by M C Beaton
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“What! Why?”
“The staff are complaining that it’s an infringement of their human rights and so our lawyers have taken the case up with the Court of Human Rights.”
“Oh, for heffen’s sakes,” howled Hamish. “Don’t the innocent realise that the quicker we find the murderer, the better?”
“The way they look at it is that their DNA will be on file and they’ll be classed as criminals.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“That’s the way they see it.”
“Morag struck me as highly unlovable,” said Hamish. “I’m surprised you hired her.”
“Look, I’d have hired a gorilla with her knowledge of spreadsheets and computers. I’m finding it hard to replace her. Anyway, when I interviewed her, she seemed very quiet and modest. It was only when she settled in here that I realised we’d got the bitch from hell. But she was good at her work. Besides, her boss, Gilchrist, never once saw the bad side of her. She could be pretty cunning.”
“Often if there’s a work affair, it’s between the boss and his secretary.”
“Gilchrist! He’s an elder of the kirk, member of the Rotary Club, and devoted to his wife.”
“What is his wife’s name?”
“Brenda. Why?”
“I wonder if she ever met Morag.”
“I doubt it. Madam considers us factory workers all rather vulgar. She’s got expensive tastes.”
“I might have a word with her.”
“Good luck. She scares the pants off me.”
“What about Geordie Fleming?”
“Sad sack. He and Morag were thick at one time and then she went on as if he didn’t exist.”
“Any other men she dated?”
“Not that I know of. Why did they take poor Freda away for questioning?”
“Because she was Morag’s only friend.”
Hamish took out his notebook after he had left Pete. For the umpteenth time, he promised himself he would get a smartphone or an iPad. But he had addresses logged in his laptop in the Land Rover as well as in his notebook. He found the Gilchrists’ address and made his way there.
The Gilchrists lived in a handsome house on a hill above the town. It was a large Victorian villa surrounded by evergreens.
He rang the doorbell and waited. The day was very still and there was that sort of heavy silence emanating from the house which Hamish knew, from experience, usually meant there was no one at home.
He drove back to Fergus McQueen’s lodgings but the landlord, Jason Clement, said he had not seen him.
Hamish phoned Jimmy and asked if Fergus’s parents had seen him, but Jimmy said he wasn’t often in touch with them. Driving back down the main street, Hamish noticed a few reporters and cameramen wandering up and down. Considering the drama of the finding of the dead body, Hamish thought there might have been more of them, and in the back of his mind was a faint hope that Elspeth Grant might be sent north to cover the murder. Although she was a presenter, because of her background in the area, she had been sent north before to cover stories.
Then he realised that with Geordie at work, he might have a chance to see Hannah on her own.
Was she really as beautiful as he remembered her to be?
The sky above had slowly changed to dark grey, and a whisper of wind caressed his cheek as he got out of the Land Rover.
Hannah Fleming opened the door. Hamish’s heart gave a lurch. She really was beautiful.
“What is it?” she asked. “Geordie’s at work.”
Hamish shuffled his boots. “It’s like this,” he said awkwardly, “I wondered whether you had heard any gossip about the factory.”
“You really need to ask my brother. It’s not long since I arrived here.”
“But you must have been up here before? Did Geordie introduce you to anyone?”
“Let me see. It was in the spring. He took me round the factory to see if there was anything I wanted to buy. But it’s cheap stuff—T-shirts and jeans mostly. They often get coach parties at the factory. The tourists are presented with T-shirts with the logo I LOVE THE HIGHLANDS on them as part of their package deal. How that factory copes with the Chinese competition, I’ll never know.”
“Did you ever meet Mrs. Gilchrist?” asked Hamish, wishing she would invite him indoors.
“Yes, we were invited for dinner last June. Overbearing woman and a bully. Is there anything else?”
“No.” Hamish half turned away. Then he turned back and blurted out, “Will you have dinner with me one evening?”
“Oh, why not? It’s pretty boring here. Where?”
“There’s a good Italian restaurant in Lochdubh. I could drive you over there this evening.”
“Make it tomorrow. I’ll drive myself over. Say, eight o’clock.”
“Grand.”
Hamish sang as he drove to Lochdubh. It seemed such a long time since he had been able to look forward with such anticipation to anything.
Halfway to Lochdubh, the moors were lit up with a great sheet of lightning followed by a crash of thunder. The rain came down in torrents.
When Hamish got to Lochdubh, he stopped on the hunchbacked bridge at the entrance to the village to check the height of the water in the River Anstey. He struggled into his oilskins and got down from the Land Rover and leaned on the parapet of the bridge. The water was racing and foaming underneath, the normally placid river having been turned into a raging torrent. He hoped the rain wouldn’t last long or he’d need to get villagers out with sandbags to stop the village being cut off.
And then like something in a horror movie, a body came hurtling down the water. A white dead face with staring eyes looked up at Hamish before the body rolled over and was swept down into the loch.
Cursing, Hamish stripped off his oilskins and uniform down to his underpants and made his way down to the beach. He plunged into the water, swam to where he had seen the body disappear, and then dived. He dived and dived again without success. He was about to give up when the fast current from the river pouring into the loch sent the body up to the surface again.
Hamish grabbed it and pulled it free of the current and towed it to shore while the heavens above flashed with lightning and roared with thunder as if Thor and all his horsemen were riding the inky skies.
He laid the body on the shingle. It was Fergus McQueen.
As the pathologist went into a hastily erected tent over the body, the sky was paling in the west. Thunder rolled away in the distance.
Dick had turned up with dry clothes for Hamish. They stood side by side under a large golf umbrella. A little way away from them stood Blair. His wife, Mary, did her best to keep him off the booze, but Hamish saw, from one look at the man’s truculent and bloated face, that the chief detective inspector had been on one of his binges.
Police had been sent upstream to see if they could find any evidence of where the body had entered the river.
A television crew appeared on the scene. To Blair’s fury, the reporter, a small blonde female, went straight to Hamish. “We hear you pulled the body out of the water, Mr. Macbeth. Could you describe what happened?”
Blair lumbered forward and put his bulk between the camera and Hamish. “Macbeth,” he snarled, “get back to the station and put in your report, then join the others up the stream.”
“Wait a minute.” Blair swung round. Superintendent Daviot appeared on the scene. “I see no reason why Macbeth cannot give a brief statement to the press,” he said. “Go ahead.”
Daviot loved appearing on television. He smoothed back the silver wings of his hair and took his place beside Hamish.
More press arrived in time to hear Hamish’s statement while Blair prowled around, trying to conceal his fury.
Daviot then made a statement commending Hamish’s resourcefulness and bravery.
Hamish was glad to finally escape back to the police station and to a welcome from his pets.
He had just finished his report when Jimmy Anderson arrived. “Got any whisky?” he asked. “I’m fair droochit.”
Hamish took down a bottle from the kitchen cupboard. “How was he killed? I assume he didnae just fall in.”
“Stabbed in the back. Long, thin sharp instrument. Any idea where the murder might have taken place?”
“A good place to look would be up at the falls. Say the lad met someone up there. There’s a wee bridge over the falls. Could have been stabbed and thrown over. I’ll get up there, but I should think the rain must have washed any evidence away.”
Jimmy tossed back his whisky, shuddered, and said, “I’ll come with you.”
“I’d better stay here,” said Dick, “in case there are any calls.”
If Hamish had not been so keen to have someone to look after his beloved pets, he would have ordered the lazy policeman to join them.
By the time Hamish and Jimmy had reached the top of the waterfall, the sky above was clearing rapidly. A late sun shone on rainbows in the spray of the roaring, cascading waterfall. They stood on the small rustic bridge which spanned the top of the waterfall and searched inch by inch.
Nothing.
The bridge seemed to have been scrubbed clean by the deluge. “What a waste of time,” grumbled Jimmy. “I could do with a drink. Are you sure there isn’t another place we should be looking at?”
“I can’t hear you,” shouted Hamish above the roar of the water. “Let’s get back to the Land Rover.”
Out of the sound of the water, Jimmy repeated his question. Hamish looked around the rain-sodden countryside where rainwater glittered and shone on the heather.
“Just suppose,” he said, “that Fergus thought he knew something about the murderer and tried to blackmail him. The murderer would not want to meet him anywhere near Cnothan.”
“Depends how long he’s been dead,” said Jimmy. “He could just have fallen in.”
“After being missing all this time? I doubt it. Maybe we should get out again and look further upstream.”
“Have you anything to drink in this vehicle of yours?” asked Jimmy.
“I have a flask of brandy for the emergencies.”
“Tell you what, laddie, pass it over and go and look yourself. That’s an order.”
Hamish opened the glove compartment and handed over the flask. He was glad to be on his own and have time to think. He was feeling weary after his plunge into the loch.
He trudged back up the stream. Then he cursed his memory. He had forgotten that a little way up the road from where he had parked was the car park for tourists to leave their vehicles and view the falls. Beside the car park was a recently disused gift shop. There had been some quarrel over the ownership of the shop. Colonel Halburton-Smythe had leased the shop. The lease had run out, and no one else had come forward to take the place of the previous tenants. Local vandals had smashed the windows, and the door was hanging on its hinges.
He went inside. A few roaches left by pot smokers were lying on the dirty floor. But on a battered table was a half bottle of whisky with a couple of inches still in it and two glasses.
He went outside and phoned Jimmy. “You’d better get SOCO up here. I should have remembered the place. I’m up at the old gift shop. You only have to come a few yards up the brae.”
When Jimmy arrived and peered in the door, he said cynically, “I don’t think any murderer would have left proof like that. And surely tourists still park here.”
“Not at night,” said Hamish. “Our murderer may have drugged Fergus and dragged the body to the falls. He was just a wee, thin chap. Put out a bulletin and find out if anyone was up near the falls and saw anything.”
They waited a long time. The Scenes of Crimes Operatives did not turn up until an hour later.
The leader, Jock Bruce, asked, “Did you go in there, Hamish? You should ha’ known better than to muck up the scene.”
“I had to look,” said Hamish. “He turned to Jimmy. I’ll go back and write up my report.”
But as he entered the police station, he found Charles Palfour waiting for him in the kitchen. From the living room came the sound of the television.
“What brings you here?” asked Hamish.
“I thought you could help me,” said Charles.
At that moment, the kitchen door opened and Olivia strode in. “I’ve been looking for you, dear brother. What are you doing here?”
“I saw the commotion at the bridge and came to ask what it was all about,” said Charles.
“I can tell you all about that,” said Olivia briskly. “Come along.”
Charles got to his feet. Hamish took out one of his cards, and as Charles passed him, he slipped it into his pocket.
“Are you sure you didn’t want to say something to me?” said Hamish to Charles’s retreating back.
“No, he doesn’t,” said Olivia.
They went out. Hamish strode into the living room. Dick was ensconced in an armchair with the dog and cat at his feet. Switching off the television, Hamish demanded, “Did Charles say anything to you while he was waiting for me?”
“Not a word. Said he would only talk to you.”
“Damn! That boy’s about to crack. While you’ve been lounging here, you lazy sod, I found another body.”
Dick settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “Aye, Fergus McQueen.”
“You’re a policeman. Didn’t it cross your mind to go and have a look?”
“I was about to, but just afore Charles arrived, Archie Maclean came by with some fish and told me the place was fair swarming with coppers. I thought I’d just be in the way.”
“Well, get along there and see what you can find out. I want to know what time he was killed.”
“They won’t know that until there are the results of the autopsy,” said Dick, reaching for the remote control.
“Out! Now!” shouted Hamish, exasperated.
As he sat down at his desk in the police office to prepare his report, he could hear Dick grumbling to the animals, “Makes me sick. He comes in here all wet and trachalt, so he wants me to go out and get as miserable as he is.”
Hamish sighed as he switched on the computer. This second body would bring the press in droves.
Chapter Four
Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action
—William Shakespeare
Things in the real world, thought Hamish, the next morning, as he went up the back of the police station to check on his sheep, move so slowly. People had become so accustomed to CSI programmes on television that they expected instant forensic results. All he saw before him was a long wait for the results of the autopsy, and more plodding door-to-door asking questions that had probably been asked already by some policeman of the squad that an infuriated Blair was no doubt unleashing on Cnothan and the surrounding countryside.
But his date with Hannah shone in his brain. He knew he should not be dating the sister of a possible murderer, but she could have nothing to do with it. She had been in Glasgow at the time of Morag’s disappearance.
He would not admit to himself that her beauty comfortably dimmed any memories of Priscilla Halburton-Smythe in his mind.
The storm, instead of refreshing the weather, had left a sticky sunny day where midges danced through the air looking for people to bite.
He avoided the press as much as he could, leaving Dick to cope with them. Dick had an enviable, easygoing way with the press. He would talk to them happily without giving away one single fact.
Hamish decided to call on Mrs. Gilchrist. If, by any remote chance, Gilchrist and Morag had been having an affair, she might let something slip. A small, wiry man with a bald head was mowing the lawn. He switched off the mower when he saw Hamish. “Looking for someone?” he asked.
“Is Mrs. Gilchrist at home?”
“Naw. I drove herself to the airport yesterday. She’s aye taking the foreign holidays.”
“Wher
e has she gone?” asked Hamish.
“Herself said she was going to tour through Europe. Och, I swear herself spends more time away than here. How her man puts up with it is beyond me, so it is.”
“I gather you work for the Gilchrists,” said Hamish.
“Aye, that’s right. I’m Sean Carmichael. I’m by way of being an odd job man.”
“Did you know Morag Merrilea?”
“I really only met her the once. I was sent tae Inverness airport to pick the lassie up when she came north. What a wee madam! I tried to have a bit o’ a chat but she says, ‘You’re a driver, aren’t you? Shut up and drive.’ Could ha’ skelped her. Cheeky bitch.”
“Did she socialise with the Gilchrists?”
“Naw. Mr. Gilchrist says tae me, he says, ‘I like to keep a distance between me and the staff. Get friendly and they take liberties.’”
Hamish made his way towards the factory but did a U-turn when he saw Blair’s car parked outside. He went instead to Fergus’s lodgings but turned away from there as well when he saw the forensic van outside.
Feeling frustrated, he returned to the police station. It was hard to believe all this was happening in the Highlands with no one having seen a thing. You could be up on the moors and feel alone in the world and maybe decide to sing, and, sure enough, some shepherd the next day or so would comment: “I heard ye singing up the brae. Bit too much o’ the hard stuff, hey?”
Cnothan, however, as he knew from bitter experience, was unnaturally secretive.
He sat down at the kitchen table with his notes. Dick was outside in the front garden on a deck chair, fast asleep.
He wondered about Pete Eskdale. He seemed a bit of a philanderer if all his broken marriages were any proof of that. Morag liked manipulating people. It might have amused her to go to bed with him in London to secure the job.
Hamish put away his notes. He roused Dick, saying, “We’re going to Strathbane to interview Gilchrist’s former secretary. If she’s bitter about getting the sack, she might talk more freely than most of them.”
