Death of a Liar

by M C Beaton

  Hamish found Jimmy standing outside the crematorium, smoking.

  “You didn’t attend the service,” said Hamish.

  “Slept in. Anyone there interesting?”

  Hamish told him about Jessica Andrews. “I might nip down to Beauly and have a word wi’ her,” he said.

  “Not on your beat, Hamish.”

  “I know, but there’s something else.” He told Jimmy about Dick leaving the force and setting up as a baker with Anka. “I think I’d better check in with the Polish society in Inverness, just to see if I can find out anything about her.”

  “Believe me, Hamish, her background has been checked every step of the way. She’s just what she says she is.”

  “Let me go down there,” wheedled Hamish. “You know I can often get things out of people that other policemen can’t.”

  “Oh, all right. But go in plainclothes and if Inverness police catch you, I know nothing about it.”

  On seeing Beauly, Mary Queen of Scots is reported to have said, “C’est un beau lieu” (it’s a beautiful place), and so the town came to be called Beauly.

  Beauly is near Inverness. It boasts a wide main street and a ruined priory, now the possession of Lord Lovat.

  Number 5, Loan Road, was a trim Victorian granite villa. Hamish hoped that some relative of the dead Jessie Andrews still lived there. The front garden was simply gravel, bordered by a stone wall.

  There was a polished brass doorbell set into the wall. The orange glow from the streetlamp outside shone on blank empty windows at the front. Hamish rang the bell.

  At first he thought there was no one at home, but then a light went on in the hall inside. The door opened. A small, waif-like woman stood there. She had very fine straight white hair which hung down in two wings beside her thin white face. Although her neck was wrinkled, her face was smooth. She was wearing a faded black sweater and jeans and two large fluffy slippers in the shape of pink bunny rabbits.

  Hamish introduced himself and said he was investigating The Church of the Chosen.

  “Come in,” she said. “I am Jessie’s sister, Heather Green.”

  Hamish followed her small, thin figure to a kitchen at the back of the house.

  It was very cold. The kitchen was old-fashioned with a Belfast sink and an old gas stove and a table covered in oilcloth and surrounded by four hard-backed chairs. There was no refrigerator or washing machine.

  “Will you take tea, Sergeant?” asked Heather in a high thin voice.

  “That would be grand.”

  She lit a gas ring and put a battered kettle of water on it. Hamish waited until the tea was made and served before he began to question her. Heather clasped her hands round her mug of tea as if for warmth.

  “Jessie was a widow,” she said. “We lived here together. Jessie inherited quite a bit of money after her husband died. She said she’d made out a will leaving everything to me. And that she did. But apart from this house, Jessie only had fifty pounds left in her bank account. I found out she had been making donations to that church. I confronted that preacher, Brough, and he told me that she had been very generous. He would pay for the funeral but that was all. Our bank manager told me that Jessica had paid the church money amounting to seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

  “I am a retired schoolteacher. I have my pension, but it’s not all that much.”

  “Can’t you sell this house?”

  “I suppose I must. But I was brought up here. I never married. I would hate to leave the place.”

  “What did Jessie tell you about the church?”

  “That’s what was so odd. She told me nothing until nearly the end. She said she was visiting friends in Inverness. And she had begun to behave oddly. She had always been a placid body. But she began to lose weight and chatter, chatter, chatter.”

  Drugs, thought Hamish bleakly.

  “So how did you hear about Brough?” he asked.

  “She said she was going to get married to him and two days later she was dead. The procurator fiscal said it was caused by an overdose of pure heroin. He put ‘heart attack’ on the death certificate, to be kind. I went to the police. I told them that this man, Brough, had supplied my sister with drugs. They got back to me and said they could find no proof and that Brough had told them he had never proposed marriage to Jessie. I had to let him pay for the funeral because I have so little, you see.”

  “I believe there are benefits for people in your position,” said Hamish awkwardly.

  “I could never lower myself to scrounge on the state,” she said firmly.

  Hamish got to his feet. “If I find anything out, I’ll let you know. What is your telephone number?”

  A thin flush suffused her face. “I don’t have one,” she said in a low voice.

  Hamish wondered as he drove into Inverness whether Jessie had been murdered. But how to prove it? From her sister’s description of her behaviour, Jessie had been taking amphetamines. It would be assumed she had progressed to harder drugs.

  He parked in Inverness and made his way to the headquarters of the Polish Association in Union Street. It transpired that Anka had only visited once. Her beauty had made her memorable, but nothing more was known about her.

  He collected his Land Rover and drove out to the church. He fed Sonsie and Lugs with carry-outs he had collected in Inverness and let them run around.

  There were great mounds of earth piled up around the church, showing where the police had dug up the property looking for hidden cash and drugs.

  There was police tape crisscrossed across the front of the church door. Hamish had a sudden longing to look inside. Hoping it would be put down to vandals, he broke the tape, and, taking out a ring of skeleton keys, fiddled with the locks for half an hour before he got the door open. He shone a torch around the church. Was there anywhere that the police might not have looked? There was evidence that the floorboards had been taken up. Behind the plain altar was a large statue of Christ, not on the cross, but with his arms outstretched in blessing.

  Hamish let the light of the torch run up and down the statue. At first sight, it appeared to be made of bronze. But one of the bare toes was chipped, revealing that it was made of plaster. Then he concentrated on the neck. Jesus was wearing a broad metal band around his neck.

  Hamish found a chair, stood up on it, and changed his large torch for a pencil torch which he gripped between his teeth. There was a button at the back of the metal collar. He pressed it and the head fell forward on tiny hinges. He shone the torch down into the statue. It was stuffed with banknotes.

  Chapter Eight

  Money is the root of all evil.

  —Proverbs

  Hamish telephoned Jimmy. He said as he’d been in Inverness, he thought he would drive past the church. He lied and said he’d noticed the tape had been broken and had decided to enter the church and make sure there were no signs of vandalism. He said it was then that he had noticed something strange about the neck of the statue and so had found the money.

  Jimmy said he would alert Inverness police and would be there himself as quickly as possible.

  Hamish sat down on the steps of the altar to wait.

  His thoughts turned to Heather Green. He wished he could take piles of money from the statue and give it to her.

  Soon he heard the sound of approaching police sirens.

  Mungo Davidson entered the church. “Come outside, Hamish,” he called. “We’ll let SOCO do their work first.”

  A team of white-suited scenes of crimes operatives came in. Hamish went outside with Mungo and told him why he had examined the statue.

  “Good work,” said Mungo. “We never thought to look there. Seemed sort of sacrilegious.”

  Hamish told him about Heather Green. “I bet a lot of that money really belongs to her. Is there any way when the dust has settled that she could get it?”

  “Well, if Brough or whatever he’s calling himself is found and brought to trial, he cannot benefit from
his crimes. It’s a tricky one. How’s my dear friend, Detective Chief Inspector Blair?”

  “With any luck, he’s as drunk as a skunk by now,” said Hamish.

  “Lovely man.”

  A cold wind was blowing off Loch Ness.

  “Where’s that legendary sidekick of yours?” asked Mungo.

  “Dick Fraser is leaving the force.”

  “Pity. From what I hear,” said Mungo, “he’d have had a table out and dinner served while we wait. Let’s sit in my car and put the heater on.”

  Hamish whistled and Sonsie and Lugs came running up.

  “Thon cat’s like a tiger,” said Mungo nervously.

  “I’ll put them back in the Land Rover.”

  Jimmy arrived, but with only Detective Andy MacNab, not wanting to bring a larger squad to poach on Inverness’s territory.

  They all sat in Mungo’s car. Jimmy bemoaned the loss of Dick and said his mouth was dry with lack of whisky.

  Several hours later, they were told they could go back into the church.

  Hamish was superstitiously relieved that they had not found it necessary to break the statue but had laid it down and fished out the money through the neck. Neat bundles of fifty-pound notes lay piled up on the altar like offerings to Mammon.

  “How much?” asked Mungo.

  “About two million,” said the head of the forensic team. “We’ve dusted the notes for fingerprints, but whoever stashed them was wearing gloves.”

  “Whoever tortured and killed the Southerns and Liz Bentley must have been trying to find out where the money was,” said Hamish, “although that puzzles me. It’s only about two million.”

  “And that’s not enough for a killing, Mr. Rockefeller?” said Jimmy.

  “Not these days,” said Hamish. “There’s no sign of drugs. This is the money Peter Gaunt, alias Brough, conned out of women. Much of it comes from a woman called Jessie Andrews and should by rights have gone to her sister. They were dealing drugs in this church. I swear there’s a stash of drugs worth a great fortune stashed somewhere.”

  Mungo said, “We’ll keep a watch on the church. We won’t tell the newspapers about the find. If Gaunt needs money, he may try to come back for it.”

  Hamish got wearily back to the police station by ten o’clock the following morning just as a winter sun was rising over the mountains.

  But of course there was no longer any Dick to welcome him with a hot breakfast and coffee.

  He undressed and got into bed. Before he fell asleep, he wondered if Gaunt were really the mastermind or simply a con artist who had been used by some gang. And what about the diamond rings? Had they been given to people who knew about the drugs? He was sure it was drugs.

  In late afternoon, he took the dog and cat out for a walk. The sun had already set and the pitiless stars of Sutherland shone down on the deep-black waters of the sea loch.

  He was joined by Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. “Has your man been treating anyone lately for drug addiction?” asked Hamish.

  “Not that I know of,” said Angela, “but he wouldn’t necessarily tell me. Do you think drugs are behind these terrible murders?”

  “Somehow, I’m sure of it. Where would you go if you were on the run?”

  “If I were still after a cache of drugs, I’d stay hidden in Scotland,” said Angela. “If I were a villain, then I would go to some remote croft house and hold up the family to let me stay as long as I felt necessary.”

  Hamish stared at her blankly. Then he said, “I should have thought of that.”

  “I was up at the Tommel Castle Hotel for dinner last night,” said Angela. “Priscilla was dining with some French fellow.”

  “I thought she was only up on a flying visit,” said Hamish. “Who is this French fellow?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Because she’ll think I’m jealous and I’m not,” said Hamish huffily.

  But later that evening, he decided to go up to the hotel. Not that he meant to spy on Priscilla, he told himself, only just to run the latest discovery past her.

  The Tommel Castle Hotel was one of those castles built in the nineteenth century after Queen Victoria had made the Highlands fashionable. It was built on the lines of a French château, complete with turrets.

  The manager, Mr. Johnson, hailed Hamish as he entered the reception area.

  “Priscilla here?”

  “She’s dining with a Monsieur Dubois.”

  “And who is this Dubois?”

  “Just a tourist.”

  “Here for the fishing?”

  “No, he says his family came originally from Scotland and he is tracing his roots.”

  “Oh, the famous Clan Dubois,” said Hamish cynically. “I’d like a look at him.”

  “Now, then. You can’t barge in and bother my guests. Wait until dinner is over and ask Priscilla. She’s been going around with him.”

  “I’ll have a word with Clarry,” said Hamish and made his way to the hotel kitchen, reflecting that he had now lost three policemen to the food business: Clarry to the hotel, Willie to the Italian restaurant, and now Dick to a bakery.

  Clarry welcomed Hamish and asked, “Where are the dog and cat?”

  “Outside.”

  “Bring them in by the kitchen door. I’ve some nice fish for Sonsie and a bit of venison stew for Lugs.”

  After Hamish had collected his pets, he asked Clarry, “Know anything about this Frenchman, Dubois?”

  “Came a couple of days ago. Staff say he’s a generous tipper.”

  “Which part of France is he from?”

  “Don’t know. Ask Priscilla. Herself has been spending a lot of time with him.”

  “Let me know when they leave the dining room?”

  “Aye. Pablo!” he called to one of the waiters. “Let me know when Dubois has gone up to his room.

  “Staff are mostly foreign now,” mourned Clarry. “It’s all the immigrants from the European Union. Take any job that’s going while the lazy sods in the Highlands wake up to find it’s hard to get any work at all. Have some dinner while you wait. I’ve a rare bit o’ poached salmon.”

  They talked of old times while Hamish ate and his animals slept at his feet. At last Pablo came in to say that Dubois had gone up to his room and Miss Halburton-Smythe was checking the stocks in the bar.

  “Leave Sonsie and Lugs wi’ me,” said Clarry. “Shame to wake them.”

  Hamish stood at the entrance to the bar. The lights of the bar were shining on Priscilla’s fair hair. She was talking to the barman. Guests sat around having after-dinner coffees and drinks. There was a murmur of quiet conversation.

  When Colonel Halburton-Smythe had fallen on hard times, it had been Hamish who had suggested he turn his home into a hotel. With an excellent manager, the colonel had little to do with the running of the successful hotel but enjoyed dining out at friends’ houses to brag about “his” brilliant idea.

  A log fire crackled on the hearth. Hamish had a weak moment in which he wished he were one of the guests on holiday and never would have to worry about murder or mayhem.

  Priscilla saw him and came round the bar to greet him. “What brings you, Hamish?”

  “I’ve heard reports of a certain Frenchman called Dubois. I’m interested in any foreigners in the area.”

  “We’ve had Germans and Dutch and Spanish here and you’ve never bothered before.”

  “I bothered now because o’ thae nasty murders.”

  “Let’s sit down over there,” said Priscilla. “Oh, well, his name is Paul Dubois. He’s a wine merchant. His grandmother was a Mackay. He’s interested in his family background.”

  “Where in France is he from?”

  “Lyon.”

  “Has he asked you for any money?”

  “What a question, Hamish! He’s a real gent. Are you jealous?”

  “That’s vanity,” snapped Hamish. Then he said, “Sorry. This case has been getting to me. I’l
l take myself off.”

  “Do that,” said Priscilla coldly.

  He collected his pets and drove back to the police station, feeling tired and grumpy. But not jealous!

  Annie MacDougal sat in the kitchen of her croft house perched on the foothills of the mountains between Kinlochbervie and Cromish, and wondered what more the Good Lord could send down to punish her.

  Her son and daughter had been killed in a car crash on the A-9 thirty years ago. Neither of them had married and so she had no grandchildren. Her husband had died of a heart attack shortly after the death of the children. Now in her eighties, she had become solitary and bitter and friendless. She had allowed a neighbour to use her croft land, but she never spoke to him.

  Now she was facing a man with a gun, a man who told her he would not harm her as long as she kept quiet and made his meals.

  Annie did as she was told, all the time eyeing that gun as she would a venomous snake.

  Her captor was Peter Gaunt, reduced in size from the dapper man Hamish had met at the church. He had been camping out and was now desperate for warmth, comfort, and cooked meals.

  He had watched Annie’s remote cottage carefully and noted that she was old and alone.

  He took out a fat wallet and peeled off five hundred pounds and handed the money to her. “What we’ll do,” he said, “is you will drive that wreck of your car down to the shops. I will be in the backseat. If you alert anybody, I will shoot you in the spine. Got it?”

  Annie nodded. “I’ll get my coat,” she said. “I have to go to the toilet first.”

  “Don’t take all day about it and I’ll be right outside.”

  Annie stumbled into the bathroom and sank down on her knees. She could not pray to the God who had let her down so many times. But she believed in the fairies. Fairies, to the old people of the Highlands, were not glittery things but small dark men. Had she not put out milk for them every day? So she prayed passionately to the King of the Fairies for deliverance.