Death of a Liar

by M C Beaton

  “Won’t know until he does a thorough examination. You’d better go off and knock on doors.”

  “You’ve got police all over the village. I saw them going from house to house when I drove through.”

  “You know what Cnothan is like. They hate talking to outsiders. They might talk to you.”

  “Can I have a wee word with the husband first?”

  “Oh, go on. I hope his wife’s death was really accidental, because he doesn’t exactly seem moved.”

  Rod was sitting on a frilly pink couch in the living room. Hamish thought it was the first time he had actually seen a frilly couch. It was covered in slippery rose-pink silk. There were frills down the seams and frills at floor level. Rod’s face stood out white against the background.

  Hamish introduced himself. “It’s the shock,” said Rod. “Poor Amanda. She was always saying how delicate she was and that her heart was not good. God forgive me. I didn’t believe her.”

  “Why was that?” asked Hamish. Rod was a tall slim man, impeccably dressed in a well-tailored suit. He had grey hair and a grey lugubrious face with a thin mouth and large grey eyes.

  “Amanda was always claiming to be delicate. She always seemed to be acting a part. I think the shock has killed her apart from that blow to the head.”

  “When did you arrive?”

  “Today. Am I a suspect? My secretary and staff will tell you that I was there until yesterday evening. I set off right away and then stopped overnight in Perth before coming on up here.” He went on to tell Hamish about his wife’s recently exploded romantic ideas about the Highlands.

  They would check that gnome for fingerprints, thought Hamish, in case Rod had seen an opportunity and brained his wife. But diligent questioning could produce nothing useful.

  People sometimes compared villages like Cnothan, slap bang in the middle of nowhere, to Welsh villages at the end of valleys. Strangers were regarded as people from a few miles away, and the motto of Cnothan should have been, “We keep ourselves to ourselves.”

  As he watched police going from door to door, Hamish reflected that he would only be covering old ground.

  He still had food in the Land Rover, so, along with his pets, he drove up on the moors, well away from the village, and parked. He was hungry again, so he fried himself up some sausages after having fed Sonsie and Lugs and then stretched out on the grass and stared vacantly at the sky.

  He drifted off to sleep and woke half an hour later with his phone ringing.

  It was Jimmy. “Got anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Hamish.

  “There’s another extensive manhunt for Gaunt’s tattooed companion.”

  “How’s the husband doing?”

  “He is being berated by Blair, who turned up not so long ago. Fortunately for the man, Daviot arrived in time to stop Blair charging Mr. Monteith with murder. I don’t think we can do much else until the autopsies. Look, Hamish. I need one of your flashes of highland intuition. Get back to your station and go over all the reports and statements and see if you can think of one thing.”

  Hamish agreed, and rang off.

  The police station seemed a bit bleak without Dick. He went to make himself a cup of coffee and then realised the espresso machine was missing. It was then he saw a note addressed to himself on the kitchen table.

  “Dear Hamish,” he read. “I called last night but you were out. I’ve collected a few of my things. Do come and see us soon. Yours aye, Dick.”

  Hamish went through to the living room. The large flat-screen television had gone, along with the recorder and all the stereo equipment.

  He went back to the kitchen. The dishwasher had been taken away as well. Hamish could only be glad that Dick had left the washing machine. But he had taken the electric kettle. Hamish lit the stove and put the kettle on top and waited for it to boil.

  The kitchen door opened and Angela Brodie walked in. “I brought you a cake,” she said. “It’s a new recipe. Ginger.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Angela. The kettle will soon be boiling. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Where’s that espresso gadget?”

  “Dick’s taken it to his new quarters.”

  “Will he and Anka get married?” asked Angela.

  “Dinnae be daft. She’s a goddess and he’s a wee round man.”

  “A lot of women would fancy Dick. He’s, well, comfy.”

  Hamish looked at her uneasily. He still had dreams of getting the beautiful Anka out on a date.

  “I dinnae know women went for comfy.”

  “Comfy and a homemaker and a champion baker. It’s quite a lot, Hamish.”

  “Can’t see it. Sit down and I’ll get your coffee.”

  “The phone’s been ringing all morning,” said Angela. “Folk are saying there’s two dead bodies over at Cnothan.”

  “Aye, that’s right.” Hamish made instant coffee and told her about it.

  “Cnothan will soon be swamped with the press,” said Angela.

  “Well, good luck to the poor sods. They won’t get a single quote.”

  “Oh, yes they will,” said Angela cynically. “They’ll say to someone, ‘You must all be very frightened,’ to which the person may reply, ‘Aye,’ before slamming the door. So in the paper next morning you will read, ‘Pale and trembling, Mrs. Blank Blank said, “We are all frightened.”’”

  Hamish stared at her. “You’ve given me an idea.”

  “Have some of my cake and tell me.”

  Hamish reluctantly cut a slice, for Angela was as famous for her lousy baking as Anka and Dick were famous for their baps and cakes.

  A brown sticky liquid oozed out of the cake. “Oh, dear,” said Angela. “Mrs. Wellington gave me that recipe and said it was foolproof.”

  “Never mind,” said Hamish, opening a tin. “Have a bit o’ shortbread instead.”

  “So what’s your idea?” asked Angela.

  “You could start gossiping for me. Say Hamish Macbeth knows what it is the villains want and he knows where it is hidden.”

  “They’ll kill you! You’re going to put yourself up as bait.”

  “I’ll be on the alert. Please, Angela.”

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “But what if this gossip gets back to headquarters?”

  “Won’t matter. I’ll deny the whole thing.”

  “Then so will I,” said Angela.

  Chapter Ten

  Let us do—or die!

  —Robert Burns

  Angela busily gossiped, telling each person about Hamish knowing where the mysterious loot was hidden and swearing each one to secrecy.

  The Currie sisters were wide-eyed. “Why doesn’t he produce it?” asked Nessie.

  “Produce it?” echoed her sister.

  “He hopes they’ll come for it and that way he will trap them,” said Angela.

  And so the news crept out from Lochdubh to the surrounding countryside.

  When the news reached Dick, he said to Anka, “I think he’s hoping the murderers will come after him and that way he’ll find out who they are. I feel I should be down there, looking after him.”

  “He’s got the whole of the Scottish police force behind him,” said Anka.

  “Maybe he hasnae told them.”

  “Why would he do a stupid thing like that?”

  “Because he’s Hamish.”

  After two weeks had passed, Hamish began to fear that nothing would happen. The autopsies on the bodies of Amanda Monteith and Peter Gaunt had proved that Gaunt had died of a massive heart attack, perhaps brought on by fear, and that the blow to Amanda’s head was not the cause of her death, but that she, too, had suffered a heart attack.

  Hamish decided to go down to Inverness and do some shopping. He could have bought everything he wanted in Patel’s shop, but he suddenly wanted to get away from the village.

  The miracle of Inverness was that it kept expanding without anyone quite knowing where all the
money to create its boom had come from. Hamish’s mother had said the old people remembered Inverness when it was a sleepy little town where the highland cattle were driven down the main street from the stockyards at the railway station. It had been full then of privately owned little shops. Now every giant supermarket seemed to have moved in.

  It was a fine day. He had shopped for picnic supplies for his animals, a new sweater and socks, and was heading for the car park when he saw Scully Baird in front of him.

  Hamish caught up with him. “How’s it going, Scully? You look well.”

  Scully had put on weight, and there was colour in his cheeks. “I’ve got a job,” he said proudly.

  “Let’s go for a coffee,” said Hamish, “and tell me about it.”

  They turned into a coffee shop which had a bewildering array of types of coffee on order. Hamish ordered an Americano and Scully, a latte.

  “So tell me all about it,” said Hamish.

  “I’d nearly given up hope at the job centre wi’ all the Poles snatching up every job,” said Scully, “but I finally got one. It’s at the crematorium.”

  “What do you do there? Burn the bodies?”

  “No, I’ve got a cosy little number. I sort out the ashes into cardboard boxes.”

  “I thought they all went into urns,” said Hamish.

  “Naw. Some folk want them scattered and, would you believe it, some mean sods never turn up to collect the dear departed.”

  “So what happens to the ashes?”

  “Trade secret. It’s ma day off. I get a day off during the week if I’ve been working at the weekend. Tell you what. I’m right proud of my wee office. When we finish, come back with me and see it.”

  “I don’t want to leave Sonsie and Lugs in the car too long.”

  “Bring them with you,” said Scully. “They can have a wee run outside the crematorium.”

  “All right. I’ll run you there,” said Hamish.

  At the crematorium in Strathbane, Hamish let the dog and cat out of the Land Rover and followed Scully to his little office.

  “I’ve got my ain desk, see?” said Scully proudly.

  “Are the Wrights good bosses?”

  “Aye, they’re grand. I hope they don’t become my customers, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I think they’ve both got Parkinson’s. They shake a lot, spill their coffee. I walked into Mr. Kenneth’s office and forgot to knock, and he turned white and clutched his heart.”

  Hamish looked sharply at Scully. “Didn’t you think they might be frightened of something?”

  “What of?” Scully laughed. “Ghosts? Come on, man. They’ve been dealing with the dead for years. Got tae pee. Back in a mo.”

  Scully had left his keys on the desk. Hamish fished in his capacious pocket and pulled out a square of wax. He carefully took impressions of the keys and then hurriedly replaced them when he heard Scully returning.

  “You’ve done well for yourself,” said Hamish, reflecting that not many people would think of it as a great job, but Scully had changed so much from the drug-wrecked youth he once had been.

  Hamish drove out of Strathbane and stopped up on the moors to feed himself and his pets. It had been an impulse to take impressions of Scully’s keys: an impulse prompted by Scully thinking the Wright brothers had Parkinson’s. Hamish wondered if their shakes were caused by fear. There had been some tenuous tie between Gaunt and the crematorium.

  He looked around the sunny countryside. If only things could go back to normal. The unsolved murders seemed to send a blackness creeping over the landscape.

  Hamish wondered whether to pay a visit to the seer, Angus Macdonald. He had often suspected that Angus was taking money from the gullible, claiming to be able to get in touch with their dead loved ones, but so far had not been able to find any proof. He packed up the remains of the picnic, whistled for Sonsie and Lugs, and went back to Lochdubh, where he left them at the police station.

  Angus always expected a gift. Hamish went to the cupboard in Dick’s old room, knowing that that was where Dick stored a lot of the smaller prizes he had won in pub quizzes. Dick had left most of the stuff. Hamish found a pretty little imitation carriage clock. That would do.

  As he walked up the brae to Angus’s cottage, he suddenly had a feeling of being watched. But when he turned round, a glaring red setting sun was in his eyes.

  Angus was standing by the open door, waiting for him. He accepted the carriage clock and put it carefully on the mantelpiece over the fireplace.

  When they were seated in Angus’s living room, Hamish asked, “What do you know of Kenneth and Robert Wright?”

  “The funeral directors?”

  “Aye, them.”

  “Had a bad time a whiles back,” said Angus. “There’s Scott, the rival funeral people, but the Wrights have the crematorium. But then there came this visiting minister, telling folk that it was a sin to get their loved ones cremated, for how were they to rise whole on the Day of Judgement? Hellfire was for the burning of folk. Trade fell right off and it looked as if they would have to sell up. But they got money from somewhere, people got over that nonsense, and soon they were doing well again.”

  “Any idea where they got the money from?”

  “No.”

  “I think they are afraid,” said Hamish.

  “If they got money from a loan shark and are having a hard time paying it off, they’ve got every reason to be afraid.”

  “No psychic abilities working today, Angus?”

  “A wee clock won by Mr. Fraser might be considered a bit cheap by the spirits.”

  “You’re a waste o’ space,” said Hamish, getting to his feet.

  “And you’re a tethered goat, laddie.”

  “What?”

  “You dinnae know where the loot is. You just put that about in the hope they’ll come for you.” Angus half closed his eyes. “Aye, and they will. They could be at the foot o’ the brae right now. Take these pets o’ yours and give them to Dick Fraser to look after. Anyone after you would want rid o’ them first.”

  Hamish gave him a startled look. He left hurriedly and ran all the way to the police station. He loaded Sonsie and Lugs into the Land Rover and raced to Braikie.

  The shop front was closed but there were lights on in the bakery at the back. Hamish went round and knocked at the door.

  Dick opened the door and smiled in delight as he bent down to pat the animals. He was wearing a white coat and a white skullcap.

  “Come in. Sit yourself down. I’ll get you a coffee.”

  The tall figure of Anka said, “No animals in the bakery.”

  “These are hygienic animals,” said Dick.

  Anka shrugged and went on kneading dough.

  Hamish told Dick about his worries. “I’ll take them upstairs now,” said Dick. “We’ve got a flat up there.”

  Hamish followed him up. The flat above was spacious although very low-ceilinged. “They’ll be fine here,” said Dick. “Leave them for as long as you like. I’ve missed them.”

  Lugs wagged his plume of a tail and Sonsie let out a low purr.

  “Won’t Anka object?” asked Hamish.

  “No. She won’t want them around in the shop or the bakery, but they can stay here.”

  “But you will exercise them?”

  “I’ve got time off during the day. We’ve a couple o’ lassies serving in the shop.”

  “How are you getting on with Anka?”

  “Just grand. We’re pals.”

  How can you just be pals with a Venus like that? was what Hamish wanted to say. Instead he asked, “Do you think Anka might come out for dinner with me one night?”

  Dick was petting Sonsie’s fur. His hand tightened on her coat, and she gave out a low hiss of warning.

  “Why don’t you ask her?” said Dick.

  “I’ll be off then,” said Hamish. “I’ll talk to Anka on the way out.”

  Dick crept to the top of the st
airs and listened. He heard Hamish say, “If you’re free one evening, would you like to have dinner with me?”

  “With Dick as well?”

  “Well, I thought, just us.”

  She slid a tray of scones into the oven and said over her shoulder, “I don’t like to go anywhere without Dick.”

  “In that case, we’ll all have dinner together.”

  “Ask Dick about it.”

  “I shall next time I call.”

  Dick retreated into the flat. He hugged the cat and then the dog. “There is a God,” he said.

  Hamish drove slowly back to Lochdubh, feeling sulky. Here he was, putting his life on the line while Dick Fraser had not only Anka as company but now his pets as well.

  The realisation that he was bitterly jealous of Dick made him feel ashamed of himself. “Why am I always chasing dreams?” he demanded the walls of the police station. “Why am I am always chasing after impossible women?” His thoughts turned to Christine Dalray, the forensic expert. He would ask her out. She was keen on him, he knew that.

  But the following day found him heading back to Cromish. Dr. Williams had phoned him early in the morning, saying, “You’d better get up here fast before there’s another murder.”

  It transpired that an incomer had bought Liz Bentley’s cottage. She had moved from Edinburgh. Her name was Samantha Trent, “call me Sam,” and at first she had seemed harmless enough, going round the village, yakking on about the quality of life, which was the acidulous way the doctor had put it. But to the horror of the villagers, she was guilty of a heinous crime. She was seen feeding a fox. “So you see,” the doctor has said, “folk are so riled up, they might shoot her.”

  Townies and their mad love affair wi’ sodding foxes, thought Hamish.

  He parked outside Liz’s cottage and rang the bell. The door was answered by a tall woman, wearing an army sweater, knee breeches, lovat stockings, brogues, and a flat cap. She carried a shepherd’s crook. The hair under the cap was grey, although he judged her to be in her forties. She had a face like a demented sheep.