by M C Beaton
“It’s like this. No one knows that area better than you, and you’ve got an in with that weird copper, what’s his name?”
“Hamish Macbeth.”
“Yes, him. We’d like you to go up there and file a report.”
Elspeth looked at him cynically. “What bit of totty have you found to replace me while I’m up there?”
“Now, Elspeth, we all know now that Hannah was a mistake. James Garden will fill in for you. You must admit he’s no competition. It should only take you a couple of days.”
“Oh, all right,” conceded Elspeth. “When do I start?”
“What about right now?”
Hamish drove to the small Church of Scotland, St. Andrew’s, in Cnothan. He tried the door, but it was locked.
He went to the manse next door. When the minister, John Gordon, opened the door, Hamish said, “I’d like to get into the church. It’s urgent.”
Mr. Gordon smiled. “We do not take confessions in the Church of Scotland, but if there’s anything I can help or advise…”
“I need the key,” said Hamish. “Did Harry Gilchrist have a key?”
“Yes, he does. But…”
“I need it now. He may be in there.”
Mr. Gordon retreated into the manse and shortly returned with a large key. Hamish seized it and ran into the church, followed by the minister.
He unlocked the door and swung it open.
Thin light shone through the plain glass latticed windows.
“There’s no one here,” said Mr. Gordon.
Hamish strode down the church, bending down and looking in all the pews. He finally straightened up and looked around.
“The bell,” he said. “Where do you ring the bell?”
“It’s the room over there on your left, next to the vestry.”
Hamish went over and swung open the door. Unlike some other churches, St. Andrew’s had only one bell.
Hanging from the bell rope, his face hideously distorted, was Harry Gilchrist.
Behind him, Mr. Gordon exclaimed, “This is horrible. I’ll get a knife and we’ll cut him down.”
“No,” said Hamish. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until the Scenes of Crimes Operatives have gone over the place thoroughly. I’m sure he’s committed suicide, but we have to be sure.”
The minister retreated to the church, sank down in a pew, and began to pray.
Hamish took out his phone.
An hour later, Hamish, Jimmy, and Daviot waited outside the church while white-coated figures did their business inside. At last, one of them came out and handed Daviot a sealed envelope. “This was in his pocket, sir. It’s addressed to you.”
Jimmy handed his boss a pair of latex gloves. Daviot put them on and opened the envelope. He read the contents slowly and then handed the letter that was inside to Jimmy.
Hamish crowded forward to read it over his shoulder. “I am sorry,” Gilchrist had written. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I leave the factory and all my possessions to my dear wife, Brenda.” There was a scrawl of a signature at the bottom.
“Are we sure yet that the woman bricked up is his wife?” asked Daviot. “The results have yet to come through. I mean, all we have at the moment is your speculations, Macbeth. We’re waiting for the DNA results.”
“There is one way to find out, sir,” said Hamish.
“What’s that?”
“I’m sure you have already done it,” said Hamish who was pretty sure they hadn’t. “Freeze all bank accounts and credit cards in the name of Brenda Gilchrist.”
“I’m sure Mr. Blair will have seen to that.”
“I don’t think he’ll have been able to,” said Jimmy, taking out his phone. “I’ll get them on to it right away.”
“How on earth did you guess he would come here?” asked Daviot, walking a little way away through the gravestones with Hamish. “I thought I knew him. He and his wife have been to my home for dinner. He seemed a pillar of the community.”
“He was suffering from a combination of greed and respectability,” said Hamish. “He could not bear the thought of going on trial and the world knowing exactly what he was like. But if Heather is masquerading as his wife, I feel she might have been the one who drove him on.”
They turned round as the body was wheeled out of the church. Jimmy had finished his phone call and had talked to the head of the forensics team. “It does seem he topped himself,” he said. “That letter is pretty much a confession. But they’re still dusting for fingerprints to make sure he was alone.”
Daviot turned to Hamish. He felt irritated with this lanky police sergeant. He did not trust Hamish’s unorthodox leaps of the imagination and always found it hard to give him credit for anything.
“Get back to your station, Macbeth,” he ordered, “and file a full report. Anderson and I will handle the press.”
And take all the credit as usual, thought Hamish cynically.
He drove slowly back to Lochdubh. The day was warm. The early frosts had not yet arrived. The landscape dreamt under a benign sun. A stag up on a brae above the road looked down on him.
What a blundering murderer Gilchrist had been—if he had done any of the murders himself. Or had he paid Sean? Well, he supposed he would find out after all the forensic reports were in.
Dick was asleep on a deck chair in the garden, his moustache gently rising and falling as he snored.
Sonsie and Lugs were lying at his feet. They opened their eyes as Hamish looked over the hedge and then went back to sleep. Hamish remembered how not so long ago they would have come running to welcome him.
With a sigh, he went into the station, into his office, switched on the computer, and began to type.
He finished an hour later, collected his pets from the garden, and walked along the waterfront. A thin mist was settling down on the forest trees across the loch. The loch itself was still and quiet. Sounds of clattering dishes and snatches of television reached his ears as Lochdubh prepared for high tea—dinner in most other places.
Hamish saw the Currie sisters approaching and stared fixedly at the loch. From behind him came Nessie’s voice.
“I’m right sorry, Hamish.”
“Sorry,” echoed her sister.
“I should never have reported ye. I don’t know what came over me.”
I do, you jealous, shrivelled-up old bitch, thought Hamish. You can’t bear to think of anyone having it off.
But he turned round and smiled down at her. “That’s all right. Let’s forget it.”
Jessie held out a box. “We brought you some of our scones,” said Nessie.
“Scones,” said her sister.
The Currie sisters’ scones were as light as feathers.
“Thank you,” said Hamish, taking the box.
They both bobbed their heads to him and went on their way.
Every time I think of Hannah, I feel vicious with shame, thought Hamish. How could I have fallen for just good looks? But he had done exactly that on his last case. He had nearly become besotted by a certain Mary Leinster who had turned out to be a nasty piece of work.
He turned and walked slowly back to the police station. Dick was in the kitchen, preparing a steak and kidney pie. “I heard the news on the telly,” said Dick, rolling pastry. “So that’s all wrapped up.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Hamish, putting the box of scones on the table. “We’ve still to find Heather. We’re waiting for the DNA report to make sure that it’s definitely her sister we found murdered.”
Heather Camford finished a meal in an oyster bar on the Boulevard St. Germain in Paris. She did not watch television and did not know that Interpol was searching for her. She called for the bill and took out one of Brenda’s credit cards.
Heather then looked up startled when the waiter said apologetically that the card was not working. She had two more credit cards and two debit cards. She tried them all without success.
“I’ll get the manager,” said the waiter.
Heather thought quickly. It was a warm evening and she had selected a table on the pavement so she could smoke. She fled down the street, slowing her pace when she reached the bottom of the Rue Dante. She turned along Rue Lagrange and down Rue Maitre Albert to her hotel. She was about to go in when she saw two policemen at the desk.
She hurried on down towards the Seine. What had gone wrong? Hurrying over the bridge, she went into the park below Notre Dame. She took out her mobile phone and tried to call Gilchrist. A man answered. She knew immediately the voice on the other end was not that of Harry Gilchrist. She switched it off.
Heather was possessed of a sort of mulish stupidity allied to greed and arrogance. She could hardly believe they had been found out. She had, however, been clever enough to buy a fake passport and driving licence in Barcelona, and it was on this passport that she had paid a flying visit to Scotland, arriving in time to hear Harry Gilchrist’s warning that Hannah Fleming was about to talk. He had given her the name of the hotel. When Hannah had appeared, she had called out, “It’s me, Brenda Gilchrist. Want a lift?”
The silly bitch hadn’t died and so Harry had to pay Sean to finish the work.
She opened her wallet. She had 450 euros left. With luck, she had hired a car with the fake driving licence. It was in the underground car park in Rue Lagrange. She must get to it and drive…where? Back to Cnothan was the answer. That was the last place they would look for her. She had a key to the factory and knew the code of the burglar alarm. And she also knew the combination to the safe. With enough money, she could disappear again.
Hamish was just finishing his dinner when Jimmy arrived. “There was a cosh thrown in beside the body. It’s got Heather’s fingerprints on it. They’re rushing the DNA, but we’re pretty sure that the dead body is Brenda. Has wifie got anything to drink?”
Dick scowled but produced a bottle of whisky and three glasses.
“How could they get away with so much murder and mayhem?” asked Jimmy.
“A combination of cunning, fear, stupidity, and incredible luck,” said Hamish. “A clever murderer would never have picked up Hannah at that hotel, fearing CCTV cameras. I think we may have three murderers. I think Heather killed Brenda and maybe Hannah, Gilchrist killed Fergus and Geordie, and maybe Sean finished off Hannah. What was in Sean’s pills?”
“Oblivon. Used by vets. Instant and deadly.”
“I thought that was a liquid.”
“It is. But the medicine was in capsules. All someone had to do was inject the capsules with the stuff. It takes very little.”
Jimmy’s phone rang. He listened and then snapped, “Make sure all the ports and airports are watched. And pay special attention to the Eurostar.”
When he rang off, he said, “Heather’s been spotted in Paris. She tried to use Brenda’s cards and when they wouldn’t work, she fled.”
There was a knock at the kitchen door. Hamish went to answer it and found Elspeth Grant smiling up at him.
“Come ben,” said Hamish.
“I’m off,” said Jimmy, draining his glass. “I’ll keep you posted.”
When he had gone, Dick took down an apron from a hook and wrapped it round his generous middle. “Why don’t you pair go through to the living room while I clear up.”
Elspeth looked around the living room in amazement. A bright fire was burning, the evening having turned cold. Hamish’s shabby furniture had been covered with chintz. She noticed the flat-screen television and the latest in stereo equipment.
“Did you win the lottery, Hamish?”
“No, it’s Dick. He’s a whiz at quizzes and keeps winning prizes.”
“I didn’t think you could win chintz covers.”
“He won a sewing machine and made them himself.”
“How domesticated you are! Better than a wife.”
“Let’s talk about something else. I suppose you’ve come about the murders. If you write anything, let me see it first.”
“Sure. Is the dead body Brenda Gilchrist?”
“Yes, but don’t write anything about that until you get the official confirmation.”
“Tell me about it all.”
So Hamish did, feeling at ease in her company. She was wearing a checked shirt and jeans instead of one of her usual power suits. Because of the dampness of the evening, her hair had begun to frizz, reminding him of how she used to look when she was only a local reporter.
When he had finished, she said in amazement, “It all sounds like blundering from one murder to another.”
“That’s what held up the investigation,” said Hamish. “We were looking first of all for one person and a clever one at that.”
“Why did Sean kill himself? He could confess to lying about taking Brenda to the airport and say that his boss paid him to say it. He would have got off on a minor charge.”
“I think somehow he was murdered. Poison was substituted for those high blood pressure pills of his. I think maybe Gilchrist planned to get rid of him even before Sean fled. I can’t believe he put it there himself. What I’m trying to figure out is what will Heather do next? She hasn’t any money. If she wants to stay hidden, she’ll need money.”
“With her track record, she’ll probably just mug someone,” said Elspeth.
Heather, having reached London, spent the remainder of the night in her car in the back streets of South London. Then in the morning, she left the car with the keys in the ignition. With any luck someone would steal it.
She took the tube to Trafalgar Square and walked along to the Savoy Hotel where she ordered breakfast. She was wearing a broad-brimmed hat and glasses and had padded out her cheeks. She waited until she saw a wealthy-looking woman rise from the table, say something to her husband, and head for the ladies’ room.
She followed. To her relief, there was no woman on duty. Her quarry came out of the toilet, placed her capacious handbag beside one of the sinks, and began to wash her hands. Another woman came in and hailed the first one. “Alice, dear, were you waiting long for us? John’s with your husband. How did you get on with…?” Her voice sank to a whisper. Both women glanced at Heather and then moved over to a corner to have a muttered conversation.
Heather quickly zipped open Alice’s handbag, extracted her wallet, took out a thick pile of notes, replaced the wallet, and zipped up the handbag again.
She quickly left, walking straight out of the hotel and vanishing into the morning crowds.
When she felt safe, she went into a café and checked the amount. Over five hundred pounds. Silly woman to carry that much cash around with her. She was just asking to be robbed.
She went to a car rental agency and, using her false passport and driving licence, hired a Ford.
Elspeth stood in front of the factory the morning after her evening with Hamish, interviewing members of the staff. Many were in tears. All they could think about was the fact that the business would be closed down and they would lose their jobs.
The best interview was with Freda Crichton. Her fashion show had been cancelled. Elspeth and her cameraman and crew followed Freda into her studio and filmed her designs.
“How could this happen to me?” wailed Freda when the interview was over. “Our wages haven’t been paid. They’re all in the safe. I feel like breaking into it.”
She walked with Elspeth out of the factory and stood blinking in the sunlight. “It seems worse in sunny weather,” said Freda. “It ought to be black and stormy.”
After she had said goodbye to Freda, her cameraman asked, “What next?”
“Down to the Black Isle and interview Heather’s brother,” said Elspeth.
As they drove out of Cnothan and headed south, Elspeth took out her phone and called Hamish.
“It’s been a miserable morning,” she said. “Those poor souls at the factory haven’t even been paid their wages. The money’s all locked up in the safe.”
There was a long silence from Hamish’s end of the phone.
“H
amish? Are you still there?”
“Do you know if the late Brenda had keys to the factory and knew the combination to the safe?” asked Hamish.
“I never thought to ask. Why? Heather wouldn’t dare to come back.”
“Why not?” asked Hamish. “She’ll maybe think Cnothan would be the last place anyone would be looking for her and she’ll need money.”
“It’s a long shot.”
“I’m going to bed down in that factory and wait and see,” said Hamish.
Elspeth said goodbye and rang off. Then she turned to the cameraman who was driving. “Turn around,” she ordered. “We’re going back.”
Hamish phoned Jimmy and outlined his theory. “It’s a long shot,” said Jimmy. “But if you want to kip in the factory, it’s up to you. I can’t see Daviot giving permission.”
“Then don’t tell anyone,” said Hamish. “Who will inherit Heather’s money?”
“Nobody. She got it through crime.”
“So who inherits Brenda’s money? Did she leave a will?”
“Yes, and it’s probably what got her killed. She left the lot to her brother, Luke Camford. I’d keep watch with you, Hamish, but to be honest, I think it’s a daft idea and there’s miles of paperwork to do.”
“I’ll take Dick.”
“Good luck with that one. How will you keep him awake?”
“Do one thing for me,” said Hamish. “Get me the code for the burglar alarm and the safe.”
Dick accepted Hamish’s plan placidly. Like Jimmy, he thought it was a mad idea, but it meant, with any luck, he could just sleep the night away.
Joan Friend, the publicist, phoned Hamish in the afternoon, to say that police had removed all documents from the factory.
“What about the staff’s money?” asked Hamish anxiously.
“They’ll leave that for the receivers. The staff are planning a protest tomorrow. It’s ridiculous. We all need to be paid.”
“When were you last paid?” asked Hamish.
“Last month. We’re paid monthly.”
“But doesn’t the money get paid straight into your bank accounts?”
