Death of a Prankster by MC Beaton Page B

cheque which will show up at your bank.’
    ‘I want a lawyer,’ she said faintly.
    ‘Mrs Jeffrey Trent,’ intoned Blair, ‘I must warn you that you have a right to remain silent, but everything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.’
    She suddenly collapsed and began to cry. Through gulps and sobs, she said she was overwrought. She had not been trying to protect Paul. She thought old Andrew had died because of a joke that had gone wrong. That was her story and she was sticking to it.
    When she was finally allowed to leave, Blair said with satisfaction, ‘I’ve got that bloody Spaniard now. Taking money to pervert the course o’ justice.’
    ‘And he hass still got you,’ said Hamish. ‘He’s got that tape.’
    Blair swore viciously.
    Then the phone rang. It was the Inverness police. Paul Sinclair and Melissa Clarke had been picked up at Inverness station and were being brought back to Arrat House.
     
    Melissa had never been so happy. She was sitting on a red plastic seat in Inverness station beside Paul. The London train was almost due to arrive.
    They had skied across country as far as Lairg, where they had taken the train to Inverness. After arranging for the skis to be sent back, they had gone for lunch and had joked and laughed and giggled like schoolchildren.
    They would come back to the Highlands on their honeymoon, thought Melissa dreamily. Although Paul had not proposed marriage, she was sure he would, some time in the near future. Her mind was filled with glorious images of snow-covered moorland and soaring mountains. She felt tired and happy and her face still tingled from the exercise and the cold, biting air.
    Policemen came into the station, policemen of various ranks. Two guarded the entrance. Melissa watched them with that rather smug curiosity of the law-abiding watching the police looking for some malefactor.
    Her wool ski cap was suddenly making her head feel itchy. She pulled it off and her pink hair shone under the station lights.
    And then all the police veered in their direction.
    An inspector stood before them. ‘Paul Sinclair and Melissa Clarke?’ he asked.
    Paul blinked up through his glasses. ‘Yes, that’s us. What’s up? Has anything happened to Mother?’
    ‘You are to accompany us,’ said the inspector stonily.
    Bewildered, they rose to their feet. Two policemen relieved them of their rucksacks. They walked out of the station. A white police car was waiting in the forecourt. They got in the back. A thin policewoman got in beside them and two policemen in the front. The car sped off.
    ‘What is this?’ demanded Melissa. ‘What has happened?’
    The man in the front passenger seat slewed round. ‘Mr Andrew Trent was found murdered this morning at Arrat House. We are taking you back there for questioning.’
    Paul buried his face in his hands.
    ‘But what has his death to do with us?’ protested Melissa. ‘We left at dawn this morning.’
    ‘Although the body was found this morning,’ said the policeman, ‘it is estimated that Mr Trent was killed the night before.’
    ‘How … how was he killed?’
    ‘He was stabbed to death. Now, if you’ve any more questions, put them to Detective Chief Inspector Blair, who is in charge of the investigations at Arrat House.’ He turned to the driver. ‘No use taking the Struie Pass in this weather, Jamie. You’d best go round by the coast.’
    Paul remained huddled up, his face still in his hands. Melissa shivered with dread. What did she know of him? What did she know of any of them? The countryside which had seemed so glorious in the morning sunlight now looked alien and forbidding, bleak and white in the headlights of the police car.
    Back to Arrat House. Back to where among those overheated rooms was a murderer. She reached out to put an arm around Paul and then shrank back. The man she had been dreaming about getting married to was now a stranger to her.

Chapter Four
    It requires a surgical