by M C Beaton
Hamish turned away to hide the sudden rush of gladness on his face.
Priscilla finished giving the girl instructions and then said, “Let’s go. I could do with a coffee.”
Elspeth arrived to pick up her laptop just as they were both disappearing into the hotel. Straight back to her like a homing pigeon, thought Elspeth. He only said he was going to Bonar to get rid of me.
They sat in the lounge. Hamish could remember when it had been the family drawing room. Priscilla ordered coffee and biscuits and asked, “How far have you got today?”
Hamish told her about the interview with Fergus. “It might be an idea to go over and see this paper mill,” said Priscilla. “It’s just outside Strathbane on this side, isn’t it?”
“Maybe I’ll go there,” said Hamish. “Although I feel I should really be keeping an eye on Elspeth.”
“Oh, the horoscopes. How did you find out?”
“From the barman. I don’t know where he got it from. But don’t worry about Elspeth. She’s a good reporter, and good reporters know how to take care of themselves. When we finish our coffee we’ll go over.”
“We?”
“Yes, we.”
Hamish was driving them along the road to Strathbane when he suddenly said, “There’s a Land Rover following us and I think I recognise it. I think it belongs to two deer poachers I arrested. They must be out on bail. We might be in for a bit of trouble.”
“Got your rifle?”
“In the back.”
Priscilla began to climb over into the back of the Land Rover. “What are you doing?” cried Hamish.
“I’d feel better if we were armed. Where is the ammo? Oh, got it. Are they coming closer?”
“Yes, they must have a souped-up engine. I’ll call for backup.”
He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a gun protruding from the passenger side of the pursuing vehicle. “Get down, Priscilla,” he shouted.
He felt a blast of cold air as Priscilla lowered one of the windows in the back. “Keep straight, Hamish. Don’t swerve. I’m going to shoot their tyres out.”
There was a blast of gunfire and Priscilla cried, “Got ’em. Stop, Hamish. They’ve gone off the road.”
“Stay where you are,” said Hamish, jumping out of the Land Rover, but Priscilla joined him, carrying the rifle.
Hamish phoned for backup. Then he said to Priscilla, “They’re armed. We’re not going down there on our own.”
“How unexciting,” said Priscilla calmly. “Can you see where they’ve gone? It’s hard to make out anything in this mist.”
The poachers’ vehicle had gone off the edge of the road and down a steep heathery slope.
“No,” said Hamish. “They must have gone down a good way. You’re a good shot, Priscilla.”
“Haven’t lost my touch,” she said.
“Are the dog and cat all right?”
“They seem to be. I’ll let them out. Is there going to be a fuss about me being with you, Hamish?”
“No. I haven’t had a day off in ages. I’ll say it’s my time off. Daviot’s such a snob, he won’t dare complain about you being with me.”
When an armed squad arrived headed by Daviot, Hamish waited patiently, thinking of all the paperwork he would have to do if the men had been killed in the crash or even injured.
Blair then arrived and was looking about to blast Hamish when he saw Daviot talking to Priscilla, and his face fell.
Hamish told him what had happened. “Your day off, is it?” demanded Blair. “And who gie’d ye the permission?”
“I did,” said Jimmy’s voice behind Blair. “Constable Macbeth hasn’t had a day off in ages.”
The mist began to swirl and thin in a rising wind. The leader of the armed force came back up the brae. “Their vehicle’s there but they’re long gone. Their Land Rover ran into a big rock right down at the bottom o’ the hill. The thick heather must ha’ slowed their speed, because there’s hardly a dunt in the vehicle.”
“I want a full search for them,” ordered Daviot. “Hamish, I will let you and Miss Halburton-Smythe get on, but I will expect a statement from you by this evening. Do give that rifle to Detective Anderson. If you shot one of the men by mistake, then we will need it for evidence.”
“I shot the tyre out,” said Priscilla. “I never miss.” She laughed and held out the rifle to Jimmy. A flash went off. Hamish cursed. Elspeth and her photographer were standing at the edge of the group.
Elspeth came forward. “I would appreciate a statement, Superintendent Daviot.”
Daviot forced a smile. Elspeth had always been kind to the police. “Very well, Miss Grant.”
“Come along, Priscilla,” whispered Hamish urgently. “Let’s get out of here before Daviot sees the dog and cat. Neither of them has as good a pedigree as you, and Daviot will give me a bollocking for taking them around in a police vehicle.”
They drove off. When they were well clear of the scene, Priscilla said, “Stop!”
“What is it? Are they back?”
“No, I feel a bit sick and shaky.”
“And here’s me thinking you were made of iron. I’ll take you back.”
“No, let’s go on. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
The manager of the paper works, Mr. Benjamin Worthy, looked at them both impatiently when Hamish asked whether Fergus could possibly have left the works unnoticed.
“I’ve been through all this before,” he said. Worthy was one of those lowland Scots who should never be put in charge of anyone. He had a brusque, bullying manner. He was small and round, wearing a suit, collar, and tie. He had small, black eyes in a discontented face.
“As I said already, they clock in here and clock out. There is only one way out of this factory for the men and that is past the security guard at the entrance.”
“But your trucks go in and out,” Hamish pointed out.
“Fergus Braid is not a truck driver. He is a machine operator.”
“Has he got any special friend here?”
“Is this necessary?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’ll get the foreman.”
He bustled out, leaving them in his pretentious office with its framed Rotary Club photographs on the walls and its oversize desk.
After what seemed like a long time to Hamish and Priscilla, the door opened and a man in blue overalls came in. “I’m Mike Haggerty,” he said. “The foreman. The boss said you had some questions.”
“Did Fergus Braid have any special friend at the works?”
“You could maybe say that was me. We often grabbed a drink after work.”
“Could Fergus possibly have left the works on the day of his wife’s murder without anyone knowing?”
The foreman was tall and thin with thick glasses. A ray of sun shone in the window. The mist had lifted. Hamish noticed a thin film of sweat of Mike’s brow.
Hamish’s eyes sharpened. He decided to guess. “I know you covered for him,” he said sternly. “You may as well tell the truth or I’ll haul you in and charge you with impeding the police in their enquiries.”
“He wouldnae hurt a fly, Fergus wouldn’t,” blustered Mike. “He only wanted a couple of hours so I told him he could nip out through the lorry bay at the back.”
“And why didn’t you report this before?”
“Because there was one nasty swine o’ a detective bullying me and more or less telling me that Fergus had murdered Ina, and Fergus would never do such a thing.”
“Wait there,” ordered Hamish. He nodded to Priscilla, and they stepped outside. With a heavy heart, Hamish took out his phone and called Jimmy.
“Great!” enthused Jimmy, when Hamish had finished speaking. “Keep an eye on the bugger. I’ll be right over.”
When the foreman was taken away, Hamish sadly went back to the Land Rover with Priscilla and drove off. “I only hope Fergus comes up with an alibi and a real one this time. I chust can’t believe that man would murder his wife. Blair will try t
o pin the other murders on him as well.”
Chapter Nine
The cruellest lies are often told in silence.
—Robert Louis Stevenson
The arrest of Fergus Braid struck the village like a bombshell. Lesley, opening the newspaper the next day, found a photograph of him on the front page and a different story on the inside. highland bobby attacked by armed poachers screamed the headline. There was a photograph of Priscilla laughing as she handed the rifle over. Lesley read the story carefully. There was nothing about why Priscilla was on the scene and why she had a rifle. She did not know Priscilla’s involvement had been suppressed.
Lesley scowled. Priscilla was real competition. All Hamish needed was the support of a strong ambitious woman who could get him out of that village and into the mainstream of police work. For all his intelligence, she suspected he was shy.
She decided she would invite him to her flat in Strathbane for dinner. That way she would be safe from interruptions.
Elspeth received a call from the features editor. “I’m sending up Perry Gaunt.”
“But I’ve done two colour features for you,” complained Elspeth.
“The editor wants to give Perry a break. Book him a room and show him the ropes. He’ll be with you shortly. He set off yesterday. He was planning to spend an overnight in Inverness.”
Elspeth knew it was futile to protest further. Perry Gaunt was an old Etonian, and his father was a close friend of the London editor.
No sooner had she put down the phone in her room than it rang again. It was Mr. Johnson. “There’s a Mr. Gaunt asking for you.”
“I’ll be right down,” said Elspeth.
Perry Gaunt was leaning on the reception desk. He was tall and lean with thick fair hair and a pleasant face. He was wearing an expensive scarlet anorak over a black cashmere sweater, black cords, and sensible boots. As reporters had little to do with features writers and as Perry had only recently joined the paper, Elspeth barely knew him.
“Elspeth,” he said with a smile. “You must be cursing me for moving in on your patch. I read your pieces and they were damn good.”
“It’s all right,” said Elspeth, thawing before that charming smile and noticing his eyes were green. “Mr. Johnson, can you manage a room for Mr. Gaunt?”
“He’s in luck. One of our guests has just checked out. If you’ll just sign these forms, Mr. Gaunt, I’ll show you to your room.”
“I’ll wait down here for you,” said Elspeth, “and then I’ll show you around.”
Elspeth began to feel quite cheerful. The idea that a murderer might be lurking about trying to kill her made her feel uneasy. Hamish Macbeth always seemed to have women around him. Let’s see how he likes me being accompanied by Perry.
Perry came down. “Right,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve read all your stories as well as your features. The trouble is there doesn’t seem to be anything left for me to write about. You seem to have covered it all.”
“I’ll drive you down to the village and introduce you to a few people,” said Elspeth. “Have you had much experience of journalism?”
“I got a degree in journalism from Lander University in Birmingham. They’ll give you a degree in anything. Someone even got a degree in flower arrangement. Before that I got a degree in mediaeval history from Oxford. Before that I was in the army. I’m quite old to be starting out. I’m thirty-three. I haven’t worked on a newspaper before.”
“So how did you land this one?” asked Elspeth, curious to know whether he would admit to his father’s friendship with the editor.
“You’ll hate me for this. My father is a friend of Josh Appleton.” Josh was the London editor. “He spoke to him and next thing I knew was I had the job in Glasgow. Now you’ll despise me for taking it.”
“It’s really no different from what goes on in Glasgow,” said Elspeth. “Sons of printers get jobs in reporting when they’ve got no aptitude whatever.”
“Well, let’s see if I have any talent.”
They were just crossing the forecourt to Elspeth’s car when Priscilla emerged from the gift shop. She was wearing hip-hugging jeans and high boots with a black turtleneck sweater.
“Talking about local colour,” said Perry. “Who the hell is that?”
“That is Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the hotel owner.”
“Is her nature as beautiful as she looks?”
Elspeth felt a pang of jealousy. Men, including Hamish, had only to look at Priscilla and they forgot that such a lowly creature as Elspeth Grant even existed.
“She’s actually very kind,” said Elspeth.
“Married?”
“No.”
He adjusted the passenger seat in Elspeth’s car to accommodate his long legs. “I’ve lost interest.”
“Why?”
“If a woman looks like that and is the daughter of a hotel owner and she’s not married, there’s something up.”
“Are you married?”
“No. Divorced. And you?”
“Nearly once. He stood me up.”
“Useless bastard. Let’s go.”
Elspeth drove straight past Priscilla, who looked as if she expected Elspeth to stop the car and introduce her.
“I’ll take you down to Lochdubh,” said Elspeth, “and we’ll call at the police station first.”
“I’m dying to meet the local bobby. He’s featured in quite a number of stories. I looked Lochdubh up before I left.”
Elspeth’s heart really warmed to Perry when he exclaimed over the village of Lochdubh, nestled in front of the loch with the two tall mountains towering behind it. “Why, the place is beautiful!”
Elspeth, for the first time in ages, was conscious of her appearance. She had her frizzy hair scrunched up on top of her head. She was wearing jeans that were old and baggy, and her sweater under her tweed jacket was faded black from too many washings.
“I gather they’ve got someone for one of the murders at least,” said Perry, “so I’d better hurry up and write something before we’re called back.”
Elspeth stopped at the police station, and they got out of the car. As they approached the kitchen door, Hamish came around from the back, an empty feed pail in his hand. He was followed by Lugs and Sonsie.
“A bobby with a pet wild cat!” marvelled Perry. “Now, there’s a bit of colour for a start.”
“No, you don’t,” warned Elspeth. “He doesn’t like people knowing about that cat in case it gets taken away. Actually, it’s quite tame.”
“Elspeth,” said Hamish, joining them. “Did you see Blair or Jimmy?”
“It’s all quiet. The mobile police unit wasn’t on the waterfront and I suppose the press are all down at Strathbane.”
“And why aren’t you there?”
“Because Daviot will make one of his pompous statements and you know what’s really going on.”
“I doubt that,” said Hamish bitterly. “Coffee?”
“Grand. This is Perry Gaunt, a feature writer. And your coffee’s foul.”
“I’ve got round to using the percolator and I’ve got some decent stuff. Should be ready by now.”
Perry followed them into the kitchen. He looked around. There was a smell of peat from the stove and the aroma of fresh coffee. The round kitchen table was covered with a red-and-white gingham cloth, a present from the Italian restaurant, and gingham curtains hung at the window. Outside, the sun shone as if the Highlands had decided to give the residents a brief respite from winter.
Hamish poured mugs of coffee and then set a plate of shortbread on the table.
“I’m glad you’ve got company, Elspeth. I’ve been worried about you not being guarded.”
“Why should she be guarded?” asked Perry.
Hamish told him about the horoscopes. “Now, there’s a story!” exclaimed Perry.
“No, it’s not,” snapped Elspeth. “You should know I’m not supposed to write anything at all, other than for the Bugle. I ca
n’t even translate Euripides in my spare time. Hamish, surely Fergus didn’t kill his wife.”
“The latest is that he sneaked out of work for two hours around the time his wife was killed and he absolutely refused to say where he was. Blair charged him with her murder, but there isn’t a single bit of evidence against him. The forensic team’s up at the back taking his place apart, looking for a weapon. He’s got money from his wife’s insurance so when they eventually allowed him a lawyer, he called in Agnes Dunne from Inverness. She’ll soon have him out on bail. She’s a terror. I wanted to investigate further but Blair found I had a lot of holiday time owing and he found some regulation that I had to take at least a week.
“I’m losing heart, Elspeth. I’m weary. Let me know if you get any ideas.”
“Right,” said Elspeth. “I’ll start by taking Perry here over to Braikie.”
“If you dig up anything, let me know.”
Elspeth stopped the car on the shore road outside Braikie. “You see those houses?” she said.
“Yes, all boarded up.”
“The tide’s got higher every year. At high tide, this road is flooded. You can see where it’s being eaten away. A lot of the coastal villages are suffering but no one does anything. You could maybe put in a bit about that. You know the sort of thing—it’s not only a murderer in their midst that the people of Sutherland dread, but another enemy that is taking away their homes yaddity ya.”
“Got it.”
Elspeth drove on to the main street and parked. “I’m hungry. There’s a chippy. We could have fish-and-chips or haggis-and-chips or black-pudding-and-chips or . . .”
“Deep-fried Mars bars?”
“Of course. And deep-fried pizza, too.”
“You know,” said Perry, “the average life span of a man in Glasgow is now fifty-seven, and they put it down to a diet of the stuff you’ve just mentioned. I want a drink. What about The Highlanders Arms over there?”
“They’ve got meat pies from the bakery that aren’t bad.”
