by M C Beaton
“It must have been when I was asleep during the night,” she said, with the slow speech of a person who normally spoke Gaelic.
“Do you know how they got in?”
She shook her head.
“Do you lock your doors and windows at night?”
“I’ve never bothered afore. Please to take a seat.”
Hamish removed his cap and sat down on a high backed Orkney chair. A peat fire smouldered in the hearth. An old clock ticked sonorously on the mantel. The stone-flagged floor was covered in brightly hooked rugs. A black cat rose from a rug before the fire, stretched and yawned, and indolently strolled out.
Mrs. Macgregor watched the cat go. “A fine watchdog thon one turned out to be,” she said. “We get the odd stranger in the summer calling at the door for directions and she hisses like anything.”
“Right!” Hamish put his cap on an old wooden table by the window and took out his notebook. “What was taken?”
“Two silver candlesticks, a silver teapot, two old silver snuffboxes, some miniatures that has been in my family for, oh, over two hundred years. Let me think, some spare cash in a tin in the kitchen, a walking stick with a silver knob, and two wally dugs.” By wally dugs she meant those china spaniel dogs which ornament many a Scottish home. The old ones are valuable.
“Are you insured?”
She shook her head sadly. “I never saw the need.”
“Who calls on you?”
“My great-niece Bertha Sutherland comes by most days. Oh, and Mrs. Moxton cleans for me because I’m not that fit any more. She does for me twice a week.”
“May I have their addresses?”
“You don’t think…?”
“No, no,” said Hamish soothingly. “But they might have seen or heard something.”
“Bertha’s got the wee cottage, three on your left as you go out the door. Mrs. Moxton’s house is upon the brae behind me. It’s painted blue.”
“With your permission, I’ll take a look around.”
Hamish and Dick searched the small cottage, but there was no sign of a break-in.
“I’ll be back in a while,” said Hamish. “I’ll just be asking around.”
“What do you think?” said Dick when they were outside. “Poor auld soul.”
“We’ll try the niece first.”
At Bertha’s cottage, the door was standing open. Hamish called but there was no answer. “I think I’ll just go in,” he said to Dick. “You wait outside and give me a shout if you see anyone coming.”
“That’s trespass,” said Dick.
“Och, I can say what with the burglary, I thought something nasty might have happened to her.”
Hamish walked into the low cottage. In the parlour were the remains of breakfast on a table. He checked all the rooms, looking under the bed and gently sliding open drawers. He then walked out to the back of the cottage where there was a vegetable bed. Propped against the kitchen door was a spade. He noticed there was fresh earth on it. He picked up the spade and wandered through the rows of vegetables. He found a freshly dug patch at the very end of the garden and began to dig. He had only dug a little way when his spade hit something. He put on latex gloves, crouched down, and scraped away the earth with his fingers to reveal a canvas duffel bag. He lifted it out and opened it. The sun sent slivers of light dancing on silver.
Hamish sat back on his heels, feeling suddenly sad. He felt it would have been better if the burglar had turned out to be some stranger.
He went back through the house to join Dick. “Found the stuff buried in the garden,” he said. “What a nasty thing to happen in a paradise like this.”
“If I’m no’ mistaken,” said Dick, “here comes Bertha.”
A small woman wearing a tweed coat despite the warmth of the day came hurrying towards them.
“Get those beasts of mine in the front seat,” said Hamish. “We’ll need to take her in.”
“What is it?” asked Bertha. She was in her thirties but her face had a worn look.
“I am arresting you for the theft of items belonging to your great-aunt,” said Hamish. He cautioned her as she screeched protests.
He locked her in the back of the Land Rover which was parked outside Mrs. Macgregor’s cottage. He took out a camera and went back to the garden and photographed the bag in the hole before lifting it out.
He dumped it in the front of the Land Rover where Dick was feeling crushed with the dog and cat.
Mrs. Macgregor came out. Wails of, “Ochone! Ochone!” were coming from the back of the Land Rover.
“I’m afraid the culprit is your great-niece,” said Hamish. “She buried the items in her garden. We are taking her to police headquarters and…”
“No, that won’t do. I’m not making a charge.”
“What!”
“If you charge her I’ll say I gave her the stuff.”
“I haff the good mind to charge you with wasting police time.”
“An auld woman like me? I forget things these days. I probably gave them to her and forgot.”
Hamish looked around the tranquillity of the little village, at the great glassy waves curling onto the perfect white beach. He sighed. He unlocked the back of the Land Rover and helped Bertha out. She flew to Mrs. Macgregor, babbling, “I’m sorry.”
“Could ye not have waited until I was dead?” asked Mrs. Macgregor sadly. “Come ben and we’ll have a cup o’ tea and a chat.”
Hamish took out the bag of stolen goods and put it inside the door of Mrs. Macgregor’s cottage.
Dick got down from the Land Rover followed by the dog and cat. The animals raced off to the beach.
He told Dick what had happened. “She cannae dae that!” said Dick. “Dragging us all the way up here.”
“I don’t think it will happen again,” said Hamish. “I’ll bet Bertha is the only family she’s got.”
“Curtains have been twitching all over the place,” said Dick. “I’m hungry. There’s a wee store down there round the bend. I saw it as we came in.”
Soon they were sitting on the beach eating chicken sandwiches, which had been made up for them in the store. “Beautiful here,” said Dick dreamily.
“It’s grand now,” said Hamish, “but you never know what goes on in these remote places in the winter.”
His mobile phone rang. It was Jimmy. “How did it go?”
“Nonstarter,” said Hamish. “I’ll send in a report when I get back.”
“You’d better get back fast. Hannah Fleming is missing.”
Chapter Six
The highest form of vanity is love of fame.
—George Santayana
Hannah, heavily disguised, had checked into a small hotel on the Ness Bank in Inverness. The minute that Pete told everyone she knew the identity of the murderer, the police would be calling on her. But, she decided, if she hid out for a few days and then called a press conference, her picture would be back on television and in all the papers. That tide of fame, which had ebbed leaving her stranded on the bleak shores of mediocrity, would come roaring back.
The fact that she would need to make up something to justify her dramatic statement caused her some worry. But not much. She was sure she would think of something as soon as the cameras were focussed on her again.
She was confident that her disguise of full red wig and sunglasses made her anonymous, not realising that wearing a flaming red wig and dark glasses in Inverness on a sunless day would get her some curious looks.
And so it was that Freda Crichton on a day off down in Inverness to do some shopping noticed the woman with the red hair in a café. Freda sipped her coffee and studied her. And then she noticed on the woman’s slim fingers were two rings, a large amethyst set in gold and a cairngorm set in silver. Hannah wore rings like that, she thought with quickening interest.
If it were Hannah, what was she doing in disguise? The more Freda studied the woman, the more she became convinced it was Hannah. Silly Hannah, she thought.
Shooting off her mouth like that to show off. There could be no other reason. If Hannah really knew the identity of the murderer, then she would have gone to the police.
When Hannah got up to leave, Freda followed her at a discreet distance until she saw her turn in at the doors of the Farm Hotel. Self-absorbed as ever, Hannah had not noticed her.
When she reported for work the next day, she told the staff what she had seen. “Geordie’s out looking for her,” said Pete. “I’d better phone him.”
“Let her make a fool of herself for a bit longer,” said Freda. “I’ll tell the police this evening.”
Dick was watching television that evening when he called to Hamish who was working in the kitchen, “Come quick and see this.”
A presenter for Strathbane Television was saying, “Hannah Fleming who has been missing has just contacted us. She is to hold a press conference at the Red Hackle hotel in Strathbane at ten tomorrow morning when she says she will reveal the identity of the murderer of Morag Merrilea and Fergus McQueen.”
“And I’ll be right there to arrest her before she opens her mouth,” said Hamish. “What is she playing at?”
Jimmy phoned Hamish early the next morning. “Thon Freda Crichton’s been on the phone. She’s sure she saw Hannah Fleming going in to the Farm Hotel in Inverness, heavily disguised.”
“I’ll get down there now,” said Hamish.
“Inverness police are covering it. Just wait there.”
“I’m coming to that press conference of hers,” said Hamish.
Hannah, restored to her former beauty, got into her car outside a different hotel that she had taken the precaution of checking into the night before. It would not start.
She had phoned her brother the night before, her never usually active conscience working for once and prompting her to allay his fears. Hannah warned him, however, not to tell the police where she was.
She was about to go into the hotel to call for a taxi when a Range Rover drove up and a voice said, “Hannah! Everyone’s looking for you.”
“My car won’t start,” said Hannah desperately. “I’ve got to get to Strathbane.”
“I’m going there myself. Hop in.”
The conference room at the Red Hackle hotel was crammed with press and police. Ten o’clock came and went and there was no sign of Hannah. Her brother was there, having seen the news of his missing sister on television the night before, but he had not given the police the name of her new hotel.
By ten thirty, some of the press were beginning to drift towards the bar, saying it was nothing but a hoax.
Jimmy said furiously to Hamish, “There’s been a right cock-up. The police in Inverness say she wasn’t at the hotel. They’re searching the other hotels.”
His phone rang. He walked off a little way to answer it. When he had finished his call, he came back to Hamish. “She’d moved to a hotel on the outskirts, but by the time they got there, she had gone.”
“Anything on CCTV?”
“They’re looking. Her car’s outside.”
“She was using her own car?”
“Aye, but they only started searching last night.”
“Come on, Dick,” said Hamish.
“Where are you going?” asked Jimmy.
“I’m going to check the road between here and Inverness.”
It was a steel-grey day, weeping drizzle. The mountains were hidden, and all colour seemed to have been bleached from the sodden landscape.
“Why are you taking the Struie Pass?” asked Dick.
“If I wanted to dump a body, that’s the route I would take,” said Hamish. “Practically everyone uses the new road now.”
“Do you think she’s dead?” asked Dick.
“I cannae think of any other reason why the lassie wouldn’t turn up.”
“Could be anywhere,” said Dick gloomily.
“We’ve got to try. Keep looking.”
The Land Rover moved slowly up the twisting one-track road. They stopped from time to time. Hamish scanned the surrounding landscape with binoculars.
The day dragged on as they slowly approached the viewpoint. Hamish’s phone rang. It was Jimmy.
“You’re never going to believe this. The CCTV cameras outside the hotel and inside weren’t working. The guests were at breakfast, which is in the dining room at the back. No one saw her leave. What are you doing?”
“Still searching,” said Hamish gloomily.
“If she’s been hijacked, then whoever took her is right bold,” said Jimmy. “To take her off in broad daylight!”
“Someone was desperate,” said Hamish. “I’ll phone you as soon as I get anything.”
“We’ve got men over at the factory taking statements, finding out where everyone was this morning.”
“Pete Eskdale?”
“Over in Strathbane, drumming up publicity from a local paper.”
“Confirmed by the paper?”
“Aye. Mind you, his appointment was at ten in the morning.”
“What about the boss, Harry Gilchrist?”
“Down in Glasgow.”
“Where?”
“Got him on his mobile. He stayed with a friend. Strathclyde Police are confirming his alibi. He’s on his road back.”
“What about Freda?”
“At her desk all this morning.”
Hamish rang off and went back to searching.
He and Dick drove up to the viewpoint, parked, and got out. A wind sprang up, and the weather of Sutherland went in for one of its mercurial changes. The cloud was blown into grey rags and sent flying off to the east. The blue mountains appeared, range after range of them, stretching into Sutherland. The sun shone down on the purple heather. Rowan trees danced in the brisk wind, their leaves glittering with raindrops. It has been called “the million-dollar view.” Down below lay the inner arm of the Cromarty Firth. Over in the blue distance lay the Kyle of Sutherland.
“This is hopeless,” moaned Dick. “I’m hungry.”
“Let me think,” said Hamish. “Whoever took her was in a panic. So he wouldn’t go in for anything elaborate. He’d kill her and toss the body out by the road. We’d better keep looking.”
To Dick’s horror, Hamish said they should start going along the road on foot. “I’m tired,” he wailed. “My legs won’t take it.”
“You should lose weight,” said Hamish heartlessly. “Oh, take a seat in the car. I’ll go myself.”
Hamish trudged slowly along, looking to left and right.
The road began to descend. He stopped and stared around. She could be anywhere. Why had he thought of the Struie Pass? Because there’s a bit of a murderer in all of us, he thought, and it’s where I would have got rid of her.
At a hairpin bend in the road, he noticed a stand of silver birch and, at the base of the trees, uprooted piles of heather.
He walked over and tugged away the heather. Hannah’s white face stared up at him. He bent down and felt for a pulse. It was there, but very faint. He phoned Dick and howled for the Land Rover to be brought down the pass. He phoned for a rescue helicopter, shouting that any long delay could kill her.
He then knelt down in the heather and began to apply the kiss of life. The pulse grew slightly stronger. Dick drove up. “Oh, michty me!” he cried. “Is she dead?”
“Nearly,” said Hamish. “Where’s that damn helicopter.”
“I hear it!” said Dick. “Coming from ower there.”
The helicopter landed on the road. Paramedics rushed to Hannah and put an oxygen mask over her mouth before lifting her on board. “I’ll go with her,” said Hamish. “Phone headquarters and say she’s been found.”
Hamish was joined in Strathbane Hospital by Jimmy and Blair. Blair tried to send Hamish away, but Jimmy protested. “He found the lassie. If she recovers, he’ll be the first person she’ll want to talk to.”
The day wore on as the news of the discovery of Hannah Fleming went out over the airwaves.
Someone,
it seemed, had tried to strangle her. Eventually a doctor joined them. “It looks as if she will recover,” he said. “But no one is to interview her at the moment. She’s still barely conscious.”
“I’m hungry,” said Jimmy. “Let’s go to the canteen and get something, Hamish.
“I’m off,” said Blair. “Phone me as soon as she’s ready to speak.”
After they had eaten, Hamish and Jimmy went back downstairs. They sent for the doctor they had seen earlier. “She has recovered consciousness,” he said. “You can have a few words, but that is all.”
Now, thought Hamish, we’ll get the identity of this murdering bastard at last.
The doctor followed Hamish and Jimmy into the room. Hamish took one look at Hannah and cursed. He had seen death many times before and recognised it in Hannah’s clay-white face.
“What’s happened here?” demanded the doctor, striding to the bed. “Her tubes have been pulled out, and what’s that pillow doing lying on the floor?”
“Don’t touch it!” yelled Hamish as he made to pick it up. “I think someone’s got in here and smothered her.”
Blair soon came roaring back followed by Superintendent Daviot. Blair raged that she should never have been left alone.
“We’ll get the CCTV stuff,” said Jimmy, “and find out who went into her room.”
“Won’t do you much good,” said Hamish miserably. “I took a look at the one in the corridor and it’s been spray-painted black.”
Blair howled with rage and cursed and stamped and then he clutched his throat and fell unconscious on the floor.
Medics rushed to bear him away. Daviot shook his silver head. “A guard should have been put on her door. This is terrible publicity. What am I to tell the press?”
Hamish finally got back to his police station at three in the morning. He could hear snores coming from Dick’s bedroom. He had developed such a rage, such a personal hate for this murderer, that he felt that if Hannah had lived and had told about her night with him, he would gladly have faced the music if it got him the identity of this killer.
