by M C Beaton
The huge bar was crowded with a mixture of young people wearing what looked to Hamish like an assortment of jogging suits, and staid Scottish couples who had no doubt come because the entertainment was free and there was nothing much else in the way of entertainment in Strathbane.
He was getting tired of orange juice and switched to tomato juice.
There was a small stage in the bar. Various young men were setting up sound equipment and plugging in things and arranging loudspeakers.
At last Johnny Rankin and the Stotters came on. Johnny Rankin was an emaciated young man wearing black leather trousers covered in sequins and nothing else. The only female performer was Cheryl, who was wearing an old–fashioned black corset and black stockings, perhaps hoping to emulate Madonna, although there was something peculiarly sexless about her, but then, reflected Hamish, he had always thought there was something peculiarly sexless about Madonna.
The band swung into action, a hellish cacophony of sound. Cheryl shouted the lyrics and gyrated and twanged a large electric guitar, making up in energy what she so obviously lacked in talent. Strobe lights hurt Hamish’s eyes but he kept them fixed on Cheryl. At no time did she leave the stage. He suffered through the whole performance and then went out into the blessed quiet of the night, feeling low. There was no way Cheryl could have left the stage.
He drove back to Lochdubh, regretting that it was now too late to call on Priscilla – Priscilla who had a marvellous way of clarifying his thoughts. He resolved to see her the next day. The need to turn the evidence over to Strathbane was becoming pressing.
And then, as he was driving past the manse, he suddenly stopped abruptly a little beyond it and looked back up at the field. All the lights were on in the bus. He got out of the car and sprinted up towards the field.
He reached the bus and quietly leaned in through the door. Mr Wellington, the minister, was feverishly looking through the cupboards. Groceries and Seari’s clothes were lying tumbled on the floor.
Hamish stepped inside.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded.
Mr Wellington swung round, his face grey.
“I-I-I lent Sean a v-valuable book,” he stammered. “I was looking for it.”
“In the middle of the night?” demanded Hamish. “This iss breaking and entering.”
“I have a spare set of keys,” said Mr Wellington. “Sean left them at the manse in case he should ever lose his own.”
“Then it wass your job to turn them over to the police,” snapped Hamish, torn between anxiety and fear. “Do you know what I think? I think you either killed Sean yourself or you think your wife did it.”
The minister began to slowly replace everything in the cupboard without speaking.
“I will need to report this,” said Hamish heavily.
The minister sat down suddenly on a bench seat at the table and buried his face in his hands. Hamish sat on the bench opposite him. “Tell me what you know,” he said gently, “and I will see what I can do to help.”
“He was an evil man,” muttered the minister. “I thought when he was dead that everything would return to normal. But my wife is still a wreck.” He took his hands from his face and looked at Hamish and then gave an odd little sob like a tired child. “You may as well charge me and get it over with, Hamish. I killed him.”
Hamish felt deathly tired.
“How?” he asked.
“I took the sledgehammer and hit him.”
“Where?”
“Right here…in the bus.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, where did you strike him?”
The minister looked at him and then said slowly, “I waited until he had his back to me and then I brought the hammer down on the back of his head.”
Hamish felt a wave of relief. “Mr Wellington, you did not see the body or hear the pathologist’s report. The blow that killed him was the very first one and that was a blow to the forehead. Once he was down, the murderer kept on hitting until his head and face were wrecked.”
“Yes, yes, that was it,” said Mr Wellington eagerly. “I had forgotten.”
“Havers,” said Hamish. “You didn’t forget because you didn’t do it, but you thought your wife did. Why?”
The minister looked defiantly at Hamish and then seemed to collapse. “She was in his bus on the night of the murder,” he said.
“What!”
“It was right after the evening service. I saw her walk across. I followed her. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but she was crying when she came out. I seized her and demanded to know what was wrong. She became almost hysterical and refused to tell me. I took her indoors and went back. Sean laughed at me and said she had lost her faith as well and was pleading with him to hand it back, just like a book, he said. I tried to punch him, but he was so very strong. He simply picked me up and threw me out on to the grass, laughing his head off.”
“I told my wife what he had said and she agreed that was the case. I suggested we pray together and then she began to laugh at me in a terrible parody of Sean’s laughter and told me not to be such an old fool. Later that evening, I heard the back door slam and was sure she had gone back to him again. Perhaps Sean was in love with her. Mrs Wellington can be a very seductive woman, although she is not aware of it.”
Hamish thought of the large and tweedy Mrs Wellington and blinked.
“Your wife has not been honest with me,” he said. “Look, put all the stuff away, lock up and give me the keys. Get your wife out of bed.”
But by the time everything was put away, Hamish had decided to leave interviewing Mrs Wellington until the morning. He said he would call for her and take her along to the police station. If he interviewed her now, he would find it hard to get her alone without the minister. Although his loyalty to the three blackmailed women had been badly shaken, he still did not want to speak to her in front of her husband and so reveal to the minister that his wife was a thief.
Willie was asleep in his room by the time Hamish got home. He went to bed but did not undress. He lay on top of it, with Towser at his feet, worrying. Evidence was piling on evidence and he was keeping it all from Strathbane.
He fell into a heavy sleep at dawn and awoke at nine o’clock, all the worries pouring back into his brain. His one thought was to see Priscilla before he interviewed Mrs Wellington.
“You cannae go out like that,” said Willie reprovingly from the kitchen sink. “You’ve no’ shaved and you look as if you’ve slept in your clothes.”
“Haven’t time,” said Hamish. “Look after Towser for me.”
He drove up to the castle. Priscilla was in the office, working at the computer.
“Hamish! What has happened?” she cried. “You look awful.”
The door of the office opened and her father came in and bristled at the sight of Hamish.
“Shouldn’t you be about your duties, officer?” he barked. “I don’t want you coming in here and keeping my daughter from her work.”
“I’ve nearly finished,” said Priscilla. “Go away, Daddy.”
“Show a bit of respect for your father,” raged the colonel. “You used to be such a sweet child and you’ve changed since you came under the pernicious influence of this layabout.”
He stormed out.
“Rats,” said Priscilla, switching off the computer. “Now he’ll be in a foul mood all day. You smell awful, Hamish: Have you started smoking again?”
“No, I was at Mulkn’s bar last night, and there was enough smoke in there to make an old–fashioned London fog.”
“Of course, some normal people change their clothes from day to day,” said Priscilla sweetly. “You’d best come upstairs to my quarters, Hamish, or Daddy will be back to make trouble.”
She led him up to the top of the castle, where she had turned two servants’ rooms into a bedroom and sitting room for herself.
Hamish looked around appreciatively. The small room was bright with chintz and
flowers and the windows were open to let in the heavy, warm air blowing in off the Gulf Stream. He settled down and told her everything that had happened.
“You are in a mess,” commented Priscilla.
“Do you think I should tell Strathbane?”
“My common sense tells me you should tell them everything as quickly as possible, my emotions tell me to keep it all quiet for a bit longer. You’re going to have to start questioning everyone all over again. Do you remember when Sean was popular in the village? And then, when he was killed, no one had a good word to say for him? Look at it this way. I think he only directly affected the Curries, the Wellingtons, Cheryl and Angela. But sooner or later that odd sort of Highland telepathy in this village beamed in on the nastiness of the real Sean. Besides, they’re quite happy to tolerate some layabout on the dole. They don’t like it when the layabout seems to have money to throw around the place on gifts from this shop and meals at the Napoli. So if any man or woman had been up at that bus on the night of the murder as well as Mrs Wellington, who’s going to tell you? Your suspects are desperate to have the murder solved in the hope that their own activities might be covered up, but the villagers would protect one of their own, even if they suspected that person of murder. Mrs Wellington was at the bus. Maybe she saw someone else that evening.”
Hamish passed a weary hand over his unshaven face. “You’re right. I’d better go.”
“Wait and have some coffee and I’ll go and borrow an electric razor for you. You’ve got red bristles.”
When she handed him a mug of coffee, Hamish looked at the television set and video in the corner and then at the various remote controls on the table. “I thought you only needed one control,” he said, picking one of them up.
“We’ve got satellite TV now,” said Priscilla. “I’ll leave you to play with it while I get you that razor. Press 5 on this one and that’ll get you satellite TV and then press the various channels on this other one.”
Hamish idly switched through the channels, finally ending up with a music one. A thin girl was gyrating to a thudding beat. She was wearing a brief black leather bikini and thigh-length leather boots. “All I gotta say is, screw you, baby,” she sang.
“Is that supposed to be sexy?” Hamish asked Priscilla as she came in and handed him a razor.
“Not to you,” laughed Priscilla. “That’s Jonathan Carty.”
“Are you telling me that’s a bloke?”
“Yes, a transvestite.”
“But he’s got boobs!”
“Silicone injections, Hamish. The marvels of modern science.”
“Tcha.” He switched it off.
“Don’t worry, Hamish. The moral revolution’s coming. Reaction will set in and even mild womanizers like yourself will be regarded as evil beasts.”
“I am not the womanizer,” said Hamish. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Along the corridor and on your left. Have a bath while you’re at it. I left one of Daddy’s clean shirts on the chair in there for you.”
“He’ll kill you!”
“I really don’t take any notice of his rages any more,” said Priscilla. “If someone’s always raging about something or another, one ceases to listen.”
Hamish bathed and shaved and felt considerably better. He said goodbye to Priscilla and drove to the manse and collected Mrs Wellington despite protests from the minister. Instead of going to the police station, he drove up on the moors and parked off the road on a heathery track.
“Willie’s at the station,” he said, “and I’m still trying to protect you, but I don’t know how long I can go on doing it. I want the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Now, you were at the bus on the night of the murder. When exactly?”
“Nine o’clock,” she said in a dull voice.
“Why did you go?”
“I pleaded with him to give me that video. He asked for a thousand pounds. I began to cry. I begged him. I said I could not possibly get that amount of money and he…he laughed at me. I was only there for a few minutes. I realized it was hopeless, so I left. My husband grabbed me outside. He demanded to know what I had been saying, why I had been there, but I could not tell him. Then he returned to the manse later and said Sean had told him I was worried about losing my faith. For one wild moment I felt hope. Sean had not betrayed me. Perhaps he would relent. And then I realized that of course he would not tell my husband the truth while there was still hope of getting money out of me for his silence.”
“And you went back out again? Where? Back to the bus?”
Mrs Wellington hung her head. “I couldn’t go back. There were men there.”
“Men!” Hamish howled in exasperation. “What men?”
“Mr Ferrari from the restaurant and two others.”
“Good God, woman,” raged Hamish, “why did you not tell me this before?”
She raised her head and glared at him with something of her old manner and said distinctly, “Because if they killed him, I was not going to betray them for doing a service for mankind!”
Hamish forced himself to be calm with an effort. “So where did you go?”
“Down on the beach. I walked for a long time, a very long time. I thought of walking into the water and putting an end to the misery, but I could not even find the courage to do that.”
“Look,” said Hamish urgently, “Mr Wellington’s a Christian minister of the church. It is his duty to forgive. Why don’t you tell him?”
“No man is a Christian when it comes to his own wife,” she said. “I can’t.”
“You may have to,” warned Hamish. “I’d best see Mr Ferrari…and you had better start saying your prayers again.”
♦
Half an hour later, Hamish was sitting opposite Mr Ferrari in the flat above the restaurant. It always amazed him that a man who looked so Italian could have such a strong Scottish accent.
“Well, Mr Ferrari,” began Hamish, “I have it on good authority that yourself and two men were up at that bus on the night of the murder.” Mr Ferrari went as still as a lizard on a rock when a shadow crosses it. His old unblinking eyes surveyed Hamish from among the network of brown wrinkles on his face. “I guess the other two men were Luigi and Giovanni,” said Hamish.
“That is so,” said Mr Ferrari. He took a small black cheroot out of a box on a table next to him and lit it carefully.
“Why did you not tell me?” demanded Hamish.
“Because none of us committed murder, therefore the purpose of our visit was irrelevant,” said Mr Ferrari, blowing a perfect smoke ring in Hamish’s direction.
“Anything that happened on the night of the murder is relevant,” said Hamish. “Either tell me here or come to the station with me and make a statement.”
There was a long silence. Then Mr Ferrari said, “I have come to love this village. I am part of it. I am involved in the welfare of Lochdubh. Sean Gourlay in the eyes of the villagers had outstayed his welcome. It was evident to all that he was the reason for Mrs Wellington’s distress, although no one knew why. I took it upon myself to tell him to move on.”
“With threats?”
“Dinnae be daft,” he said, his accent broadening. “I told him if he stayed on I would see to it that the shops did not serve him.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“He said he would move.”
Hamish leaned back in his chair and momentarily closed his eyes. He was in no doubt that Mr Ferrari had threatened Sean with physical violence. Perhaps he had carried out that threat.
“I will type up a statement,” said Hamish, “and get you to sign it. I will also have to take statements from Luigi and Giovanni.”
Mr Ferrari carefully stubbed out his cheroot. He looked thoughtfully at Hamish from under heavy-lidded eyes. “I am not pleased that you are pursuing inquiries into the death of a piece of shit,” he said evenly. “I am not pleased with you at all, Sergeant.”
“Listen to me, Mr Ferrari,” said Hamish, s
tanding up, “this is not Italy. There are no headmen in this village, and I for one will not tolerate anyone who tries to achieve his ends with threats. You are not pleased with me! Just who the hell do you think you are?”
Hamish stalked back to the station and typed up the statement. He took it back and waited until Mr Ferrari signed it and then took statements from Luigi and Giovanni.
At five o’clock, Luigi and Giovanni called at the police station. With many smiles and deprecatory waves of the hands they said they had come to collect Mr Ferrari’s television set, which had been ‘on loan’.
“You must hae done something to make them mad,” said Willie after they had left, carrying the set between them. “Och, jist when I thought I might have a chance wi’ Lucia.”
“You’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell,” said Hamish with true Highland malice. “The only thing that’s likely to marry you, Willie Lament, is a vacuum cleaner.”
“Fat lot you know, sir,” said Willie. “Thon Lucia’s a real woman.” And he wrenched off his apron, dragged on his coat and went out and slammed the door.
Hamish slumped down in his favourite armchair, tossed his cap on the floor and stretched out his long legs. He thought of the Curries, of Angela Brodie, of Mrs Wellington and groaned. “Damn all women,” he said and closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.
He plunged straight into a dream in which he had just got married to Priscilla and they were on their honeymoon. They were in a hotel bedroom and Priscilla was undressing and he was staring in horror at her flat, muscled, hairy chest. “What’s the matter, Hamish?” laughed Priscilla. “Didn’t you know I was a man?”
He woke up sweating and stared sightlessly across the room, his heart pounding. What a nightmare! It must have been because of the awful day and because of that transvestite he had seen on television.
And then he sat up straight. When he had woken Cheryl yesterday morning, she had been groggy with sleep and she had been wearing a dirty old night-gown. How could she have fled from him on a scooter one minute and been in bed the next? The route the figure on the scooter had taken through the trees had been away from the direction of the campsite.
