Death of Yesterday

by M C Beaton

  Hamish found the industrial site outside Conan Bridge. He parked in the lee of one of the dog food factory’s buildings. He and Dick walked round to the reception area at the front, bending before the wind, hanging on to their caps.

  They asked to see the manager and were told by a small man in a brown overall that Mr. Frith would be with them shortly.

  Mr. Frith was just as small as his receptionist, a stocky man just under five feet tall with piercing, elongated bright green eyes. It was, thought Hamish, as if the factory were staffed by elves.

  “You’ve just caught me,” he said. “I was about to send the staff home. We’re in for a bad one.”

  “I know,” said Dick. “I’ve been trying to tell my sergeant that.”

  Hamish ignored him. “I wanted to know a bit about the Camford family who used to own this factory.”

  “You’ll need to ask them.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Cromarty. It’s a big Georgian house in the centre of the town called Gateside. The father used his family name for the dog food, and the new owners kept calling it that.”

  “Cromarty!” panted Dick, nearly breathless from the buffeting of the wind which had struck them, full force, as they had left the reception office. “It’s too far in this weather.” He fastened his seat belt and looked hopefully at Hamish.

  “We’re going,” said Hamish. “I haven’t come all this way to give up.”

  Dick could only thank his stars that the Black Isle was not blessed with too many trees. As it was, Hamish had to swerve several times to avoid debris on the road.

  Hamish had been born in Cromarty, but his parents had moved to Rogart over near Golspie when he was small.

  When they reached the house, a rowan tree had blown down and was blocking the drive.

  A thin man was tugging ineffectually at the branches of the fallen tree. “Where can I find Mr. Camford?” shouted Hamish above the screaming wind.

  “That’s me. What’s up? Come into the house.”

  They followed him into a dim, stone-flagged hallway and then into a sitting room furnished with a Chesterfield sofa and two easy chairs. Dim oil paintings were hung on two walls. The third wall was covered with an old-fashioned glass-fronted bookcase full of leather-bound books which looked as if they had not been read since the eighteenth century. A coal fire sent out puffs of smoke. The room was cold and smelled of damp.

  “It’s just a routine enquiry,” said Hamish. “We’re still in the process of excluding people from our enquiries. When your sister Brenda married Harry Gilchrist, did she put much money into the dress factory?”

  “He thought she was going to. But she wanted the money for herself. She said she believed in men standing on their own feet. Bit of a letdown for old Harry. But he’s made a go of it. Brenda got the bulk of the money, you know. Father left the factory to her and not much to me and Heather. I asked her for some to help modernise this place a bit but she refused. Now, I gather, she does nothing but travel.”

  “Where can I find your sister Heather?”

  “She’s travelling as well. Went off with Brenda. I get a postcard from time to time. I wish she’d get back. I don’t care if the housing market is low. I’d really like to get rid of this place.”

  Hamish walked over to a table by the window which contained framed photographs. He picked up one of them, recognising the woman he had spoken to in Tallinn. Beside her was a woman he assumed was Heather. “Your sisters?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I keep this?”

  “What…?”

  But before he could finish, there came an almighty crash from over their heads, and rubble and soot fell down the chimney. Luke Camford ran outside. Hamish tucked the photograph into his capacious oilskin pocket and then they followed him.

  “A chimney’s gone through the upstairs,” he shouted. He pulled out his mobile. “I’d better get the fire brigade. Damn. No signal. You’re the police. Do something!”

  “Are we going to the fire station?” asked Dick as they drove off.

  “No. He’ll need to fend for himself. I don’t want to advertise our presence more than necessary.”

  Geordie Fleming had not allowed for the fact that if you live in a place with a high dam at one end of the loch and mountains and gully on the other side, then where you live becomes a victim of cross-winds. The tree was beginning to creak and sway alarmingly. He phoned the office and said he was not feeling well. He wanted to be on hand for his triumph when the beastly thing blew down.

  “Where’s Fleming?” demanded Pete Eskdale. “The boss is shouting for him.”

  “Haven’t seen him,” said the secretary, a small girl with hair as ginger as Pete’s. “We should all be allowed to go home. There are reports of damage all over the village.”

  “I’ll ask around,” said Pete.

  He had just left when she received the phone call from Geordie saying he was ill. Gilchrist was somewhere about the factory. She went in search of him, telling everyone she came across to tell the boss that Geordie was at home, sick.

  Geordie sat at his living room window amid the horrendous tumult of the storm, watching the tree as it bent and swayed. He began to notice uneasily that the howling wind was switching from east to west and then to the north as it was channelled down the gullies of the mountains opposite.

  He decided to go into the kitchen and fix himself a strong drink.

  He was just reaching up to the cupboard where he kept a bottle of whisky when, in the roar of the storm, he heard an almighty crack. He swung round in alarm just as the whole tree came crashing down, through the roof and right on top of him, smashing him to the floor in a welter of jagged leaves.

  He lost consciousness as pain racked his body. When he recovered his senses he saw that his mobile phone had fallen out of his shirt pocket and was lying a few inches away. He tried to reach it and howled in pain. His arm was broken.

  He heard footsteps somewhere in the kitchen and feebly cried, “Help!”

  To his horror, the footsteps retreated and he passed out again. Blood from a gash on the back of his head seeped out onto the floor. He briefly came back to consciousness again and muttered one more feeble cry of “Help” before his life ebbed away.

  Dick and Hamish took a long time to get back to Lochdubh. Fallen trees and rubble from crashing chimneys had blocked a lot of the way, forcing them to make long detours.

  As they headed down the hill to Lochdubh, the storm had rolled away to the east and all that was left was the stormy waves on the loch and knots of villagers, peering anxiously up at their roofs, looking for damage.

  Hamish parked in front of the police station and got out. The hill at the end of the village, rising up to the cliffs, had mostly sheltered the station and he was relieved to see there was no sign of any damage.

  He went in to the station to a welcome from his pets. The phone in the office was ringing shrilly.

  When he picked up the phone, Blair’s gloating voice came down the line. “You can go back to your sheep, laddie. We’ve got our murderer.”

  “What! Who?”

  “Geordie Fleming, that’s who.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He wouldnae kill his own sister.”

  “Got his confession.” And infuriatingly, Blair rang off.

  Hamish cursed and phoned Jimmy.

  “What the hell is this about Geordie Fleming being a murderer?”

  “It’s right weird,” said Jimmy. “Forensics are still investigating. Thon big tree in his garden crashed through the roof and killed him. He’d left a typed confession on his computer.”

  “For heaven’s sakes, man. Anyone could have done that. What did it say?”

  “I’ll fax you over a copy. Stand by.”

  Dick walked into the office while Hamish was waiting by the fax machine. “What’s up?”

  Hamish told him. “Oh, well, that’s that,” said Dick cheerfully, imagining a return to lazy days.

 
; “I don’t believe a word of it,” said Hamish furiously. “The man was as meek as a mouse and he wouldnae kill his own sister.”

  “Did he confess?”

  “That great tree in his garden crashed through the roof and killed him. He left a written confession on his computer.”

  “There you are then.”

  “There, nothing. Anyone could have written it. They’ve all gone mad.”

  The fax machine sprang into life. It spewed out one sheet of paper.

  Hamish read: “I, Geordie Fleming, am responsible for the deaths of Morag Merrilea, Fergus McQueen, and my own sister. Morag said I was the father of her child so I had to get rid of her. Fergus was blackmailing me. Hannah knew it was me and said she was going to tell the police. I am very sorry.”

  “And that’s all?” raged Hamish. He sat down at his computer and switched it on. He began to scroll through alibis. It was hard to pinpoint when exactly Morag and Fergus had been killed. No one had thought to question Geordie about his whereabouts when Hannah was killed at the hospital.

  Hamish picked up the phone, dialled the factory, and asked to speak to Maisie Moffat. When she came on the line, he said, “I have just heard the news that they are saying Geordie Fleming is the murderer. Do you remember where he was, say, the first time Hannah was attacked and I found her body on the Struie Pass?”

  “Wait a bit. Let me think.”

  There was a long silence while Hamish fretted and chewed his thumbnail.

  Then she said, “Well, that’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “I ’member that day. He was in his office, I’ll swear, sitting by the phone wi’ a face like clay, waiting to see if she phoned.”

  “I’ll be right over for your statement,” said Hamish.

  Chapter Nine

  Of that there is no manner of doubt—

  No probable, possible shadow of doubt—

  No possible doubt whatever.

  —W. S. Gilbert

  Leaving Dick behind, Hamish raced over to Cnothan and, ignoring the receptionist, ran up the stairs to where Maisie was waiting. A thin, nervous girl with thick glasses was waiting beside her.

  “I got better for ye,” crowed Maisie. “This here is Sarah McGowan. Herself was Geordie’s secretary. She stuck with him all that time until Hannah was found up on the Struie. And what’s mair, himself was at his home, ready to set out for the hospital the day his sister was killt.”

  Superintendent Daviot gave himself a last glance in the mirror before descending to meet the press who had gathered in front of police headquarters. He had applied a discreet amount of fake tan to his face and felt he was looking at his best.

  He was just walking up to a microphone which had been set up on the steps when Jimmy came hurrying up and whispered in his ear.

  “Are you sure?” asked Daviot desperately. “But Blair said…”

  “Well, Blair was wrong,” hissed Jimmy. “Just tell them about the unfortunate death of Geordie and say you’re looking into it.”

  Miserably, Daviot cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “I am here to announce the unfortunate death of Geordie Fleming who was killed when a tree in his garden crashed through his house.”

  Outraged cries sounded in his ears, voices crying that a report had been sent out to the media saying that Geordie Fleming was a murderer and had confessed.

  “We are looking into that,” said Daviot repressively and turned on his heel and hurried indoors.

  “Get over to that factory and see what Macbeth is up to,” he said to Jimmy. “And send Blair to my office. And take some men with you and get everyone interviewed all over again.”

  “Daviot won’t thank you for this,” said Jimmy when he caught Hamish leaving the factory.

  “Did forensic no’ check Geordie’s computer for prints?” asked Hamish.

  “Wiped clean.”

  “What a bunch of cloth-headed numpties,” said Hamish. “Did that not make you just a wee bit suspicious?”

  “Man, Blair was all over the place. I couldn’t get near the evidence until now.”

  “Let’s go somewhere quiet,” begged Hamish. “We’ve got to talk about this.”

  “Wait here until I give my men their instructions.”

  So Hamish waited. It was a balmy day with a pale sun shining through wisps of cloud. It was as if the dreadful storm had never happened.

  At last, Jimmy came back to join him.

  “Pub,” he said. “You’re driving.” He climbed into the Land Rover.

  “Where are your beasties?”

  “With Dick Fraser.”

  “Well, I must say it’s grand not to feel their hot breath on the back of my neck.”

  Once in the pub in the High Street, they settled down at a table in a corner. Jimmy ordered a double whisky for himself and a tomato juice for Hamish.

  “This is some amateur as I’ve said before,” said Hamish. “Our killer happened to come by and saw the tree and found Geordie dying and thought of a way to put suspicion on Geordie. I swear we’d have a better chance of getting hold of a professional killer than this lucky sod who blunders around knocking off people. What’s behind it? Sex? Money? Have the books been properly audited?”

  “Gone through thoroughly. Despite what they claim, the factory was running at a loss, but Gilchrist’s wife put a big lump of money into the place.”

  “When?”

  “Must ha’ been a couple of months ago.”

  “Wait a bit. I saw Brenda Gilchrist’s brother and he said she refused to give her husband any money and told him he had to stand on his own feet. I went to Estonia to see her.”

  “You what? If Daviot hears that one, and I’m sure he will, you’re toast.”

  “He has and I nearly got fired over it. There’s more. The brother, Luke, he said sister Heather was travelling with her but Brenda was on her own. And Sean Carmichael, Gilchrist’s odd job man, said he took Brenda to the airport when she started on her travels. He didn’t say anything about Heather.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “What if the woman I saw was Heather Camford, masquerading as her sister?”

  “Why?”

  “Say Harry Gilchrist needed money for his factory and the wife wouldn’t give it, but Heather would in exchange for her sister’s money. Brenda got the bulk of the inheritance.”

  “But why get rid of Morag? Surely if Morag had known anything, she would have told you she suspected Gilchrist.”

  “Maybe, unless she told Gilchrist that the baby was his. Maybe he stood to lose his respectable name and his factory as well. He was supposed to be in Glasgow on the day Hannah was first attacked. Was that properly checked?”

  Jimmy flipped open a briefcase, took out an expensive-looking iPad, and began to search. At last he said, “Here we are. Stayed with a certain Jock Anstruther in Hyndland Road. I’ve got his number. I’ll go outside and phone him.”

  Hamish waited impatiently.

  Jimmy came back, shaking his head. “No, he sticks to his story. He’s a director of Anstruther Fabrics.”

  “I’d like to see him face-to-face,” said Hamish. “And we should haul in Sean Carmichael for questioning and then we should get a search warrant for Gilchrist’s place and…”

  “Wait a minute!” said Jimmy. “Who’s in charge of this case? You or me? We won’t get a search warrant without proof. We can’t go treading on the toes of Strathclyde police. But we will start with Sean…What do you want?”

  Stolly Maguire was standing by the table. “I jist wanted tae see if you wanted any mair drinks.”

  “We don’t,” snapped Jimmy. “Push off!” He turned his attention back to Hamish. “Look! All you’ve got is some pretty mad speculation.”

  “Humour me,” said Hamish. “Let’s start off with Sean.”

  They drove to the Gilchrists’ villa but there was no sign of Sean. “Daviot’s not going to like this,” said Jimmy, “but we’re going to have
to ask Gilchrist where Sean is.”

  They were kept waiting at the factory. They were told Mr. Gilchrist was busy.

  At last they were ushered in. Gilchrist peered at papers on his desk and, without looking up, said, “How can I help you?”

  “We would like to speak to Sean Carmichael,” said Jimmy.

  “That will not be possible.”

  “Why?”

  “He has just left on a much-needed holiday.”

  “To where?” demanded Hamish.

  “I do not concern myself with the holiday arrangements of the hired help,” said Gilchrist, looking up at last.

  Jimmy took out his mobile and phoned headquarters. “Put out an alert for Sean Carmichael, all airports, ports, bus stations, train stations, the lot. Appearance?” He handed the phone to Hamish, who rattled off a description.

  “Does he have a car?” Hamish asked Gilchrist.

  “Yes, an old Ford Escort.”

  “Do you know the registration number?”

  “No, I do not! What is this…?”

  “It’s an old Ford Escort,” said Hamish into the phone. He looked at Gilchrist. “Colour?”

  “Red, but…”

  “Red,” instructed Hamish.

  “Get out of here!” raged Gilchrist. “I am going to complain to Mr. Daviot.”

  “What about?” asked Hamish mildly. “You haven’t even asked us why we want to talk to Sean.”

  “Get out. Out! Out! Out!”

  As they left his office, Hamish stopped by the secretary’s desk. “Give us Sean Carmichael’s address,” he ordered.

  She looked flustered and glanced nervously at her boss’s closed office door.

  “Now!” said Jimmy.

  She scrolled through her computer, wrote an address on a piece of paper, and handed it to them.

  Sean evidently lived in the caravan park just outside Cnothan.

  Outside the factory, Jimmy phoned for a search warrant, saying it had to be brought as fast as possible to the caravan park.

  The caravan park had a new owner since Hamish had last been there. His name was Gareth Jones, a small, dark Welshman. He said that Sean rented a caravan from him and he could let them in without waiting for the search warrant, as it was his property.