by M C Beaton
After typing in a password, he typed in the name Bella Wilson. He stared at the screen. Bella Wilson of Donnel Street, Inverness, had been charged, aged thirteen, at the juvenile court, with bullying one Aileen Hendry by repeatedly punching and kicking her. At age eighteen, she had been charged with hitting one Henry Cathcart on the head with a poker. Hamish leaned back in his chair and scowled horribly. Sean was gone and Bella was in charge of the joint account. Where was Sean?
THREE
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me lie laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
—William Shakespeare
The next day, Hamish went up to talk to Bella. He heard her singing in the kitchen as he approached the front door. He knocked, and while he waited for her to answer, he turned and looked around. There was no garden, just sheep-cropped turf and old rusting machinery. But over by the wall was a freshly dug patch of earth.
Bella opened the door. Her hair was newly blonded and she looked fresh and pretty. “Have you found him?” she asked.
“Not yet. Can I come in?”
“All right.” She stood back reluctantly.
Hamish walked into the kitchen and took off his cap. “Sit down, Bella,” he said.
“What’s this all about?”
“It iss about your police record,” said Hamish, his accent becoming more sibilant with worry.
“That was a long time ago,” she said defiantly. “And on both occasions I was provoked.”
Hamish took a deep breath. “Have you been battering your husband?”
“What!” she shrieked. “A wee thing like me wi’ a big man like that!”
“It does happen.”
“No, I told you the truth. He’s the bully.”
“There’s a freshly dug patch in the ground outside. Who dug it?”
“Me. I was going to put in some flowers.”
“So you won’t mind if I take a spade and have a look.”
Bella’s face hardened. “You’ll need a search warrant.”
“Oh, I’ll get one. But in order to get one, I’ll need to report your criminal record, and it won’t just be me but the top brass from Strathbane who’ll question you, and a forensic team will be going over your house.”
“Oh, dig it up, then,” she snarled. “The spade’s by the kitchen door.”
Hamish went to the door and seized the spade. He went out into the bright sunlight. He began to dig in the freshly turned earth. Only about two feet below the surface, he uncovered a dead collie. He picked out the body and laid it on the turf. It had died recently—been killed, for its head had been smashed in. He sat back on his heels, feeling sick.
He turned his head. Bella was standing by the kitchen door. “You did this,” he said flatly.
“Sean did it,” she said. “I didn’t want you to know.”
Hamish rose and went to the Land Rover, called Strathbane, and spoke rapidly. Then he returned and stood guard over the dead dog. “You interfering bastard,” hissed Bella, her face now ugly with rage. “I tell you, he walked out and said he wasn’t coming back.”
“You will be asked by police from Strathbane, who will be here soon, to go with them to police headquarters for questioning.”
“I thought you were the policeman here,” she jeered.
“Not when it iss a question o’ murder,” said Hamish quietly.
After Bella had been taken away, he returned to the police station to type out his report. Then once he had finished, he leant back in his chair. What if Sean had really run off because he was frightened of her? He would need money. Hamish put on his cap and went out and walked along to the bank and asked to see the manager, Mr. MacCallum.
“It’s about Sean Comyn,” said Hamish. “He’s gone missing, feared dead. But has he drawn out any money recently?”
“I should not be discussing a customer’s account. That’s confidential.”
“A possible murder does not keep anything confidential.”
“I suppose if I don’t help you, you’ll get a warrant.” The bank manager switched on the computer on his desk. Hamish waited patiently while he typed through various codes. “Ah, here we are,” said Mr. MacCallum. “Sean Comyn made out a cheque to Queen and Barrie, estate agents in Strathbane.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Anything else?”
“Two hundred pounds out of a cash machine in Strathbane the same day.”
“Well, it looks as if the man is still alive, thank God.”
Hamish went back to the police station and dialled the estate agents. He explained the police were trying to contact a Sean Comyn.
“We rented him a cottage. He wanted somewhere cheap. We got him a place in Stoyre.”
“Address?”
“Number six, the waterfront.”
“Thanks.” Stoyre again, thought Hamish as he drove off, leaving behind a sulky Lugs.
When he descended into the huddle of houses which made up the tiny village of Stoyre, he was relieved to see people moving about and men working at the nets. Elspeth and her fears! He parked outside the pub and walked along the waterfront to number 6. It had been a fisherman’s cottage and had a run-down appearance, unlike its neighbours. He knocked on the door.
To his relief, Sean Comyn himself answered it. He was unshaven and red-eyed.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Bella?”
“A word with you. Let me in.”
Sean led him into a front room. It was dark and sparsely furnished with a few shabby chairs and a sofa. “Before we start,” said Hamish, taking out his mobile phone, “I’ll phone police headquarters and say you’ve been found.”
Sean tried to say something but Hamish held up a hand for silence. “In a minute,” he said. He reported to Jimmy Anderson that Sean had been found. “If she’s been beating him,” said Jimmy, “will he press charges?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Hamish rang off and turned to Sean. “Before I begin, I want you to take this phone and call your bank manager and freeze your account or, if I’m not mistaken, she’ll clean you out.”
Sean took the phone from him. He did not ask questions or protest, simply phoned the bank and did what Hamish had suggested. Then he handed the phone back and sat with his hands between his legs, slumped forward.
“Now,” said Hamish gently, “she’d been beating you, hadn’t she?”
There was a long silence and then Sean said wearily, “How was I to know? She seemed so pretty, so fragile, like a wee bird. It started soon after we were married. She’d get this blank look in the eyes and then start hitting me with anything that was handy. The other day, I said I wasn’t taking any more, I was leaving her. She laughed in my face. And then still looking at me, she punched herself in the eye—hard. “I’ll say you did that,” she said.”
“You’ll need to file charges.”
“I cannae do that, Hamish. I’d be the laughing stock o’ the Highlands.”
“She killed one o’ your collies.” Hamish told him about the grave.
He turned a muddy colour but said, “I can’t let folks know she was beating me.”
“They’ll know soon enough. Police and forensic have been crawling over your croft house looking for your dead body.”
“But if it goes to court, it’ll be in all the papers. I cannae do it.”
Hamish sighed and looked around. “Who owns this place?”
“Some couple. They rent it out to summer visitors. They havenae been able to rent it for a while.”
“Do you have a phone?”
“Over there. It’s a coin box phone. Everything’s got a coin box—the gas and the electric.”
“You can’t go on living here. Think of your beasts. It’s hot weather and Bella’s more likely to take a hammer to them than give them water.”
He shuddered. “Give me a bit o’ peace,
Hamish, till I get my courage back. But I’m not pressing charges.”
Hamish took a note of his phone number. “I’ll be back,” he said.
Once outside, Hamish walked back to the Land Rover and phoned Jimmy again. “So far, he won’t press charges.”
“Well, the RSPCA will,” said Jimmy, meaning the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. “We found a bloodied hammer. Haven’t got a report back yet on where the blood came from, but it’s got her fingerprints on it, and if Sean’s alive, then it stands to reason it’s the dog’s blood. And Sean will pay her fine and be stuck in Stoyre until his croft rots.”
“Where is she now?” asked Hamish.
“Johnny Peters is driving her home.”
“Good luck to him. I’ll go and see her.”
Once more to Lochdubh to file another report and out to Sean’s croft. As he approached the door, he knew instinctively that there was no one at home. He tried the door.
Locked. Maybe she wasn’t back yet. And yet he had taken his time over the report.
He got back in the Land Rover and drove down into Lochdubh and stopped outside Patel’s grocery store. A daily bus would have left for Inverness half an hour ago.
He went into the shop and asked Mr. Patel, “Did anyone see if Bella Comyn left on the bus?”
Nessie Currie appeared behind him, her eyes gleaming behind thick glasses. “The poor wee thing left on the bus; with two big suitcases. A policeman drove her to Lochdubh. What’s been happening?”
Hamish didn’t answer. He went back to the police station and phoned Jimmy.
“Bella Comyn left for Inverness on the bus. Johnny Peters drove her there. What was he on about?”
“I’ll see if he’s back yet and ring you.”
Hamish took Lugs out for a walk and then fed the dog. He was just wondering whether to ring Jimmy again when the phone rang. It was Jimmy.
“Peters didn’t know anything about why she was at police headquarters,” he said. “He’d just come on duty and was simply told to take her back to Lochdubh. She spun him a story that she had gone to report her husband missing and that she was so upset, she wanted to stay with relatives in Inverness. She packed in a short time and he drove her to Lochdubh. She’d called the bank and whatever she heard upset her.”
“I told Sean to tell the bank to freeze the account. It was a joint account.”
“Anyway, she got on the bus and off she went.”
“You’d best phone Inverness police. We’ll get her for the dog if nothing else.”
“Will do.”
“Thank God she couldnae drive or she’d have taken Sean’s car as well. I’ll get over to Stoyre and give him a lift home.”
“Why Stoyre?” asked Harnish as he drove the crofter towards Lochdubh.
“It was the cheapest rent I could find,” said Sean. “I only took it for a month—holiday let.”
“Have you any idea where Bella might have gone?”
“She’s an only child and her mother and father are dead.”
“What about relatives at your wedding?”
“There weren’t any. We were married in the register office and two of my cousins acted as witnesses.”
“Any friends?” Hamish wondered whether to ask about the man in Inverness that Bella had said she ought to have married but decided against it.
“Not that I know of.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd?”
“No, I thought she just wanted to be with me. I couldnae get over the fact that someone so young and pretty could fancy me.”
“I hope you’re over her, Sean. And if she comes back, you’re to phone me immediately.”
“I’ll do that. She shouldnae have killed my dog. Which one?”
“Don’t know.”
“Probably Bob,” he said gloomily. “Always was a friendly dog. Now, Queenie, the other, was mortal scared of her.”
As they approached Sean’s croft, Sean said, “It’s odd. Things’ll be the same as they were afore I married her. But not the same, if you know what I mean. I’ll aye be frightened I’ll turn round and see her standing there.”
“She’s wanted on a charge for killing the dog—cruelty. She’s made a run for it. I doubt if she’ll be back. Get yourself a lawyer and get a divorce.”
Hamish parked the Land Rover and Sean climbed stiffly down and then heaved his suitcase out of the back. “Thanks, Hamish.”
“I’d best come in with you,” said Hamish. “See if she’s taken anything she shouldn’t have.”
Sean unlocked the door. Hamish waited in the kitchen while Sean looked around the place. “Nothing taken but her clothes and things,” he said. He went to the door and gave a shrill whistle. A collie came bounding up to him. “This is Queenie,” he said, fondling the animal’s coat. “I’ll be all right now, Hamish.”
“Don’t keep the truth of the matter to yourself, Sean. She’s put it about that you were the one who was bullying her. There’s no shame in it. Folks wouldn’t expect you to hit back at a lassie.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Hamish went back to the police station and phoned Jimmy Anderson. “Any news?”
“Not a sight of her,” said Jimmy. “Police were waiting at Inverness station but she never got off the bus. The driver said she got off at Dingwall. No record of her having taken another bus or even the train from Dingwall. She’s gone to ground somewhere.”
“Are the police at Dingwall checking the taxi services?”
“Nobody’s checking anything any more, Hamish.”
“Why?”
“Blair says it’s a waste o’ manpower looking for a lassie who killed a dog. He instructed us all to have nothing more to do with it.”
“Doesn’t the silly cheil know she might kill a man or woman the next time?”
“He doesn’t care.”
“While you’re on the phone, have you heard any reports of anything going on in Stoyre?”
“Where’s Stoyre?”
“It’s a wee village up on the coast.”
“That’s your beat. No, I haven’t heard anything.”
Hamish thanked him and rang off. Then he phoned Mrs. Wellington and told her the truth about Sean’s marriage. At first she wouldn’t believe him until he told her about the death of the dog. “A woman who would do that is capable of anything,” said Mrs. Wellington.
Hamish then phoned Angela Brodie with the same information and then asked, “There’s a new family in Lochdubh called Bain. Where’s their house?”
“Up the back. The one that belonged to the dustman’s wife, Martha Macleod. Remember, she and your ex-policeman moved up to live in the Tommel Castle Hotel after they got married.”
Clarry, Hamish’s policeman when Hamish had last, briefly, been elevated to the rank of sergeant, had left the force to become a chef at the hotel.
“I’ll call on them tomorrow,” said Hamish.
“Why?”
“Just to be friendly, that’s all.”
But Hamish remembered that Elspeth in her psychic way had not trusted Bella. And Elspeth had said the Bains were frightened.
Hamish walked past Patel’s and up the lane at the back to the Bains’s cottage. He knocked on the door and it was answered by a small, thin woman. She had sallow skin and small black eyes, which regarded him warily.
“Mrs. Bain?”
“Yes, what’s happened? It’s not Mairie, is it? I sent her down to the shop.”
“No, it’s only a friendly call. I heard you had moved from Stoyre.”
“Yes, that’s right. We’re fine.” She made to close the door.
“I chust wanted a word with you,” said Hamish, not used to unfriendliness. “Is your man at home?”
“He’s asleep. He’s been out all night at the fishing.”
A small voice behind Hamish piped, “I got the milk, Ma.”
Hamish swung round. A little girl, about ten years old, stood there.
“Get
in the house this minute!” ordered her mother.
The girl slid past them and vanished into the cottage.
“And is everything all right with you?” pursued Hamish.
“Yes, yes. Fine. Now, if you don’t mind…”
“Was anything going on at Stoyre?”
She had been about to close the door but hesitated. “No, why?”
“There was a strange atmosphere when I was there.”
“Well, ye cannae be arresting an atmosphere,” and with that she closed the door firmly.
Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his fiery hair. He turned and walked back down to the waterfront and along to the harbour. Archie Maclean, a fisherman, was sitting on the wall outside his cottage, puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette.
“Grand morning, Archie,” said Hamish, sitting down next to him.
“Aye, it is that.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“I will be having a kip this afternoon. Herself is cleaning again.”
The sound of frantic activity sounded from the cottage behind them.
“I went up to see the Bains,” said Hamish.
“Aye, Harry Bain was out with us last night.”
“What’s he like?”
“Quiet wee man. Nothing much to say for himself. But a good worker.”
“He’s just moved here from Stoyre. Have you heard anything about Stoyre, Archie?”
“Nothing much except they seem to have a rare powerful preacher. The kirk is aye full.”
“If you get talking to Harry, see if you can find out anything.”
“I’ll do that. But why? You think something criminal’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling.”
Hamish went back to the police station after collecting the newspapers from Patel’s. Time to relax and forget about Bella and about Stoyre. He took a deck chair out to the garden and, with Lugs at his feet, settled down to read.
The phone rang in the police station. Hamish rustled a newspaper impatiently. Let the answering machine pick it up. The window to the police office was open. The answering machine clicked on. Blair’s voice broke the peace of the day. “Get yourself over to Stoyre. Major Jennings’s cottage has been blown up.”
“Where is the major?” asked Hamish as he and Jimmy stood with detectives and police officers surveying the burnt-out shell that had once been the major’s bungalow.
