by M C Beaton
“I am keeping quiet about this for the moment until we talk to her. That will be all. I will see you both here at nine in the morning.”
“How do you feel about her now?” Hamish asked Charlie.
“I don’t feel anything. In fact, it’s all like some sort of dream. Herself will be staying at the hotel. Maybe I should stay here.”
“Oh, you’ll be all right,” said Hamish. “She’s taken to calling you Carter and there was anything but lovelight in her eyes when she looked at you.”
When Charlie returned to the hotel, he asked the night porter if he had a key for the door at the top of the basement stairs.
“I’ll look in the office,” he said. He was only away a few minutes before coming back and handing Charlie an old-fashioned rusty key. He had a job turning the key to lock the door but at last succeeded.
Half an hour later, the night porter looked up from the sports page of the newspaper he was reading to find Fiona Herring in front of him. She held out an imperious hand. “I need the key to the basement,” she said. “The door is locked.”
“Mr. Carter locked it,” he said. “But there’s nothing down there but old rubbish apart from Mr. Carter’s wee flat. Can I get you anything?”
“No. I can wait until morning,” said Fiona harshly.
Charlie awoke very early the next morning to get down to the police station before Fiona. The night porter was about to go off duty. “Oh, Mr. Carter,” he said. “Thon inspector wanted the key to the basement last night, but I told her you had it.”
Charlie blushed red. “Oh, it’s nothing but work with that woman,” he said, and made his escape.
Hamish was up early as well and listened in dismay to Charlie’s news. “The trouble is,” said Charlie, “she might want to get her own back by saying I wasnae living in the station.”
“I think she’d be too frightened to do that,” said Hamish, putting a frying pan on the stove. “If she’s got her wits about her, she might be worried you’d bring a case of sexual harassment. Sit down. What we both need is a good breakfast.”
After a large fry-up of haggis, black pudding, eggs, and bacon, Charlie took a saucer and poured milk into it, and then salt into another.
“What the hell are you doing?” demanded Hamish.
“I’m putting this out for the fairies,” said Charlie stubbornly. “I’m going to ask them for another blizzard. That way, we cannae go up there and I’ll hae another day where I don’t have to look at her.”
“You’re daft.”
Charlie disappeared. When he came in, he tripped over the dog, clutched the kitchen table, and fell down in a rain of crockery.
“Och, get a dustpan and brush,” said Hamish, helping him to his feet. “You should have asked the wee folk to help you stop breaking up my home. Hurry up, man. It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
Charlie hurriedly cleaned up the mess and had just finished when Fiona walked in.
“Any sign of snow, ma’am?” asked Charlie.
“No. Make me a strong coffee, Macbeth, and then we’ll get off. You can both follow my car.”
They had just crossed the humpbacked bridge leading out of Lochdubh when a great gust of wind rocked the Land Rover and then the view ahead disappeared in a blinding snowstorm. Hamish gave a superstitious shiver and felt like crossing himself.
Fiona’s driver turned her car into the hotel car park. Her driver got out and rapped on the window of the Land Rover. “The inspector says we can do nothing today,” he said. “She will call you when the storm is over.”
“A reprieve,” said Charlie. “I’ll keep to the station all day.”
“I keep hoping Priscilla will be all right,” said Hamish. “I sent Lochy a photo of Harold so he knows what he looks like. I also told him what happened.”
While Harold was still stuck by his car, Priscilla had gone back to the hotel, packed her bags, taken a cab to Inverness airport, and caught a flight to London. She could not bring herself to face her parents with another broken engagement.
Upon her return, she switched on the television and settled down for a quiet evening. That whole episode with Harold seemed like a horrible dream. She switched on the news. She saw a report that an enormous blizzard had blanketed the north of Scotland and passengers had to be lifted off by helicopter from the Wick-to-Inverness train.
Harold stood outside on the pavement, swaying slightly, for he was very drunk. He wondered if Priscilla had changed the locks, for she had given him a set of keys. He thirsted for revenge. He walked into the entrance hall of the flats.
Priscilla had been so glad to be back in her flat that she had failed to either change the locks or to tell the porter to stop Harold from entering.
Harold nodded to the porter and made his way up the thickly carpeted stairs to Priscilla’s flat on the first floor.
The porter stared as a huge man like a heavyweight boxer strode into the hall.
“Here! Where are you going?” he demanded.
Lochy flashed a fake warrant card and growled, “Police.” He strode up and listened at the door. Silence. He took out the keys he had been given and quietly opened the door.
He heard movement from a room at the end of the corridor. He gently tried the door. It was locked. Oh, well, thought Lochy with a mental shrug. Here goes. He raised one metal-capped boot and kicked the door open. Harold was in the act of handcuffing Priscilla to the bed.
Harold swung round. Lochy gave him a savage uppercut and knocked him unconscious. Priscilla stared up at him, speechless with horror.
“There now,” said Lochy soothingly. “Let’s get you out of this. Charlie Carter told me to look after you, lassie.” He unfastened the handcuff and helped her to sit up. “Do you want to call the police?”
“Yes. No,” said Priscilla. “The newspapers. The scandal.”
“All right, miss. I’ll just handcuff this bastard. Right. Got anything to tie his feet?”
Priscilla climbed out of bed and staggered over to a drawer where she extracted a leather belt. “That’s the ticket,” said Lochy. “You’d better get the locks changed and a burglar alarm. Do you want me to get rid of this?”
“Don’t kill him,” said Priscilla through white lips.
“I’m no’ in the killing game. But I wouldnae mind a wee dram.”
“Of course,” said Priscilla weakly. “Come through to the sitting room.”
She led the way and Lochy lumbered after her. She poured a generous measure of Glenlivet into a glass and handed it to him, then poured one for herself.
“I feel so stupid,” she mourned. “I should have changed the locks. What happens now?”
“I’ll take him away somewhere and make sure it disnae happen again.”
There came thumps and yells from the bedroom. “Didnae hit him hard enough,” said Lochy. “Back in a minute.”
He went into the bedroom and took a roll of tape out of his pocket, sliced off a section, and pasted it across Harold’s mouth.
Then he returned to the sitting room and picked up his glass. “That should shut him up for a minute. Aye, it was Charlie and Hamish were right worried about ye and asked me to keep an eye on ye.”
“I must pay you something.”
“No, your pa did that.”
Priscilla began to cry. “I’m useless,” she said at last.
“We all make mistakes,” said Lochy sententiously. “Now, I’d better do my job and get him out of here.”
“Won’t the porter call the police?”
Lochy grinned. “He thinks I am the police.”
He went back to the bedroom and ripped the tape from Harold’s mouth. “I’ve got a gun,” said Lochy. “One peep out o’ you and you’re a dead man.” He unfastened the belt from round Harold’s ankles but kept the handcuffs on him.
Harold in all his bullying life had never known such terror. He allowed Lochy to march him past the porter without saying a word. Outside, Lochy shoved him into the passenger seat of his ca
r, got in himself, and drove off.
“Do you want money?” pleaded Harold.
“I want you to shut up. There’s brandy in the glove box if you need some Dutch courage.”
“I’m handcuffed.”
“Poor wee soul.” Lochy jerked the car to a halt. He fished out the flask of brandy, opened it, and held it to Harold’s lips. Harold took a great gulp, not knowing it was heavily drugged. In no time at all, he was fast asleep.
Lochy drove steadily northwards until he reached one of the less salubrious parts of Birmingham. He stopped his car, went round, and hauled Harold’s body out of the car, took off the handcuffs and dumped him on the pavement, and then drove off.
Harold awoke at dawn the next morning. He stumbled to his feet and looked wildly up and down the deserted street. He tried to find out the time but discovered his gold Rolex had gone. Terrified, he felt in his pockets. No wallet, no phone, no driving licence. Nothing.
He saw a sanitation truck coming down the street and stood in the road waving his hands for it to stop. He shouted that he had been mugged.
“You’ll find a police station round the next corner,” said the driver.
Harold thirsted for revenge. But outside the police station, he stopped in dismay. If he told them about Lochy, the man would be arrested, but the whole story of his own attempted rape would come out.
He squared his shoulders and walked in. He told the desk sergeant that he had been drinking in a pub in London when someone must have slipped him a mickey. The next thing he knew, he had woken up in a Birmingham street to find he had been mugged. It seemed to take ages to give a statement to a detective. Then a wait until the firm he worked for started for the day to confirm his identity and say they would send a car for him.
At last, having been told to take the day off, he returned to London to find his apartment had been burgled. He sat down amid the chaos and began to phone to cancel all his credit cards and phone the insurance company and the police.
Charlie was awakened during the night by a call from Lochy and listened in horror to his story of the attempted rape. Before Fiona arrived at the station, he told Hamish what Lochy had said.
“What’s up with her?” howled Hamish. “Why does she always pick losers?”
Charlie politely forbore from pointing out that Hamish himself had been one of the losers.
Fiona arrived. “The snow has stopped and I think we can make it,” she said briskly. “I don’t like all this havey-cavey stuff but we’ll need something concrete to take to Daviot.”
“All she had to do is deny it, ma’am,” said Hamish.
“We’ll interview her on her own and see if we can break her.”
“Fairies aren’t working today,” said Hamish as they followed Fiona’s car. The snow ploughs and gritters had done a good job. It was still dark because in winter in Sutherland the sun only crept over the horizon around ten in the morning.
“Don’t mock the wee people,” said Charlie.
They made their way slowly to the hunting lodge. A grey dawn was beginning to cover the sky as they moved up the now familiar drive. Juris answered the door and told them that the family were at breakfast.
“We wish to interview Mrs. Harrison,” said Fiona. “We will use the study.”
They seated themselves in the study and waited. Greta walked in, followed by her husband.
“We wish to speak to your wife alone,” said Fiona.
“This is an outrage,” spluttered Andrew. “I shall phone Mr. Daviot and—”
“Do that,” said Fiona, “and I will make sure the newspapers find out how you and your wife pass your time in Edinburgh.”
Andrew beat a hasty retreat. Hamish surveyed Greta. She was a big powerful woman with strong hands.
“Mrs. Harrison,” began Fiona. “You were odd woman out at that wife-swopping party. You could have left and driven up here to strangle Gloria Dainty.”
“Why on earth would I want to do that?”
“Perhaps you were afraid your father-in-law might change his will and leave everything to Miss Dainty.”
“I never even met the woman,” snapped Greta.
“When you left this Edinburgh party, where did you go?”
“I went back to the George Hotel and went to bed. I ordered room service. The staff will be able to vouch for me.”
“Why did you leave?”
Greta suddenly looked weary. “I don’t like the games Andrew likes to play. I find it all rather sad. But do check up on me by all means and if that’s all you’ve got, get the hell out of here.”
They looked at each other after she had left. “I’ve an awful feeling her alibi will check out,” said Fiona.
“What about the statements from the druggies?” suggested Hamish. “We could pull them in.”
“As you pointed out earlier, Mr. Daviot is so determined the case is closed,” said Fiona, “that he will simply insist that drug addicts will say anything. It’s a dead end. I’ve got time owing. I am going to Edinburgh for a break. A word in private with you, Carter. Wait outside, Macbeth.”
Hamish waited in the hall. Fiona came out after a few moments. Her colour was high. She did not speak to Hamish but went on through the hall, out into the snow, and slammed the door behind her.
“What happened?” asked Hamish when Charlie came out of the study.
“Just a private matter,” said Charlie. “Let’s go.”
Christmas came and went. The New Year dawned. Hamish and Charlie went about their duties. Only Charlie was happy. He and the colonel spent a great deal of time together. Hamish, however, felt the murders were unsolved. The fact that there might be a murderer out there, feeling safe and secure, kept coming back to haunt him. After Christmas, Andrew and his wife had gone back to London.
Then one fine day, he saw Juris and his wife coming out of Patel’s shop. “How is Mr. Harrison?” asked Hamish.
“Same as ever,” said Juris. “His son and daughter-in-law are coming up next weekend on a flying visit.”
“Is Mr. Harrison leaving you anything in his will?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, he says he is. But he tells everyone around he’s leaving them money. It’s to keep us all sweet. But the lawyer was round last week. I listened at the door. Andrew gets it all. I told the gamekeeper, Harry Mackay, and the shepherd, Tom Stirling. You should ha’ seen their faces. The old man had promised them the ownership of their cottages and a good sum when he died, because it’s no secret Andrew plans to sell the place off. Man. Harry was that furious, he said he felt like putting a bullet in the old man.”
“And what about you?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, me and Inga never believed him. I mean, it’s right typical of rich old people. They promise this one and that one to keep them all running around.”
Hamish uneasily watched them both go. He hoped Mr. Harrison’s promises would not turn out to be a sort of Russian roulette and someone might be tempted to help him to an early grave.
Chapter Ten
Life is one long process of getting tired.
—Samuel Butler
As a few weeks of rare fine weather continued, Hamish was almost able to put the murders out of his mind. He had dutifully called on Miss Whittaker and the accountant, Gerald Wither, to give an account of the closing of the case—an account he could not quite believe in.
He had a niggling worry to plague him which had nothing to do with the murders. He was walking his pets accompanied by Charlie when a pretty hitchhiker approached him and cried, “A wild cat! I never thought to be so close to one.”
“It iss not the wild cat,” said Hamish, his accent becoming stronger as it did when he was distressed or worried. “It is chust the large tabby.”
The girl was small, carrying a huge pack on her back. She had curly fair hair dyed with streaks of shocking pink and a cheeky face.
“Suit yourself,” she said. “But that’s a wild cat and it should be with its own kind. Unnatural to keep it as a p
et.”
She waved to him and walked on, leaving Hamish worried. He looked down at Sonsie. Would the cat really be better in the wild? And what would become of Lugs without his friend?
“What do you think?” he asked Charlie.
“Maybe she’s right,” said Charlie awkwardly. “I’m always afraid that one day someone’s going to take you to court and get the beast. We could take her ower to Ardnamurchan and let her loose. If she doesnae run away, well, that’s that. We’ll take her home. But maybe give her a chance o’ freedom.”
“Oh, leave her be,” said Hamish.
But the next day, something happened to change his mind. He had forgotten about Blair’s long campaign against him. The detective chief inspector’s wife, Mary, had been reading about the extension of the Ardnamurchan sanctuary. She showed Blair the article, saying, “Doesn’t that wild cat look like Hamish’s pet?”
Blair studied the article and his bloodshot eyes gleamed with malice. When his wife had left to meet friends, he found the e-mail address of the trust and informed them that one local policeman in Lochdubh was keeping a wild cat as a pet.
Fortunately for Hamish, a scientist and his assistant called at the hotel first for lunch and told the waiter that they were going to the local police station because there had been a report of a wild cat. The waiter told the manager, who phoned Hamish. Charlie took Sonsie off. Hamish ran to the vet and borrowed a large domestic tabby and sat down to wait.
The scientist and his assistant when they called were plainly disappointed. When they left, Hamish had a sudden intuition that Blair was behind it. He managed to get Mary on the phone when Blair was out and asked her if her husband had shown any interest in wild cats.
“Funny you should say that,” said Mary. “I was looking in the papers about the wild cat sanctuary and there was a photo and I said to him that it looked like your cat. He grabbed the paper and shot out the door.”
