by M C Beaton
Willie squawked in distress. “It’s not supposed to do that.”
Hamish seized the can from him. “You daft gowk. It says on the label, ‘Do not use on wood.’”
“It’s my eyes,” mourned Willie. “I hae the stigma.”
“Do you mean astigmatism?” asked Hamish.
“Something like that.”
“Well, do the other thing it says on the can. It says it removes everything, so remove yourself and bring us a couple of menus.”
“But I’ll need to take the table away to resurface it.”
“Willie!”
“All right. I’m going. Miss Halburton-Smythe is back. Will she be joining you?”
“No. Menus.”
“Who’s Miss Halburton-Smythe?” asked Christina.
“Just a friend.”
“But Willie had a malicious look on his face when he asked if she’d be joining us.”
“I was engaged to Priscilla at one time. I do not want to talk about it. Willie was being nasty because I wouldn’t let him take the table away. He’s passionate about cleaning.”
Willie came back and gave them two leather-bound menus.
“Will you be needing to use protection?” he asked Christine.
“What!”
Hamish leapt to his feet, his face scarlet. “How dare you!”
Willie backed off. “What did I say wrong? It was that telly star, Luke McBain, what was in here the other day. I says to him, I says, ‘Would you like an aperitif?’ and himself says, ‘It is not called an aperitif. It is called protection that we need to use against the damn cold up here.’ So I thought I was being unsofacated by calling it an aperitif.”
Christine began to laugh. “I thought you were selling condoms.”
“Oh, no,” said Willie earnestly. “But there’s a machine in the toilet.”
Hamish sank down in his chair. “Go away, Willie, and leave us in peace to study the menu.”
When Willie had left, Christine said, “I wondered why you had never married. I don’t think anyone in this village would give you a chance to court anyone. Are they all like that?”
“No, the rest are quite sane. Do you think that perhaps the Leighs were not married?”
“I doubt very much if their name even was Leigh. There’s no record of them anywhere under the names they were using. And is Dick Fraser still in Cromish?”
“Yes, choose something and let’s talk about it.”
They decided to have the same, starting with Parma ham and melon, followed by stuffed peppers. Christine suggested the house red as a choice of wine.
After Willie had taken their order, Christine looked out of the window. A wheelie bin was being blown along the waterfront, chased by one of the villagers.
“It’s quite a storm,” she said. “Do you believe in global warming?”
“I’ve not decided,” said Hamish. “There’s been awful weather before. I watched a documentary on the great storm of seventeen hundred and three. Thousands killed and a hurricane that lasted several days. That was followed by a mini ice age.”
“It’s grim up here in winter,” said Christine. “Don’t you ever get weary of it?”
“No, never,” said Hamish.
They ate and talked companionably, Hamish mourning the changed days of policing.
“I always seem to be fighting to keep my police station,” he said. “They think they could run it from Strathbane, but who would look after the old people in the winter and make sure they had enough fuel and food? That’s nearly as important as tracking down criminals.”
“Morale is pretty low in Strathbane,” said Christine. “Police are being encouraged to spy on each other. Harry Wilkins, one of the old coppers, was with a new chap and they pulled over a man for having a broken taillight. Now, normally, Harry would have told the man to drive to a garage in the morning and get it fixed, but the new chap is one of Blair’s creeps, so he had to tell the man his car was being impounded.”
“What a waste of police time,” mourned Hamish. “They look on me as a sort of dinosaur.”
Christine smiled at him and reached across the table and took his hand. “Not you, Hamish.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Neither had noticed Jimmy Anderson coming into the restaurant. Christine snatched her hand back.
Jimmy pulled up a chair. “Hey, Willie!” he shouted. “A double whisky.”
“Not if you’re driving,” called Willie.
“I’m staying the night at the police station, so hop to it.”
In an odd way, Hamish was glad of the interruption to what had seemed, moments ago, the beginning of a romantic evening. His thoughts flew to Anka. Lucky Dick to be up there where he could visit her.
“There have been big developments,” said Jimmy. “You can call Dick back.”
“I’ll do that. What’s new?”
“A full report from the Mounties in Toronto. Alex Brough skipped Canada before he could be charged with fraud. But there’s more. His real name is Peter Gaunt. His partners in crime were a Bert and Bessie Southern, real names of the Leighs, all of them English. They had conned five wealthy residents out of their life savings. The children and relatives of the ones who were cheated have all been checked, and not one of them has left Canada in the past year.”
“So what does Peter Gaunt have to say for himself?” asked Hamish.
“He’s disappeared. Somehow he must have got involved in something bigger than cheating his congregation or he would have run for it after the murder of the Southerns.”
“Unless he was the one who murdered them,” said Hamish. “Why were the police so slow at picking him up?”
“They were still going through the church’s books when this report from Canada arrived. They sent a squad to the church to find it empty.”
“They all must have been into something very big,” said Christine.
“Say some big gang had a heist and wanted it out of Canada,” suggested Hamish. “There’s Gaunt with a false passport and a way to get out of the country and over here. He and the Southerns split up and they take the loot. They disappear. Maybe they’ve told some villains that they are going to South America—anywhere but the wilds of Scotland.
“But some gang catches up with the Southerns and tortures them to try to find out where the goods are.”
“But what about Liz Bentley?” asked Christine.
“I’m slipping,” mourned Hamish. “I should have shown her photograph to members of the congregation. There was that ring hidden in her shed. Those rings were maybe a way of anyone involved to identify each other.”
“I’ll get Inverness police working on that in the morning,” said Jimmy, stifling a yawn.
The wind shrieked outside, and there was a crash as a loose piece of board struck the window outside.
“You can’t sleep at the police station tonight,” said Hamish. “Christine can’t drive back in a storm like this.”
“It’s all right,” said Christine. “I’ve got a sleeping bag in my car and the keys to the Leighs’ place. I still think of them as the Leighs. I can bed down there for the night.”
“Won’t do,” said Hamish. “There’s a sofa in the living room. Jimmy can sleep in the cell and you can take the sofa.”
“I’ll be okay,” said Christine. She knew there was still water and electricity in the old schoolhouse and she did not want Hamish to see her in her serviceable pyjamas and without her make-up on.
Despite Hamish’s protests, Christine insisted on staying at the schoolhouse.
Back at the police station, Hamish phoned Dick and told him the latest news.
“I should stay here,” protested Dick. “What about the Bentley murder?”
“Wait a minute.” Hamish turned to Jimmy. “Dick thinks he ought to stay up there and keep looking into Liz’s murder.”
“Oh, all right. Tell him to give it a few more days,” said Jimmy.
“You can stay on for a bit,” said Hamish
. He then told Dick about the report from the Mounties. “Liz must have known someone connected with the church or gone there herself,” said Hamish. “See what you can find out.”
“What was that about?” asked Anka when Dick had rung off. He told her and then said ruefully, “I’ve been working more at the baking than the policing.”
They were working in Anka’s kitchen, preparing the bakery for the morning.
Anka looked at Dick with affection. He had a dab of flour on his nose, and his tubby figure was wrapped in one of her large white aprons.
“I don’t think you’re cut out for the police force,” she said. “I think you would rather be doing this.”
I’d rather be doing anything with you than anything else in the whole wide world, thought Dick, but he just smiled and said, “I think our scones are ready.”
“Maybe I should have a look around Liz’s cottage,” said Anka. “I might just see something you missed.”
“I’m sure it’s against regulations,” said Dick cautiously. “But her brother will be up here soon again to check on things now the place is up for sale. It would be grand if we could find just one clue.”
“Good. That’s settled. We will go tomorrow afternoon. We must have our beauty sleep.”
Christine tossed and turned in her sleeping bag, amazed at how frightened of the storm she had become. The noise had moved from a high eldritch screech to a deep bang, bang, bang as if giants up in the sky were slamming doors. She crawled out of her sleeping bag and switched on the light. Nothing happened. Must be a power cut, she thought miserably. I am not brave, but I’m brave enough to admit it. I’m going to the nice safe sofa in Hamish’s police station.
She had not bothered to undress. Christine put on her coat and opened the front door, which was nearly whipped out of her hand by the force of the gale.
By dint of hanging on to garden fences, she made her way to the station and banged on the kitchen door.
It was doubtful whether Hamish would have heard her had not Lugs awakened him by barking sharply. Sonsie slid off the bed and went to the kitchen door and stood on guard, fur raised.
Hamish opened the door and let Christine in. “I’ve decided your sofa would be better. Wait a bit. You’ve got electricity. There’s a power cut at the schoolhouse.”
“I’ll make you up a bed on the sofa,” said Hamish. “Maybe I’d better go to the schoolhouse and have a look.”
“If you bring my sleeping bag, it’ll save you looking out bedding,” said Christine. “I’ll make myself a cup of tea and wait for you.”
The roaring wind at Hamish’s back propelled him along to the schoolhouse. The front door was swinging open, banging against the outside wall.
He unhitched a powerful torch from his belt and made his way to the living room.
He shone the torch on the sleeping bag and then backed off with an exclamation of alarm. What had been Christine’s sleeping bag was shot to ribbons.
There was no sleep for anyone that night as the whole forensic team headed by Daviot and Blair arrived from Strathbane. It was initially decided that shots from something like a Kalashnikov had ripped into the sleeping bag. Whoever had done it had assumed Christine was still inside.
As usual, Hamish was sidelined by Blair and told to interview the locals. Instead, he went along to the Italian restaurant, knocked at the kitchen door, and asked the beautiful Lucia, Willie Lamont’s wife, for a cup of coffee. He then sat down at a table in the empty restaurant to think.
Behind all this was big money that some gang wanted to get its hands on. They wanted to scare any investigation away from the schoolhouse, he thought, and then decided that if that were the case, the shooting had the opposite effect. The police would now take the building apart.
Money came from bank robberies, jewel thefts, drugs, arms, human trafficking, and prostitution. The northwest of Scotland with its many small bays and inlets was ideal territory for smuggling.
The weak link was Liz Bentley. Somehow she had become involved. It might be an idea to go back to Cromish and investigate that end further.
He finished his coffee and went out again to the waterfront to be consulted by Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife. The storm had died and pale sunlight was glittering on the choppy waters of the sea loch. As usual, Mrs. Wellington was encased in tweed. Even her large hat was made of tweed.
“This place has become Chicago,” she boomed. “And what are you doing about it?”
“What I can,” said Hamish mildly. “Have you heard o’ something in Inverness called The Church of the Chosen?”
She sniffed. “That lot. Load of rubbish.”
“How did you hear of it?”
“Ellie Noble, thon silly lassie, went there. Her parents came to Mr. Wellington for help. They were afraid it was some sort of cult.”
“That’s the Nobles out on the Braikie road?”
“That’s them.”
“And does Ellie live with them?”
“No, she works in First supermarket in Strathbane and I think she shares digs with a couple of girls.”
“Thanks,” said Hamish and hurried to the police station. He fished out a photograph of Liz Bentley that he had in his desk. It was a print of one given to the police by her brother.
He collected the dog and cat and got into the Land Rover. Blair was just emerging from a police unit set up on the waterfront. He shouted something as Hamish drove past.
Hamish drove on, glancing in the rearview mirror as the image of angry Blair dwindled into the distance.
Chapter Seven
Woman, a pleasing but a short-lived flower,
Too soft for business and too weak for power:
A wife in bondage, or neglected maid;
Despised, if ugly; if she’s fair, betrayed.
—Mary Leapor
Hamish knew he was poaching on Strathbane’s territory, but he did not care. Knocking on doors in Lochdubh to find out if anyone had seen or heard anything was a waste of effort, he knew. The noise of the storm would drown any car arriving in the village in the middle of the night.
Before leaving the police station, he had changed into civilian clothes, not wanting to attract any attention from Strathbane’s police force.
In other towns and cities, supermarkets are often large palaces of goods and clothes, but First supermarket in Strathbane was as dismal as the run-down town itself. Very few people seemed to put their shopping trolleys back in the places designated for them, leaving them strewn instead around the car park. A chilly wind with the metallic smell of approaching snow whipped rubbish around Hamish’s ankles as he made for the main entrance. It was situated in one of the poorest parts of the town and dubbed by the locals as Salmonella Centre.
Obesity was a bad problem in Strathbane as illustrated by a large woman at the customer services desk. She looked about as welcoming as Jabba the Hutt.
“Whatdeyewant?” she demanded languidly, raising her eyes from a film magazine.
“I would like to speak to Ellie Noble.”
“Ellie Noble! Report to the customer services desk,” she roared into a microphone, and then went back to reading her magazine.
The automatic grimy glass doors behind which Hamish was standing opened and closed, sending in blasts of arctic air. As he watched, little pellets of hard snow began to swirl down outside.
A small girl wearing the green-and-red overalls sported by the staff came hurrying up.
“Police,” said Hamish. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
The spots on her face stood out red. “They were throwing the stuff out anyway,” she said. “I’m no’ going to prison for that.”
“I want you to look at a photograph,” said Hamish patiently, “and tell me if you recognise the woman.”
Colour returned to her face. “We can go to the caff ower there,” she said.
Hamish collected cups of coffee for them at the self-service desk in the café and led her to a table by the w
indow.
Ellie had a peculiar figure, thin on top and very broad at the hips.
“It’s like this,” began Hamish. “I believe you used to attend The Church of the Chosen.”
“Went to a few dances there wi’ ma mates.”
Hamish took out a photo of Liz Bentley. “Do you recognise this woman?”
“That’s the one that got herself killt.”
“It is. But do you remember seeing her at the church?”
“Aye, it is her. I said as much to my friend Beryl. She was sweet on the preacher. Oh, I remember now. She was flashing an engagement ring around and saying she’d just got engaged. Someone congratulated Mr. Brough, but he said it wasnae him. He led Liz outside. When she came back, she looked as if she’d been crying and she wasnae wearing the ring. This Liz woman told a lot of lies. She’d already told everyone her great-granny was a Russian princess so we thought it was just another of her stories.”
“Why did young people like you go all the way to this church?”
“The dances were great and there were a lot of fellows from Inverness went there.”
“See any sign of drugs?”
Ellie looked out at the swirling snow. “Maybe,” she said in a small voice.
“I’m not here to arrest you,” said Hamish. “But it would be a great help if you could let me know what you saw.”
“My pal, Beryl Gregg, wanted me to try uppers. Said if you went to the ladies’ toilet, you could get them there. I was feart and didnae go.”
“Did your friend?”
“Just the once. Then someone told her that the police had their eye on the place so we never went back.”
“I’d like to speak to Beryl. Where can I find her?”
“I’ll get her. She works here. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll tell her to see you.”
Hamish sat and waited, watching the swirls and eddies of the snow out in the car park where rubbish flew up into the white air. He hoped Beryl would hurry up. He did not want a passing policeman to see his police Land Rover in the car park.
“You wanted to see me?” asked a nervous little voice.
