Death of a Kingfisher

by M C Beaton

  “Might be making a fool of us,” commented Dick.

  “Maybe. But I’m going to spend a night in that glen just in case.”

  “You won’t be needing me,” said Dick.

  “Of course I will.”

  A cunning look entered Dick’s usually sleepy eyes. “Now, sir, ye wouldnae want to be leaving those beasties of yours alone?”

  Hamish frowned. He daren’t ask his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, to look after them again. She had told him last time that she would not do it again because Sonsie scared her own cats.

  “All right,” he said. “But if there’s anything, I’ll phone you on your mobile. Make sure you keep it beside the bed.”

  Somehow, Hamish had expected Colin and Tom Morrison to be young or youngish men, but they turned out to be both in their fifties. Colin was small and wiry, and Tom was large and well built.

  They seemed eager to help, showing Hamish where the supports of the bridge had been sawn nearly through.

  “Say one of the children, Mrs. Colchester’s grandchildren, that is, got hold of a large chain saw. Could they have done the damage?”

  “I don’t think they could. See, there was just an old rickety bittie of a bridge and we took it down and built that one. Got oak and the struts are teak. I can’t see a couple of kids having the strength.”

  “What did you do before you worked for that building company over in Invergordon?” asked Hamish.

  “Nothing else,” said Tom bitterly. “We apprenticed ourselves to the building trade when we left school. Then after all these years, when it went bust, it was out on the scrap heap with no redundancy pay. Mary’s husband, Tim, heard about us and Mary offered us the job.”

  “Have you heard anything about disturbances in the glen during the night? Lights? Voices?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “But you patrol the glen at night?”

  Tom looked a bit shifty. “Some of the time. But the Buchan isn’t a salmon river so it’s not as if we have to look out for poachers.”

  Hamish questioned them further, taking notes, but they could not suggest anyone who might have wanted to sabotage the popularity of the glen.

  Hamish thanked them when he had finished. He turned to Dick. “You haven’t had anything to eat.”

  “No, and I’m right hungry.”

  “There’s a café in Braikie in the main street next to the town hall. People seem to like to gossip to you. I want you to go there and see what you can pick up. I’ll drive you down into the town and come back for you in four hours’ time.”

  Hamish phoned Jimmy after he had returned from Braikie and asked for the addresses of Mrs. Colchester’s two cleaners. He wanted to talk to them away from the house.

  Mrs. McColl was not at home but he found Bertha Dunglass working in her front garden. She was a middle-aged, heavy, muscular woman with dyed black hair screwed up in a knot on the top of her head.

  “Oh, it’s yourself,” she said.

  “I’d like a word, Bertha.”

  “Come into the kitchen. I could be doing wi’ a cup o’ tea.”

  The kitchen was a shambles of unwashed pots on the stove and piles of unwashed dishes in the sink. “Sorry about the mess,” said Bertha cheerfully as Hamish narrowly avoided slipping on a patch of grease on the floor. “By the time I finish cleaning the auld biddie’s mansion, I’m damned if I feel like doing my ain cleaning.”

  She made tea and put a cup down in front of Hamish. He sipped at it cautiously. It was really strong and she had put an awful lot of sugar in it. There was a faint mark of lipstick at the edge of the cup. He hurriedly put it down as Bertha sat down at the kitchen table and they surveyed each other over empty beer cans and pizza boxes.

  “Is Mrs. Colchester fond of her daughter?”

  “That yin disnae like anyone. She likes tormenting her son-in-law by saying she’ll probably leave all her money to charity. He’s frightened tae get angry with her in case she does just that so he takes it out on his wife, telling her she’s got to do something. Of course those brats don’t help. Mrs. Colchester calls them the devil’s spawn which disnae help matters.”

  “Why do you continue to work for her?”

  “She pays on the nail. Cash. End of every day. Used tae get the money out o’ the strong room.”

  “What strong room?”

  “I’m no’ supposed to know. It’s near the terrace. She kept the key on a chain around her neck. I had a keek in once when she didnae know I was behind her. It’s packed with things of silver and gold, ornaments, plates, that sort of thing. It’s said that old man Colchester was a great collector o’ gold and silver. But she’s given the key to the bank tae keep for safety.”

  Hamish looked uneasy. “I don’t remember seeing signs of a burglar alarm.”

  “Her daughter’s finally made herself see sense, and the men are coming next week to install a security system.”

  “What do you make of Mary Leinster?”

  “Oh, her? One o’ them green people, always wanting to save the earth. Mind you, what she did wi’ that glen has brought in a fair bit of work.”

  “Wasn’t there any protest about her giving the building work to her husband and her brothers?”

  “Not that I heard. It was put up to the council and they passed it. O’ course, Barry McQueen, the new provost, is right sweet on her. She makes sure o’ that.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t have to,” said Hamish defensively. “She’s right pretty.”

  “Aye, and doesn’t she just know it.”

  Jealous old bitch, thought Hamish.

  “Did Mary Leinster just turn up one day and suggest that job for herself?”

  “I think she came wi’ some letter of introduction from some banker in Perth who knows McQueen. The council decided to give her a try.”

  Hamish thanked her and left. He then found Mrs. Greta McColl at home but in contrast with the garrulous Bertha, she folded her already thin lips into a tight line and said she did not believe in talking about employers. Furthermore, she didn’t like nosy policemen. She’d heard about Hamish Macbeth. He was a womaniser and she couldnae stand men like that and good day to ye!

  Hamish drove to the café where he had left Dick. Dick was deep in gossip with two women. He decided to leave him for a bit and drove out to the shore road and parked. A great seawall had been built to keep out the increasing height of the tides. He climbed up on top of the wall. A stiff wind was blowing from the west. The tide was coming in, great Atlantic breakers thundering up the shore bringing in long strands of seaweed that seemed to clutch at the sand like fingers. Along to the left where cliffs reared up, he could see gulls on the ledges, and far out to the west a dark line of cloud.

  The weather’s breaking at last, thought Hamish. I hope it holds off. I don’t want to get soaked at the glen. He stayed where he was, comforted as always by the heaving fury of the ocean, until, glancing at his watch, he realised it was time to fetch Dick.

  “So what did you find out?” asked Hamish as he drove them back to Lochdubh.

  “A bittie here and there,” said Dick. “Mrs. Colchester prefers her own company and is annoyed at having the family stay and says she can’t wait to see the back of them. She keeps them all in line by hinting if they don’t wait on her hand and foot, she’ll leave her money elsewhere. Ralph Palfour had a big row with his wife the other night. She says, that’s Fern Palfour, that the nursery he owns in London is in Fulham and on a prime bit of real estate and if he sold it, they could get a fortune. Himself shouts back it’s been in his family for generations. She told him to do something nasty with his family and he slapped her. She burst into tears. He’s been saying sorry ever since but she says she hates him. No wonder the kids are so horrible.”

  “How did you get all this juicy gossip?”

  “Sue McColl, the cleaner’s daughter.”

  “My, my. And that’s the woman who’s just told me she never gossips. I don’t like this,
Dick. You mean there might be a murder?” said Hamish.

  “Naw. I mean the daughter and son-in-law would be prime suspects. They’ll be off south in a few days’ time and that’ll be that.”

  “Did the women you spoke to have any idea of who might have sabotaged the bridge and killed the kingfisher?”

  “They think it’s some of the local louts.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like a character called Ginger Stuart. Lives up on the council estate. Young tearaway. Did a stretch for pushing drugs.”

  “We’ll call on him tomorrow.”

  When Hamish had written up his reports, made supper, and fed his pets, he took Sonsie and Lugs out for a walk. From inside the police station came the blare of another game show.

  The Currie sisters approached him, and he paused by the wall overlooking the loch. Jessie and Nessie Currie were twin sisters, still called spinsters in a PC age which had made the word unfashionable. They both had thick glasses and tightly permed white hair.

  “Do you think black would be suitable?” asked Nessie.

  “Suitable,” echoed the Greek chorus that was her sister.

  “What for?” asked Hamish.

  “The funeral o’ the dead birdie.”

  Hamish as usual blocked out Jessie’s sotto voce repetitions.

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Bit over the top,” said Hamish. “Maybe brown.”

  “That might do,” said Nessie. “We’ve got our camel coats.”

  They moved on, arm in arm. Their place was taken by Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, who despite the mugginess of the evening was dressed in tweed with a felt hat crammed down on her large head.

  “It’s got to be stopped,” she said. “A funeral for dead birds! Sacrilegious, that’s what it is!”

  “What about all creatures great and small?” asked Hamish.

  “I told my husband not to conduct the service, but he says it is expected of him. Heathen, pagan rubbish.”

  On the following morning, Hamish and Dick with Lugs and Sonsie in the back of the Land Rover set out to interview Ginger Stuart. This is why they call the police “plods,” thought Hamish. One fruitless interview after another. Let’s hope this Ginger has something useful to say.

  At first sight, it was a puzzle how Ginger had received his nickname. He was in his thirties with a completely bald head and a thick muscular body stripped to the waist showing prison tattoos on his arms. He was tinkering with a motorbike in his weedy front garden.

  The front gate was lying on its side. Hamish followed by Dick walked into the garden. “I’ve got bugger-all tae say to ye,” said Ginger.

  Hamish sighed. “Full name, or I’ll have you in a cell for the night for obstructing the police in their enquiries.”

  “Walter Stuart.”

  “Do you know anything about what’s been going on at Buchan’s Wood?”

  “Me? Naw. Never go near the place.”

  “Have you heard of anyone in Braikie who might possibly have sabotaged that bridge?”

  He scratched his bald head. “Nope. I’m clean. The ones I used tae know, well, what’s in it for them? They’re only interested in any crime that pays for drug money.”

  Hamish handed over his card. “If you hear anything, let me know.”

  “Would there be money in it for me?”

  “Sure,” said Hamish.

  “Right, boss. I know things about them streets what you don’t.”

  Bless films and television, thought Hamish. He could see Ginger’s eyes narrowing and darting here and there as he tried to emulate a TV tough guy.

  The rest of the day produced very little. Dick had given up and had fallen asleep in the passenger seat with Sonsie draped across his lap like a fur blanket. Hamish wondered how he could bear the heat. The wind had suddenly dropped. It was one of those close, grey days where the highland midges were out biting in force. He rubbed his face, neck and hands with repellent and looked at the sky.

  If it rained that evening, he was going to have a miserable watch.

  But Sutherland went in for one of its dramatic changes of weather. A light breeze was blowing as he set out. He did not take a tent or sleeping bag because he only planned to stay in the Fairy Glen for an hour.

  It was two in the morning when he entered the dark depths of the glen and made his way to the pool under the bridge. He sat down on a flat stone and waited. He could sense nothing but peace. There was the sound of the waterfall and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth of some small animal. Fairies, according to highland superstition, were not glittery little things but small dark men. But the boys had seen something and then a voice warning them off. As far as he could gather, the wardens were nowhere around.

  He gave it an hour and a half and then returned to Lochdubh. An idea suddenly struck him as he was serving Dick breakfast. “Did you tell anyone I was going to be in the glen last night?”

  “I might have said something to the Currie sisters.”

  Hamish groaned. “That’s as good as taking out a full-page advertisement in the local paper. Don’t you see that everyone would soon know I was going to be there? No wonder nothing happened.”

  Dick placidly chomped a large sausage. “Och, well, all ye have to do is go again and I won’t say a word.”

  Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. “No, my friend, you’ll go the next time.”

  “It’s no’ suitable for a man o’ my years. I think I have the rheumatism.”

  “I think you’ve got the laziness. You’ll go when I tell you to go.”

  The rest of the week passed in dreary police work, until Hamish felt he must have interviewed the whole of Braikie. He longed to see Mary again, but kept away, reminding himself that she was married.

  The evening before the funeral of the kingfishers, Jimmy Anderson turned up with a thick file of papers. “Statements and more statements,” he said. “Go through them, Hamish, and see if you can pick anything out we might have missed. The bridge is repaired and there’s going to be a big crowd tomorrow. Lot o’ daft rubbish. Do you think Mary Leinster is right in the head?”

  “She’s a good publicist,” said Hamish. “A lot of the press are going to be there and the weather forecast’s good.”

  “I’m surprised Mr. Wellington’s going along with this farce.”

  “I don’t think our minister realises what a circus it’s going to be. Even a funeral for birds means whisky to the locals. There’ll be a right party.”

  “The criminals down in Strathbane are rejoicing,” said Jimmy. “Daviot sees it all as a big public relations exercise for the police. Going to be lots of us standing around like tumshies.”

  “Where are they burying the creatures?”

  “Get this! They’re burning the birds in the car park and then Mary carries the ashes in a wee box down to the bridge and chucks the ashes in the pool. There’s a choir and a piper. Got any whisky?”

  Hamish started to say no but Dick was already bringing down a bottle out of a kitchen cupboard.

  “Well, here’s to tomorrow,” said Jimmy.

  “Is Blair going to be there?”

  “Daviot thought it would be more diplomatic to leave him behind.”

  Hamish grinned. “This funeral might be fun after all.”

  “What on earth is that noise?” demanded Jimmy.

  “It’s Dick’s new dishwasher. I try to tell him to leave it till it’s full but he’s like a bairn wi’ a new toy.”

  Chapter Four

  The padre said, “Whatever have you been and gone and done?”

  —Sir William Gilbert

  Although Hamish mourned the loss of such beautiful birds as the kingfishers, he could not help feeling there was something distasteful about the whole circus of the funeral. He found he did not find it funny at all. The Church of Scotland is well known for its charity in believing that everyone should be entitled to a Christian burial, but Mr. Wellingt
on, the minister of Lochdubh, hearing he had been chosen because no preacher in Braikie wanted to be involved, and, further learning of the funeral pyre, dug his heels in and refused to attend.

  The enterprising Mary had discovered there was a small commune on South Rona called The Children of God and had persuaded the head of the cult, a weedy man called David Cunningham, to perform the service.

  Cunningham arrived dressed in white robes covered in silver tinsel stars. Hamish was sure the stars had been made out of kitchen aluminium foil. Cunningham had a long ponytail down his back to compensate for the fact that he was nearly bald in front.

  The day was fine and sunny. Crowds had gathered around a small funeral pyre in the car park. Mary was wearing a pretty, flowery dress which floated around her pocket-size Venus of a body. She approached Hamish. “How you must be hating this,” she said.

  “As a matter of fact I am,” said Hamish. “I’m surprised at you, Mary.”

  “I’m a businesswoman, Hamish, and it takes something like this to save the glen. Jobs are at stake. Think of the money the local shops make from the tourists. Have you ever known tourists bothering to visit Braikie before?”

  “Well, I know, but it all seems a bit sacrilegious.”

  She sighed. “Just look on it as a party. Television’s here. We even have no less a person than Elspeth Grant.”

  Hamish’s heart gave a jolt. “Where?”

  “Just arrived. Getting out of that Winnebago over there.”

  “Excuse me, Mary,” said Hamish hurriedly.

  She caught his arm. “Hamish, why don’t we have dinner one evening?”

  Mary’s blue eyes were opened to their widest as she looked up at him. Her lashes were black and tinged at the edged with gold. He had a sudden feeling of breathlessness. “That would be grand,” he said cautiously. “You and your husband?”

  “Tim and I are getting a divorce.”