Death of a Liar

by M C Beaton

  “How long have you been on the job?” asked Hamish, covertly admiring Christine’s very long legs, displayed to advantage in a pair of tight jeans.

  “Only a few weeks. I was in Glasgow when I got the offer of the job. Evidently Strathbane is famous for sloppy forensic work, and I’m not surprised. The fridges, which should contain samples, were full of beer. They’re all part of the Strathbane rugby team, and that seems more important to them than any research. Then it’s difficult being a woman. They’ve played a few nasty tricks on me.”

  “And how do you cope with that?” asked Hamish curiously. “Report them for sexual harassment?”

  “No, I just beat them up.”

  “What!”

  “I’ve a black belt in karate. It comes in handy.”

  “And to think I was just beginning to fancy her,” mourned Jimmy as they drove south to Strathbane. “The minute she said that about beating them up, I could feel my willie shrinking to the size—”

  “Spare us,” said Hamish.

  “I thought she was a right bonnie lassie,” said Dick.

  “Ask her out,” urged Hamish, who was always hoping that Dick would marry and leave the police station. He felt that Dick’s housewifely presence put off any women. Not, he reflected sadly, that he had been very clever in that department. He had cancelled his engagement to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the colonel who ran the Tommel Castle Hotel, because of her sexual coldness, although he could not shake off a recurring dream of a warm and passionate Priscilla. Then there was Elspeth Grant, once a local reporter, now a well-known television presenter. He had been engaged to her but had broken that off because he thought she was two-timing him. And by the time he realised his mistake, Elspeth was no longer interested.

  At police headquarters in Strathbane, Jimmy ordered all the material from Liz’s cottage to be brought to them in an interview room, because, as he said, if they had it all out in the detectives’ room, Blair would shove his face in.

  While Hamish switched on Liz’s computer, Dick and Jimmy began to sift through the papers. “Have her nearest and dearest been informed?” he asked. “That is, if she’s got any.”

  “She has a sister and a brother in Perth and they’re on their way to the procurator fiscal,” said Jimmy. “Then there’s a cousin. Very quick check of their whereabouts on the night of the murder and they were all in Perth. The brother, Donald Bentley, is a Wee Free minister, the sister, Mrs. Josie Dunbar, is a pillar of the community, and the cousin is a garage mechanic who was drinking late last night and hadn’t the time to get up there.”

  “She didn’t use the computer much,” said Hamish. “No e-mails.”

  “I’m amazed anyone can get on the Internet up there,” said Jimmy. “No mobile phone.”

  “Wait a bit!” cried Dick. “You’ll never believe what she had in the bank.”

  “So go on. Tell us,” said Jimmy.

  “She had about half a million.”

  “Maybe the family’s rich,” said Jimmy.

  “Maybe worth killing for,” said Hamish. “Who inherits?”

  “There’s her will in this tin box along with instructions for her funeral,” said Dick. “Her brother, the minister, gets the money and the house.”

  “He’s identifying the body,” said Jimmy.

  “She wrote a lot of letters to the hospital in Strathbane, threatening them all with malpractice,” said Hamish. “No letters to sweethearts. No letters to friends.”

  A policewoman put her head round the door. “The dead woman’s relatives are here,” she said. “I’ve put them in interview room number two.”

  “Right,” said Jimmy. “You come with me, Hamish, and Dick, you keep going through this stuff.”

  The minister, Donald Bentley, did not look as if he were a minister of the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland, or Wee Free, as the church is usually known. It is a strict religion, but the reverend was small and neat and beautifully tailored, with small features, pale-grey eyes, and patent-leather hair. He had a heavy gold watch on one wrist.

  His sister, Mrs. Josie Dunbar, was round and plump with small eyes almost hidden in creases of fat. Her face was partly shadowed by a large brown velvet hat like a mushroom. Hamish scanned a sheaf of notes which Jimmy had handed to him. Josie was a widow.

  “This is a sad business,” intoned the minister. His voice was deep and plummy.

  Hamish thought that an odd description of a murder.

  “She brought it on herself,” said Josie.

  “How is that?” asked Hamish.

  She folded her lips. “I would rather not say.”

  “For goodness’ sakes,” said Hamish, exasperated. “Your sister has been cruelly murdered and we need to know as much about her as possible to track down her killer.”

  “She was a sinner,” intoned the minister.

  “How?” barked Jimmy.

  “She led a licentious life.”

  Jimmy sighed. “Mr. Bentley, your sister was a virgin. Her life couldn’t have been all that wicked.”

  “I had to banish her from my church. She made Mr. Garse’s life a hell on earth.”

  “Who is Mr. Garse?”

  “Our chanter.”

  “They don’t have musical accompaniment,” explained Hamish to Jimmy. “A man simply strikes a tuning fork on the pew to start a hymn.”

  “So how did she make this man’s life hell?” asked Jimmy.

  “She threw herself at him. She waited outside his house to accost him. She sent him presents.”

  “We’d better have a talk with this Mr. Garse. Write down his name and address and phone number.” Jimmy pushed a pad towards Donald.

  While the minister was writing, Jimmy turned to Josie Dunbar. “Did your sister confide in you? Did she say she was frightened of someone?”

  “Liz was mad,” said Josie. “Even as a wee lassie, she was always fantasising. And she was man-daft.”

  “It’s amazing then that she managed to remain a virgin,” commented Hamish.

  To Hamish’s amazement, Josie threw him a roguish look and said, “She wasnae ever attractive like me. The fellows didn’t want it even when she handed it to them on a plate.”

  Liz was not the only fantasist in the family, reflected Hamish sourly.

  The questioning went on, but did not lead them to a single clue.

  When the couple had left, Jimmy said, “You’d better get back up to Cromish and see if you can dig anything up, Hamish.”

  “I’d be better off to Perth,” protested Hamish.

  “I’ll get the Perth police onto things. Off you go, and take Dick with you.”

  “Let me know if you find out anything about the Leighs,” said Hamish. “I mean, Liz was tortured and Frank Leigh was tortured.”

  “The two cases can’t be connected,” said Jimmy. “Off you go.”

  The village of Cromish was in darkness when Hamish and Dick arrived, the sun having gone down at three in the afternoon. “Where do we start?” complained Hamish. “The police must already have questioned everyone in the village.” He let his dog and cat out of the Land Rover.

  “We could try the village shop,” suggested Dick, “and maybe get something to eat.”

  “I’m not really hungry,” protested Hamish.

  “But your beasties could do wi’ a bite,” said Dick. “Folk might be mair willing to talk if we were buying stuff.”

  “Meaning, it’s you that’s hungry again,” said Hamish. “All right. Let’s go.”

  While Dick searched the shelves, Hamish approached the counter. Behind it stood a stocky grey-haired woman wearing a flowered overall. “No’ the polis again,” she complained.

  “That’s us,” said Hamish cheerfully. “You must all have been talking about the murder, and I wondered if any of you had any ideas.”

  “Well, it wouldnae be any of us,” she said. “We’re a’ decent God-fearing folk here. That poor woman told that many lies. But no one saw any stranger around
.”

  Dick approached the counter with a laden basket. “I see you’ve got a grand bit o’ ham there,” he said. “I’ll take half a pound. And would you have a bit o’ fresh fish for the cat?”

  A smile lit up her face. “You’re an odd pair o’ polis. I can let you have a mackerel.”

  “That’ll do fine,” said Dick. “Any incomers we might not have met?”

  “There’s only Anka. A Pole. She works for me. Anka’s a right fine baker, and her baps are the talk o’ the Highlands.”

  “What’s she doing up in a remote place like this?” asked Hamish.

  She wiped her hand on her apron and held it out. “I’m Sadie Mackay.”

  “Hamish Macbeth, and this here is Dick Fraser.”

  “Aye, well, Anka was on a hiking holiday and she ended up here. There’s no’ that much money to be made in a wee shop like this, although we do have the post office as well. Anka said she was a baker in her father’s shop in Warsaw. She said she would bake some stuff for me and sure enough, folk started to come in from all over. She said she was tired o’ hiking and took a cottage here, rented it from Joe the fisherman.”

  “Wait a bit,” said Hamish, his hazel eyes sharpening. “You say folk come from all over and yet you say there have been no strangers in the village.”

  “They come during the day. Liz was killed in the night.”

  “Any baps left?” asked Dick, who was addicted to those Scottish breakfast rolls.

  “Sold out.”

  “I would like to talk to this Anka,” said Hamish. “Is she in the shop?”

  “No. She comes in every morning at six o’clock to start baking. But if you turn left, three houses along, you’ll find Anka.”

  Dick paid for the groceries and took them out to the Land Rover. “I’ll just get the stove out and brew up some tea,” he said.

  “No, I want to see this Polish woman. Don’t make a face like that. Feed Sonsie and Lugs and I’ll go myself.”

  Hamish found Anka’s cottage, but there was no answer to his knock. He pushed a note through the door saying he was parked on the waterfront and would like to speak to her.

  Chapter Three

  Fair tresses man’s imperial race insnare,

  And beauty draws us with a single hair.

  —Alexander Pope

  Hamish returned to find that Dick had forgotten the stove and had lit a fire of driftwood. “Kettle will boil soon,” he said. “I’ve made some ham sandwiches.”

  “What are you going to do with all the other stuff?” asked Hamish.

  “I like to keep emergency rations in the car,” said Dick. “We might be stuck up here for a bit.”

  “I left a note for this Anka,” said Hamish. “If she doesn’t turn up after we’ve eaten, I’ll go and bang on a few doors.”

  Hamish, Dick, and the dog and cat gathered round the fire, Hamish and Dick sitting on canvas chairs. It was cold and clear with bright stars burning overhead.

  Glassy waves curled and crashed on the beach. It was hard to believe that a vicious murder had taken place in such a quiet setting.

  They were just finishing their meal when they were bathed in a greenish light. “Look at that!” cried Dick. The aurora borealis, the northern lights, swirled overhead, like some beautiful sky ballet.

  “I never get tired of the sight,” said Hamish dreamily.

  He lay back and stared upwards.

  “Did you want to speak to me, Officer?”

  Hamish jerked upright as a vision walked into the firelight. “I’m Anka,” said the vision.

  Hamish had often made jokes about the women in detective stories with high cheekbones, auburn hair, and green eyes, but this was exactly what he found himself looking at.

  He stumbled to his feet. The fire blazed and crackled; the green lights danced and swirled overhead. He was never to forget the enchantment of this first sight of Anka Bajorak.

  “I did want to ask you some questions,” he said.

  “Then we’ll go to my cottage.” She turned away, and Hamish followed.

  Dick watched them go with a sour expression on his face. His one fear was that Hamish would get married and that he would have to leave the police station which he regarded as his little palace.

  Anka led the way into a small kitchen-cum-living-room. She bent down and put a match to the fire, which had been laid ready to light. She was wearing narrow jeans, showing long legs ending in low-heeled ankle boots. Anka took off the scarlet puffa jacket she had on and slung it over the back of a chair.

  Hamish tried hard not to stare. Her blue cashmere sweater showed small, high breasts.

  Anka took down a bottle of whisky and two glasses. She poured a small tot of Scotch into each glass and handed one to Hamish. Hamish felt he should say he did not drink on duty, but, then, who would know?

  She indicated he should sit down at the kitchen table. Hamish raised his glass. “Slainte,” he said.

  She sat down opposite him and asked, “What is it you want to know?”

  Her voice had only a slight accent. The truth is, thought Hamish, I want to know if there is a man in your life. But he said, “What was your impression of Liz?”

  “I was very angry with her. She told me her great-grandparents were Polish and were killed during the Warsaw Uprising in World War Two. She said she loved my baking but was so short of money. I gave her a big parcel of cakes and rolls as a present and began to ask her about Poland. I quickly realised that she was lying. Then someone told me she was quite wealthy. Then there was that business when she claimed to have cancer. Such a liar. I avoided her after that.”

  “I gather from Mrs. Mackay,” said Hamish, “that your baking is so famous, people come from all over to buy stuff. That must bring strangers into the village.”

  “Yes, but no one strange, if you know what I mean. You know what it’s like in the Highlands, everyone knows everyone else. I had some trouble with the men, so Mrs. Mackay told me to stay out of sight and she began to tell visitors that she bakes everything herself.”

  “Do you know the villagers very well?” asked Hamish. “How long have you been here?”

  “I’ve been here six months. And, yes, it is such a small place, I do know everyone.”

  “Did you ever hear anyone threatening Liz Bentley?”

  “There was a lot of fuss when they found she had tricked them over the cancer business. Someone broke her windows.”

  “The highlander can be vengeful if he thinks he has been made a fool of,” said Hamish.

  “But I gather she tricked them two years ago. Surely someone would have retaliated then.”

  “Not necessarily. Up here, they take their time. Here is my card. If you think of anything, could you phone me?”

  “Of course. More whisky?”

  Hamish hesitated only a moment. He wanted to stay in her company as long as possible. “Just a small one.”

  “So what drove you into being a policeman?” she asked.

  Hamish looked puzzled. “It’s a good job. I get the station and a bit of land up the back for my sheep. I love Lochdubh.”

  “But didn’t something happen to you in the past that made you want to catch villains?”

  Hamish laughed. “Do you mean, do I have a sinister dark side? No, I am just a lazy copper who loves his life most of the time.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No. What about you?”

  “I was. I’m divorced now. He turned out to be a drunk and a wife beater. As soon as I got my freedom, I left Poland and went on my travels. I worked in hotels in London for a while and saved money and decided to see more of Britain. I’ll maybe go back to Poland soon. Have you any ideas at all about this murder?”

  Hamish felt he should be discreet. After all, everyone in the village must be considered a suspect. But as he looked into her green eyes, all he wanted to do was prolong the visit as long as possible. So he told her about Liz having been tortured and about the Leighs and about Liz’s
phone call and how he did not go immediately because he thought she had been lying.

  “The way I see it,” he said, “is someone tortured her for some reason, maybe to get information out of her. The burns weren’t fresh, so they happened maybe a few days before she was shot. That was when she went to Dr. Williams claiming they were caused by oil spatter.”

  “So why didn’t she phone for help then?” asked Anka.

  “Maybe she was too frightened.”

  Anka gave a shiver. “I’ve suddenly realised just how awful it all is. The murderer could be right here. What if it is someone mad who will murder again?”

  “I don’t think so. I’d better go back and take a look at the garden and see if there is any sign that someone drove up to the back of the cottage.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Anka, reaching for her jacket.

  Hamish’s conscience told him that he should not be taking a civilian with him, but he told his conscience to get lost.

  He and Anka ducked under the police tape and made their way round the side of the house to the back. A dark figure was crouched in the garden. Hamish shone his torch and shouted, “Police!”

  In the light, he recognised the forensic expert Christine Dalray.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Hamish.

  “Going over everything again,” she said. “I wanted to check out how he got into the cottage with nobody seeing him.”

  “It was the middle o’ the night, after all,” said Hamish. “But that’s why I am here. Any tyre tracks?”

  “The heather at the back is so springy, it wouldn’t hold anything. There are footprints in the garden but they’re not much use because whoever it was wore something over their footwear like our forensic boots.”

  “Just the one person?”

  “Maybe more. Who is this?”

  “This is a local, Anka. I was questioning her about the villagers.”

  “Might I have a word with you in private, Hamish?”