‘I don’t know,’ said Hamish, feeling helpless. ‘I swear something or someone frightened poor Annie Docherty to death. It would have been dark when she got there. I wonder if they would try to frighten me.’
‘They’ve tried to kill you twice before. They might not bother leaping out of the bushes and saying boo, or whatever it was they did to Mrs Docherty I think you ought to tell Strathbane about that cave and the new mooring.’
‘And what happens when they find there is no mooring? They may have moved on. Then if I do get some proof, the police will be reluctant to do anything about it.’
Mr Jefferson sat in Annie’s cottage and stared blindly through a haze of cigarette smoke. There must be something he could do. If something had prompted this odd spiritual revival in Stoyre, then there might be a clue in the manse. He could wait until they were all in the church and break into the manse.
He phoned Hamish Macbeth. ‘What’s the name of the man who runs the pub in Stoyre?’
‘Andy Crummack. Why?’
‘That’s the name. I might have run into him before.’
‘Look here, Mr Jefferson, I think Stoyre is a very dangerous place. You are not to go there.’
‘Of course not,’ said Mr Jefferson. ‘I gave you my promise, didn’t I?’
He said goodbye and rang off and then looked up the number of the Fisherman’s Arms in the phone book and dialled. A man answered and Mr Jefferson asked, ‘Is that Andy Crummack?’
‘Yes, who are you?’
‘Just a tourist. I wanted to have a look at your church. When is the next service?’
‘Tomorrow at eleven.’
Mr Jefferson thanked him and rang off. If they were prepared to give the time of the service to an outsider, then nothing was going on inside the church itself that they were worried about anyone finding out about.
He would arrive in Stoyre in the morning, just when he was sure they were all in the church, and get into the manse and see what he could find out. He owed it to Annie.
Mr Jefferson set out the following morning, feeling excited and rejuvenated to be doing something at last. He timed his arrival in the village to ten minutes past eleven. The place looked deserted. He hurried up to the manse and went round to the kitchen door at the back. He tried the door and found it was open. He walked inside and went through the kitchen, looking for the minister’s study. He came to a locked door and took out his skeleton keys and opened it. Eagerly he hurried in and went straight to the desk. He began to riffle through the papers.
Sermons and parish business, nothing of interest. He slid open the drawers on the right. Nothing of interest there either: just reams of paper, bank statements and old sermons. He opened the desk drawers on the left. In the top drawer was a print of a painting. He turned it over. On the back it said: ‘Josephe, Bishop of Sarras and son of Joseph of Arimathea, promises to entrust the Holy Grail when he dies to Alain, who kneels in prayer. From History of the Holy Grail, French manuscript, early 14th century.’
Was this anything? he wondered. Was this the reason for the religious revival in Stoyre? Had the superstitious locals been persuaded that someone was going to give them the Holy Grail?
He heard a slight movement behind him and turned round too late. A bag was thrown over his head and his arms were pinned to his sides.
For the next two days, Hamish had to leave speculations about Stoyre alone. A seven-year-old child, Tommy Gilchrist, had gone missing from his home in Braikie. Police combed Braikie and the area around it. Detective Chief Inspector Blair was in charge of the investigation, and when not holding press conferences, he was making sure that Hamish did not go anywhere near the parents. He wanted the glory of solving this case all to himself.
Hamish had to rely on snatched conversations with Jimmy Anderson to get news of the background. ‘They seem pretty simple folk,’ said Jimmy. ‘Ian and Morag Gilchrist had the child late. To my mind, maybe they were a bit strict with the boy. I saw his room. No posters or games or anything you might expect.’
‘What about relatives?’ asked Hamish.
‘An aunt and uncle in Strathbane, nothing there.’
‘Any of his clothes missing?’
‘The things he was wearing to school when he disappeared, that’s all.’
‘Any food or money missing from the house?’
‘I don’t think anyone asked them that. Why?’
‘The wee lad might have done a runner,’ said Hamish.
‘It’s getting on two days. I think maybe he’s had an accident. Oh, here’s Daviot. Run off and knock on some more doors.’
‘Macbeth!’ called Daviot. At the same time as Hamish approached his boss, the squat and sweating figure of Blair came hurrying up. ‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere,’ said Daviot.
‘We’re doing our best,’ growled Blair. ‘Go about your duties, Macbeth’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Daviot. ‘Have you had a word with the parents?’ he asked Hamish.
‘No.’
‘No, what?’ barked Blair.
‘No, sir.’
‘I think perhaps you should talk to them.’
‘I don’t see . . .’ began Blair wrathfully, but the superintendent held up his hand. ‘Macbeth knows the people here. He might get something out of the parents that you’ve missed. Get along and see them.’
Hamish went speedily off to where the Gilchrists lived on a council estate on the edge of town. He explained to the policeman on guard at the door that he had been ordered to speak to the parents.
He removed his hat and sat down in a chair facing the parents, who were sitting side by side on a sofa, and studied them. They were middle-aged and remarkably alike with their round, chubby figures and round, impassive faces. Mrs Gilchrist’s rather doughy face showed no traces of weeping. Hamish was uneasily reminded of the villagers of Stoyre. There was a secrecy here, he thought, his Highland radar sharpening – and righteousness.
‘Just a few questions,’ he said soothingly. ‘You say the boy set out for school as usual but the teachers report he never got there.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mr Gilchrist, his voice grating and rusty, like the voice of a man who did not speak much.
‘Had Tommy been unhappy?’
‘He had no reason to be unhappy,’ said Mrs Gilchrist. ‘We give him everything.’
‘I notice in the reports there is nothing from his school friends. Did he have a particular friend?’
They looked at each other. Then Mr Gilchrist said, ‘Not that we know of.’
‘But you must be friendly with some of the parents. Mrs Gilchrist?’
‘We keep ourselves to ourselves.’
‘May I see the boy’s room?’
Mrs Gilchrist rose heavily and moved to the door. Hamish followed her. She walked upstairs and pushed open a door.
Jimmy never said it was as bad as this, thought Hamish.
The room had a narrow bed, a thin tall wardrobe, a hard chair and a desk. There was a bedside table with a copy of the Bible on it. Hamish stood very still, sensing the air around him.
‘Let’s go downstairs again,’ he said. ‘Just a few more questions.’
He sat down again and faced Mrs Gilchrist as she sank down on to the sofa. ‘Did Tommy go the kirk?’
‘Aye,’ said Mr Gilchrist proudly. ‘Every Sabbath without fail. He goes with us to the kirk in the morning and then Bible class in the afternoon and Bible reading in the evening.’
‘That’s an awfy lot of religion for a wee boy.’
‘There’s never enough religion,’ said Mr Gilchrist, his eyes burning.
‘Do you mind? I’ll just have a look outside at your back garden.’
They said nothing, just sat and stared at him. Hamish went through the kitchen at the back, opened the door and banged it shut with himself on the inside. He slid open various drawers until he found one with a number of keys in it. He selected a small silver one. As quietly as a cat, he tiptoed back to where he had
seen a padlocked cupboard under the stairs when he had come down from Tommy’s room. He slid the key into the padlock and opened the door. Two terrified eyes stared up at him. Tommy Gilchrist was bound and gagged.
Hamish rushed to the front door and flung it open and shouted, ‘He’s here!’
Then he ran back in and lifted the boy out as police erupted into the house and crowded round him. The boy began to cry. Hamish untied him and removed the gag and, lifting him gently in his arms, carried him outside. From the living room came the angry voice of Jimmy Anderson charging the parents with cruelty and neglect.
‘We’ve rung for an ambulance,’ said the policewoman. ‘Poor wee man. His parents must be monsters.’
‘I think they’re religious fanatics,’ said Hamish grimly. ‘But, hush, no more talking in front of the boy.’
Camera flashes were going off in Hamish’s face. The press had arrived. Hamish turned to the policewoman and whispered, ‘He’s fouled himself bad. They didn’t even let him get to the toilet. Get in there and get pyjamas and clean clothes.’
The ambulance didn’t take long to arrive, but it seemed like an age to Hamish. He lifted the boy tenderly inside. The policewoman, carrying a small suitcase with Tommy’s clothes, got in and Hamish handed her the boy.
Blair, seated in the local pub at the bar and cradling a large whisky, was just saying to the barman, ‘It’s a waste o’ police time, if you ask me. He’s probably fallen off a rock or into a tarn up on the moors.’
Then he heard the sound of a siren speeding past the pub. He gulped down his drink and rushed out. The first thing he saw was the crowd outside the Gilchrists’ house and Mr and Mrs Gilchrist being led out to a police car.
He grabbed hold of Jimmy Anderson after brutally shoving his way to the front of the crowd. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Hamish found Tommy tied up in a cupboard under the stairs. Man, we didnae even think to search the house.’ Jimmy added maliciously, ‘Ye should ha’ been here. The press got some right fine pictures of Macbeth carrying the wee boy.’
‘What prompted those parents to do such a dreadful thing?’ Hamish asked Jimmy when they were sitting that evening in the police station in Lochdubh.
‘They found a copy o’ Playboy magazine under his mattress. They said the devil had got into him and it was up to them to starve it out of him.’
‘They’re the devils. What’s going to happen to the boy?’
‘The aunt and uncle are at the hospital, Mr and Mrs Clair. They’re regular folks and seem right fond of the boy. I hope they get the care of him. Daviot’s had us all on the carpet. Why didn’t we search the house? Well, for God’s sake, how did you think of that? I mean, when a child goes missing and the parents have reported it, you don’t think to search their house.’
‘I saw the boy’s room. The mother hadn’t been crying. I saw the Bible by the bed. But why did they report him missing?’
‘They didn’t. There’s a young schoolteacher who teaches Tommy. When he didn’t show, she went round to the house. The parents said he had set out for school and that was that. So she began to ask questions around the town and then she phoned the police.’
‘Can I come in?’ called Elspeth, opening the kitchen door.
Before Hamish could reply, she walked in and sat down with them. ‘You’re the hero of the hour,’ she said to Hamish. ‘You’ll get that promotion yet, like it or not. But I’ve another mystery for you.’
‘Like what?’
‘No one’s seen Mr Jefferson about the place and the car’s missing. I’ve just been up to his cottage. The door was locked, but I found a window at the back and climbed in.’
‘Breaking and entering,’ teased Jimmy. ‘We should arrest you.’
‘Listen, I found a note on the kitchen table. It’s handwritten. It says, “I’ve gone down south for a bit. See you soon, Charlie.”’
‘Got it there?’
‘Here.’ She pulled it out of her pocket and handed it over.
‘Is that his handwriting?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Elspeth. ‘And why leave a note like that in a locked cottage?’
‘I don’t like this. It’s something to do with Stoyre. I’m going over there now. See if I can spot his car.’
‘I’ll come with you!’
‘No, I’ll go on my own. I’ll be less conspicuous that way.’
In vain did Elspeth protest. Hamish set off with Lugs.
It was a clear, starry night with a hint of frost in the air. Hamish left the Land Rover on the waterfront and proceeded to walk all round the village but could see no sight of Mr Jefferson’s car.
‘We’ll just walk out to the north,’ he muttered to Lugs. ‘The silly auld fool might have gone that way again.’
Master and dog set off out of the village. They were just reaching the crest of a hill where the track petered out when suddenly a huge cloaked figure rose up in front of Hamish. At first he was frozen with superstitious terror, but then he looked down at his dog. Lugs was sitting there placidly in the moonlight, glad of the rest after all the walking. Hamish took a deep breath. ‘Come on, boy,’ he said, and walked straight through the apparition and out the other side. He turned and looked back and it was gone.
He hurried back to the Land Rover and drove as fast as he could to Lochdubh. He knew now what had killed Annie. He rushed into the office and his hand wavered over the phone. Instead of phoning Strathbane, he phoned Elspeth and told her what had happened. ‘It’s a hologram,’ she said excitedly. ‘Have you seen one before?’
‘Never.’
‘Oh, they sometimes have one in castles or museums of some historical figure.’
‘Do you know anyone who could make one?’
‘I think so. I’ve got a former boyfriend, bit of a geek, lives in Strathbane. You’d better phone headquarters.’
‘Not yet. I’ve got to show these gullible villagers how they’ve been tricked. Can you get your friend up here tomorrow with his equipment? Would it take long to make one?’
‘I’ll need to ask him. I think he was experimenting with them at one time. I know a hologram is light-wave interference pattern recorded on photographic film that can produce a three-dimensional image when illuminated properly. What do you want a hologram of?’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Is that an oath or a request?’
‘A request. What’s this boyfriend’s name?’
‘Ex. Graham Southey.’
‘After you’ve spoken to him, get him to phone me.’
Hamish paced up and down, and when the phone rang, he seized it. It was Graham. Hamish filled him in on the background and then asked, ‘Can you do it?’
‘I’ll bring the stuff up tomorrow,’ said Graham. ‘This is very exciting. But remember, the room hasn’t got to have too much air movement or too much ventilation noise or other kinds of vibration. There should be a uniform stable temperature.’
‘I think that’ll be all right.’
‘I’ll work all night and be over tomorrow.’
Hamish thanked him and rang off. Now he would see if he could produce something at last to break the uncanny silence of Stoyre.
Mr Jefferson sat bound to a chair in the cellar of the manse. He was not gagged and he had screamed and yelled until he was exhausted. At mealtimes, two masked men untied him and waited until he had eaten, then they marched him over to a bucket with a lavatory seat on top of it and stood patiently while he tried to perform like a child being potty-trained, and then they tied him up again. He was unusually fit for his age but he was beginning to feel weak and frail. The villagers of Lochdubh had been very solicitous about his well-being since Annie had died and he was sure they would have been calling at his cottage and having not found him there, would have alerted Macbeth. If this was the manse, then what kind of minister was this? At least they hadn’t beaten him up. The food, although he had been able to eat little of it so great was his fright, had been tasty and nourishing. He
tugged futilely at his bonds. He sensed that the manse above him was empty. His greatest fear was that they – whoever they were – would kill him eventually.
The villagers of Stoyre gathered uneasily in the church. Blinds of old blackout material dating from World War II covered the windows.
Fergus Mackenzie, the minister, stood up and addressed them. ‘Mr Macbeth here, for some reason, believes we have been tricked and is about to demonstrate how.’
‘Rubbish,’ shouted an angry woman. There was a move towards the door. But Hamish had made sure they were all locked in.
Graham was standing at a table at the back of the church with his equipment. Hamish had expected him to be a weedy-looking nerd with thick glasses but Graham was tall and handsome with blond hair.
Hamish nodded to him. The church filled with the sound of celestial music, swelling and rising, and suddenly a hologram of Jesus Christ appeared before the startled eyes of the congregation, who began to fall to their knees. The eyes of the Christ were compassionate and his arms were spread out over the kneeling villagers.
The music died away. Hamish’s usually soft voice was harsh as he shouted, ‘So that’s how it’s done. Someone has made you believe you saw a vision. All this is, is a simple hologram. Go and join Graham at the back of the church and he’ll show you how it’s done.’
Elspeth began to tug up the blinds one at a time and shafts of sunlight lit the church as everyone gathered around Graham, who gave them a succinct lecture on how a hologram was made. There was a gasp and the sound of someone falling. Mrs Mackenzie, the minister’s wife, had fainted dead away. Several men carried her to a pew.
‘So now I want you to come forward,’ said Hamish when Graham’s lecture was finished, ‘and tell me how they tricked you.’
People stood shuffling their feet, their heads hanging.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Fergus Mackenzie. ‘It was a dark day a few months ago and I was just about to start my sermon when God appeared before us.’
‘How did you know it was God?’ asked Hamish.
‘It was like in the religious illustrations in the Bible.’
‘Long hair, long flowing beard, and open-toed sandals?’
Death of a Village Page 14
