Free Snare by Gwen Moffat Page B

asked how the Millars could afford the cost, Beatrice became flustered and changed the subject. ‘So what’s your news?’ she asked. ‘Did you paint Inverness red?’
    â€˜But you had all the excitement! Or haven’t you heard about the fire at Campbell’s cottage?’
    She hadn’t and Miss Pink enlightened her with an account that included his visit to her cottage last night. Beatrice was appalled. ‘But weren’t you terrified? Knocking at your window like that, virtually forcing his way in!’
    â€˜I was frightened, but had he been dangerous, the best way to deal with him was to let him talk. He’s harmless providing he’s treated correctly. Even Knox realises that.’
    â€˜And now you’ve met Knox, do you see why that embarrassing trick was played on him? With the car?’
    â€˜Not in the circumstances, although he could be unpopular with the local lads. He’s intelligent and well-mannered. Frankly I’m surprised. It’s usually the deadbeats in a police force who fetch up in remote villages.’
    â€˜He’s well-mannered with ladies.’
    â€˜It’s pleasant to be given a handle when one is addressed. I haven’t been called “ma’am” since I left Montana.’ Miss Pink was on the defensive. ‘Speaking of charmers,’ she began, and blushed but ploughed on, ‘I picked up Flora MacKenzie hitchhiking to Inverness.’
    Beatrice sighed. ‘She does it in summer­time too, when there’s no knowing whom she might pick up. Suppose she encountered a motor-cycle gang? It doesn’t bear thinking about. I blame Coline; she’s wrapped up in her books. As for Ranald, he’s hopeless as a father; I always thought he married Coline less for her money than for the security of having someone to order his life. He’s like an old dog who’s found a family to take him in. He’s treated a bit like an old dog too.’ She paused and, with one of those tangential swings to which Miss Pink was becoming accustomed, she went on, ‘They can’t blame Hell’s Angels for the fire at Campbell’s cottage.’
    â€˜Who – oh, yes; Ranald thought they were responsible for the thefts from cars in the summer. Do you think Campbell set fire to his own place?’
    â€˜I’m afraid he’s capable of anything, but only as it relates to himself. He’s not a vandal; all his hostility is directed inwards. If only his doctor could persuade him to have therapy ... but he’s unpredictable. He might well suspect a conspiracy. He would be right, of course.’
    â€˜But only in order to help him.’
    â€˜Can he see the difference?’
    * * *
    When Miss Pink returned to her cottage, the front door was wide open. From upstairs came the whine of a vacuum cleaner. Mary MacLeod, a large cheerful woman in her fifties, was doing her weekly chores. They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, Mary obviously expecting more and, not getting it, taking the initiative. ‘There was no fire, was there?’ Her eyes were sparkling. ‘I see the poliss followed you, but you all come back soon enough.’
    Miss Pink was vague. ‘Can you have smoke without fire? Does Mr Campbell bother you?’
    â€˜Never! He’s good entertainment. He’s clever too; I always tell him he should write a book, and off he goes – “Ah, Mary, I’ll write a book one day that’ll make your hair stand on end!”’
    â€˜What would he be writing about? ’ Mary laughed gustily. ‘Depends on his mood. If he’s happy it’s the network: spies, sleepers, “a web of intrigue”, he says, and we make guesses who the controller is – like the spider at the middle of the web, see. But if someone’s annoyed him, then he drops hints about people in the village.’
    â€˜Doesn’t that upset people?’
    Mary shrugged, “if