. Oh yes, you have to be careful what you say. And they have this great loyalty to their masters. In many ways, it’s still an almost feudal society. Very poor though, I’m afraid. Not a lot of jobs available round here. It’ll change of course when the oil comes-if it comes, which heaven forbid. You know there are plans to put up platforms just outside Loch Fyne? I hope they don’t ruin the West Coast. Eh?’
None of that offered very promising conversational topics. What’s it like being proud? Or living in a feudal society? Are you really very poor? What is your feeling about the proposed development of natural oil resources off the West Coast of Scotland? Somehow none of these seemed quite the right question to ask Tam, and fortunately the gamekeeper did not appear to find the silence irksome.
At last he indicated that they had reached their destination. It was the linked series of pools where Charles had been the day before. Again the trees overhead changed the note of the running stream and the heavy dripping of rain was muffled.
‘Do the salmon really get up this far?’
Tam managed to communicate that they certainly did. He had got a twenty-pounder out a good half mile farther up into the hills.
‘Whereabouts do they go? Do we just look for them swimming about in the pools?’
Apparently not. In these conditions they lay still just under the bank. The skill was to spot them and whip them out of the water quickly. Tam would demonstrate.
They edged slowly down the slippery rocks to the waters edge. As they drew closer, the noise of the water increased. Swollen by rain, the cataracts pounded down on the rocks below. It was easy to see how the deep cleft had been worn down into the rock over the years.
Silently and efficiently, Tam lay down on the rocks at the waterside and peered into the bubbling green depths.
‘Anything?’ Charles hissed and was reprimanded by a finger on Tam’s lips. The gamekeeper slid crabwise along the rocks, still looking down. Then he froze for a moment and got up.
