Death of a Liar (2 page)

“That's it.”

“I wonder what they're playing at?” said Hamish slowly.

“Och, the same auld thing. They're playing at being highlanders. Won't last.”

And when, after two weeks went by, there was suddenly no sign of the Leighs, that seemed to be the case. The curtains were drawn and no one answered the door.

The fine weather had broken. Ragged black clouds flew in from the Atlantic, bringing squalls of rain. Choppy white waves raced down the loch and sent spurts of spray up from the rocks at the end of the shingly beach. A tall heron perched on one of the rocks with its back to the wind, like a man in a tailcoat, defying the weather.

The piles of earth in the schoolhouse garden slowly turned to mud.

The wind rose to a screaming gale, and with it came torrents of rain.

Rain battered at the windows of the police station. The River Anstey was in full spate, racing higher and higher under the humpbacked bridge.

And then, with one of its usual lightning changes, the weather shifted abruptly, racing off to plague the east and leaving the whitewashed cottages of Lochdubh gleaming in watery sunlight.

By late afternoon, when the sun was already going down, heralding the long dark winter nights to come, Hamish went out for a stroll with his pets.

He was looking dreamily at the loch when a small hand tugged at his regulation jersey. He looked down and saw one of the local children, Rory McVee, staring up at him, his freckles standing out on his white face.

“What is it, sonny?” asked Hamish.

“A foot! A foot!”

“Where?”

“Schoolhouse garden.”

“Show me.”

Hamish hurried after the boy and then called out, “Wait there!”

He opened the gate and walked into the schoolhouse garden. “At the back!” called Rory.

Hamish told his pets to stay, unhitched a torch from his belt, and walked round the back of the schoolhouse. He shone the torch across the garden. The recent storm had channelled rivers through the earth.

In the beam of his torch he saw a foot in a sensible brogue sticking up.

His heart sank down to his boots. He knew all of a sudden that the Leighs had not left at all.

The whole circus of forensic team, police, and detectives headed by the bane of Hamish's life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, descended on Lochdubh.

Blair made sure that Hamish was relegated to the sidelines, preferring to listen to gossip about the dead Leighs which his policemen had collected from the villagers. Finally, it transpired that there was only one body, that of Bessie Leigh. Of her husband, there was no sign. Hamish was ordered to take Dick and scour the countryside while a watch was put on all airports, train stations, bus stations, and ports. The Leighs' car was missing, a brand-new Audi.

Hamish decided to search the back roads, stopping at various croft houses to ask if anyone had seen an Audi driving past. He went north, guessing that any fugitive would avoid going south. At Lochinver, a man working in his garden said he had seen an Audi going at great speed past his house the day before, but he said there seemed to be several men in the car. Hamish drove on up the coast, looking always carefully to right and left, sure that the car would be dumped.

Just south of Kinlochbervie, he slammed on the brakes. “Seen something?” asked Dick.

“Over there, on the moor,” said Hamish. He started up the engine and swung the Land Rover onto the moor, bumping over tussocks of grass and heather. He stopped beside the Audi and got out. A seagull perched on the bonnet glared at him and flew away.

The car was empty, but the keys were in the ignition. “Better check the trunk,” said Hamish.

He sprang the trunk.

Inside was the bound and gagged body of Frank Leigh, his dead face twisted in a rictus of pain.

Blair was furious. This was an important case, and he didn't want this sergeant who had taken the glory away from him so many times having anything to do with it. When he arrived, the first thing he did was to order Hamish back to his police station to write a report.

“I'd swear that wee man was tortured,” said Hamish as he drove back to Lochdubh. “What do we know about the Leighs? Nothing at all. Frank Leigh must have information about something that someone wanted.”

Maybe whoever had taken him had followed in another car. Blair would try to make sure he didn't get any information. Hamish stopped off on the way and bought a bottle of whisky in the hope that Detective Jimmy Anderson would call on him. Jimmy was a friend and had often passed on information in the past—provided he was lubricated with whisky.

And so it turned out. He had just finished his report when Jimmy arrived, his eyes gleaming in his foxy face as Hamish put the whisky bottle and a glass on the kitchen table.

“It's a mystery,” sighed Jimmy when he had downed his first glass. “The house had been ransacked, safe open and empty, hadn't been blown so they must have got the code out of them, and papers strewn everywhere. But among thae papers, there aren't any marriage lines or birth certificates, bankbooks or passports. Maybe the villains took them with them.”

“How was Mrs. Leigh killed?” asked Hamish.

“Suffocated. Plastic and duct tape wrapped round and round her head. There may be something else when the full autopsy's been done.”

“Vicious and nasty,” said Hamish. “They seemed to have come from nowhere but, och, that didnae seem ower-strange. I mean, from time to time English folk come up to settle here, but you know how it is, if the weather doesn't chase them off, the drink will get them. It looks as if the Leighs were villains themselves and had something some gang wanted. There was more than one of them, wasn't there?”

“More than one size of footprint. Guess four men, but it looks as if they might have been wearing forensic boots and the whole place had been wiped clean.”

“In a wee village like this,” said Hamish, “four men drive up and break in and no one sees a damn thing…”

“No sign of a break-in,” said Jimmy. “Either the Leighs thought it was friends or someone held a gun on them.”

“Wait a bit,” said Hamish, clutching his red hair. “They could have come over the back during the night in a Land Rover or a four-by-four of some sort. Get in by the back door. Decide to take Frank Leigh off and torture him. Take him off over the moors and park. One of the men gets into the Audi and drives off sedately and meets up with them. They put Frank in the Audi and one of the men takes the four-by-four away. Did you see any tracks at the back?”

Jimmy sighed. “We didn't get a chance. The pathologist and the forensic team have been working all day in the garden.”

“Let's go now!”

Jimmy took a last swig of whisky and got reluctantly to his feet. “You'd better bed down in the cell tonight,” said Hamish. “You've had too much to drink and drive.”

“Havers. I tell you, laddie, there's nothing at this time of night on the road to Strathbane but the odd sheep.”

Dick, Jimmy, and Hamish put on their forensic suits and boots and made their way to the back of the schoolhouse garden, shining their torches on the muddy ground.

“You see!” said Hamish excitedly. “Tyre tracks going out, just a bit there. The rain probably washed away the rest of the evidence. There's no fence at the back. We won't get any further tracks in the heather. But if they went the way I'm thinking, they may have gone past Angus Macdonald's cottage. We'll go and ask him.”

“Thon seer gives me the creeps,” said Jimmy. “We'll take your Land Rover. I'm not walking up that steep hill to his cottage.”

Angus Macdonald opened the door to them, looking more like one of the minor prophets than ever with his long grey beard and long white gown.

He ushered them into his low-ceilinged parlour. His peat fire was smouldering and sending out puffs of grey smoke.

Hamish explained the reason for their visit.

“You havenae brought me anything,” complained the seer, who always expected some sort of gift.

“This is police work, you greedy auld man,” snapped Hamish. “You've heard about the murders. Did you see or hear a vehicle passing on…” He swung round to Jimmy. “When do you think Mrs. Leigh was murdered?”

“About two weeks ago at least.”

“Well, Angus?”

“It must ha' been about two in the morning,” crooned the seer, closing his eyes. “I sensed black evil and went to the window and looked down the brae. A four-by-four was racing along and turned over the moor, heading down to join the road at the outside o' the village. That would be about fifteen days ago.”

“That would be them,” said Hamish. “Thanks, Angus.”

As they made for the door, Angus said, “Oh, Mr. Anderson. If I were you, I wouldnae drive tonight.”

“Why?” demanded Jimmy.

“Something's waiting for you on the Strathbane road.”

“What?”

“I cannae see any further.”

“Maybe you should sleep here,” said Hamish after they had walked back to the police station.

“That police cell bed is as hard as buggery,” said Jimmy. “I'm off.”

He drove carefully out of the village and up onto the Strathbane road. He had to admit, the seer had scared him. Jimmy stopped the car and lit a cigarette. He was about to drive off again when, with a great rumbling sound, a landslide of mud, heather roots, gorse, grasses, and earth crashed down the road in front of him.

He slowly and carefully turned the car and drove back to the police station.

Dick and Hamish went out to check that no one and no cottage had been caught in the landslide. They were muddy and tired when they got back to the police station.

Jimmy's snores were sounding from the police cell.

Hamish showered and got ready for bed. He was just climbing into bed, followed by his pets, when the phone in the police office began to ring.

He went through to answer it. Liz Bentley's voice came over the line. “He's trying to get in the door. Oh, help me! Help me! Oh, God!” There was the sound of a crash, running feet, a shot, and then silence and the line went dead.

“That must be one o' the most imaginative liars I have ever come across,” muttered Hamish and went back to bed.

Hamish woke the next morning to be immediately plagued by a guilty conscience. What if—just what if—for once in her life, Liz had not been lying?

He dressed hurriedly and woke Jimmy and explained his fears. “You'd better get off up there in case,” said Jimmy. “There's not much you can do here. I'll let you know of any developments. And take your animals with you. I don't want to be left alone with them.”

Dick was already up. “We may as well have a decent breakfast first,” he said. “Think how right cross you'll be to find her lying and you with an empty stomach.”

They eventually set off on a sunny morning, bumping and swaying over the heather to circle around the landslide.

On such a day, with the blue mountains soaring up to an azure sky, it was hard to believe that anything had happened to Liz.

They gained the shore road. Even the Atlantic was calm: green near the shore and deep blue further out where cormorants screamed and dived.

Hamish began to feel reassured as they drove into the tiny village of Cromish. A couple of women were chatting outside the village shop. Smoke from peat fires rose lazily into the air.

They parked outside Liz's cottage. “The door's closed,” said Dick, “and there's no sign of forced entry.”

“So let's knock anyway,” said Hamish, “and see if we can stop her lying for once and for all.”

They got down from the Land Rover. Hamish stretched and yawned, his hazel eyes surveying the highland scene with pleasure. He knocked at the door and rang the bell.

Silence.

He tried the door handle. It was not locked, and the door swung open easily.

“Miss Bentley?” he called.

No sound but the rising wind soughing through the heather outside.

He pushed open the door to the “best room” and then to the kitchen-
cum
-living-room. Everything was clean and neat, but both rooms were empty.

He went up the narrow stairs—followed by Dick—to where he guessed he would find small bedrooms under the eaves.

Still no sign of Liz.

But there was something in the very silent atmosphere of the place that was making Hamish's highland sixth sense uneasy.

“Maybe she's at the shop,” suggested Dick.

“Let's have another look downstairs first,” said Hamish.

He went into the kitchen. “There's the phone on the counter,” he said. “Let me think. Say she's been telling the truth. He shoots her. Maybe that shot doesn't kill her. Let's look out the back door.”

He opened the door and went out into the windy day, Dick crowding behind him.

The body of Liz Bentley lay in a vegetable patch, the back of her sweater stained with blood.

“We've got a garden crop o' bodies,” said Dick and laughed hysterically.

They came in their hordes: police, detectives, pathologist, photographer, and a forensic team followed by the press and headed by Blair, who was determined to make the most of Hamish's delay in calling on the scene of the murder.

Making sure the press were listening, he berated Hamish for not having investigated sooner.

Patiently, Hamish referred him to his earlier report when Liz had first cried wolf and the evidence of the local doctor that Liz had been a habitual liar. Only the arrival of Superintendent Daviot by helicopter shut Blair up. Daviot listened carefully as Hamish explained it all again and said he had not acted negligently, much to Blair's fury, particularly when an unshaven Jimmy Anderson weighed in and said according to the locals, Liz was indeed a liar.

Blair thought quickly. The murder of the Leighs was the more dramatic case. Liz Bentley had no doubt been bumped off by one of the local retarded teuchters up here in peasantville. He persuaded Daviot that it would be a good idea to let Hamish Macbeth investigate this murder while the force concentrated on the Leighs.

To Hamish's relief, the press followed the departing cars. Daviot got into the helicopter and was borne off. Blair left Jimmy Anderson with instructions to keep an eye on Hamish and wait until the forensic team and the pathologist had finished their investigations and report to him.

The wind was howling a shrieking lament. Hamish gave a superstitious shudder. Three people murdered on his vast beat of Sutherland. The pathologist, a man Hamish had not met before, finally came out.

Hamish introduced himself. “I'm Jamie Tavish,” said the pathologist. He was a tall, grizzled man. “Poor wee lassie.”

“Shotgun?” asked Hamish.

“Aye, right in the back. But you'll be getting a full report from the procurator fiscal. Man, I've a thirst. Got any whisky on ye?”

I should have opened a pub instead, thought Hamish. This one's as bad as Jimmy.

But Dick said, “I've got a flask o' brandy for emergencies.”

“Hand it over, laddie,” said the pathologist. “This is an emergency.”

The body was being wheeled out to an ambulance as Tavish glugged down the brandy.

“I'd like a wee keek at the body,” said Hamish.

Tavish wiped a hand like a ham across his mouth. “Help yourself.”

Hamish signalled to the ambulance men to wait. He approached the body on the gurney and gently unzipped the body bag. He stared down at Liz's dead face. She was dressed in a low-cut floral-patterned blouse. The wind whistled over the body, blowing open the neck of the blouse. Hamish gave a stifled exclamation. On the upper part of the left breast were burn marks, red, round, and circular as if made with a cigarette.

He turned from the body and called to the pathologist to join him. “Look there,” urged Hamish. “Those are burn marks. This woman was tortured. She isnae wearing a bra. You can see them plain.”

“Och, it's probably the midges,” said Tavish. “They can be right awful.”

“You'll have to take the body back inside.”

“Look here, laddie. I haven't got the time.” To Hamish's fury, Tavish strode off to his car, got in, and roared off.

Jimmy appeared at Hamish's side. “Where have you been?” demanded Hamish furiously.

“Went for a pee. What's up?”

“I had a look at the body. There are burn marks on her breasts. She's been tortured. Just like Frank Leigh.”

“Can't have anything to do wi' him,” said Jimmy.

“I'll need to put in a report. Where did they find that pathologist?”

“He's temporary.”

“It needs to be investigated. I want to search that cottage after the forensic boys are finished.”

“They'll be ages yet,” said Jimmy. “Let's start knocking on a few doors.”

“I'll go and get some food,” said Dick.

Hamish looked at him impatiently, but Jimmy said, “Good lad. Get some whisky while you're at it.”

Heads bent against the gale, Hamish and Jimmy went from door to door to meet with nothing but impatient replies from villagers who had already been questioned by the police. According to all of them, Liz had been a liar who had wasted their time and sympathy too often.

“Let's try Dr. Williams,” said Hamish.

The doctor lived in a sandstone Victorian villa on the edge of the village. He was just returning to his home with his dog. “I've heard the news,” he said. “Poor woman.”

“Can we go inside?” asked Hamish. “We've a few questions.”

The doctor led the way into a cluttered living room. The walls were lined with books. A peat fire smouldered on the hearth. The dog, a black Labrador, slumped down on the floor. Fishing rods were stacked in one corner. They sat in battered leather armchairs in front of the fire.

“It's like this,” said Hamish. “I had a quick look at the body. Liz Bentley had burn marks on her breasts. Did you know about that?”

“Aye, she came to me the other day, saying it was hot oil spatter from the stove. They looked to me like cigarette burns and I told her so. She began to cry, but she was always crying and lying and I was right tired of her. I gave her some cream and told her to get lost.”

“Did anyone see a man calling on her?” asked Jimmy. “Any stranger?”

“Nobody sees anything once the telly is on,” said the doctor. “If someone wanted to see Liz and not get seen, he could get in by the back. Was the lock forced?”

“Didn't seem to be,” said Hamish, “but we're going back for a proper look once the forensic team has finished. Before the villagers got wise to her, was she romancing anyone?”

“No one I can think of. We've only two single men here, me and an auld man o' ninety.”

“How long had Liz lived in the village?” asked Jimmy.

“Four years.”

“That all!” exclaimed Hamish. “Where did she come from?”

“Perth. She's got family there, I gather. Of course, she could have been lying about that as well.”

“Let's go,” said Jimmy. “They should have finished with the cottage by now.”

In another mercurial change of weather, the gale had roared away to the east, leaving the countryside bathed in pale-y
ellow
sunlight.

Dick had set up a card table by the Land Rover. He waved when he saw them and said he had got sandwiches from the village shop and some beer.

“You'll make someone the grand wife,” said Jimmy. “Let's eat first, Hamish. Give them time to pack up.”

“Let's see what they have to say first,” said Hamish. “They're carrying out boxes of stuff and her computer. I'd have liked a look at that.”

“We'll go down to Strathbane when we're finished here and go through it,” said Jimmy.

The head of the forensic team was a woman. As she stripped off her overalls and hood, Hamish saw she was quite attractive with curly black hair, large brown eyes, and a generous mouth.

Hamish introduced himself, Dick, and Jimmy. “What have you found?”

“I'm Christine Dalray,” she said, “and not much. Whoever did this wiped the whole place clean of fingerprints and cleaned the floor as well.”

“I think she had been tortured,” said Hamish. “The body has cigarette burns on it. Any signs around of her having been tied up?”

“Hard to tell. Whoever killed her did such a thorough job of cleaning up,” said Christine. “Is that beer and sandwiches you have there? I'm famished.”

“Help yourself,” said Hamish. “Dick aye provides enough for an army.”

To Christine's amusement, Dick produced canvas chairs from the Land Rover and set them up round the table and then handed around paper napkins.

“How long have you been on the job?” asked Hamish, covertly admiring Christine's very long legs, displayed to advantage in a pair of tight jeans.

“Only a few weeks. I was in Glasgow when I got the offer of the job. Evidently Strathbane is famous for sloppy forensic work, and I'm not surprised. The fridges, which should contain samples, were full of beer. They're all part of the Strathbane rugby team, and that seems more important to them than any research. Then it's difficult being a woman. They've played a few nasty tricks on me.”

“And how do you cope with that?” asked Hamish curiously. “Report them for sexual harassment?”

“No, I just beat them up.”

“What!”

“I've a black belt in karate. It comes in handy.”

“And to think I was just beginning to fancy her,” mourned Jimmy as they drove south to Strathbane. “The minute she said that about beating them up, I could feel my willie shrinking to the size—”

“Spare us,” said Hamish.

“I thought she was a right bonnie lassie,” said Dick.

“Ask her out,” urged Hamish, who was always hoping that Dick would marry and leave the police station. He felt that Dick's housewifely presence put off any women. Not, he reflected sadly, that he had been very clever in that department. He had cancelled his engagement to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the colonel who ran the Tommel Castle Hotel, because of her sexual coldness, although he could not shake off a recurring dream of a warm and passionate Priscilla. Then there was Elspeth Grant, once a local reporter, now a well-known television presenter. He had been engaged to her but had broken that off because he thought she was two-timing him. And by the time he realised his mistake, Elspeth was no longer interested.

At police headquarters in Strathbane, Jimmy ordered all the material from Liz's cottage to be brought to them in an interview room, because, as he said, if they had it all out in the detectives' room, Blair would shove his face in.

While Hamish switched on Liz's computer, Dick and Jimmy began to sift through the papers. “Have her nearest and dearest been informed?” he asked. “That is, if she's got any.”

“She has a sister and a brother in Perth and they're on their way to the procurator fiscal,” said Jimmy. “Then there's a cousin. Very quick check of their whereabouts on the night of the murder and they were all in Perth. The brother, Donald Bentley, is a Wee Free minister, the sister, Mrs. Josie Dunbar, is a pillar of the community, and the cousin is a garage mechanic who was drinking late last night and hadn't the time to get up there.”

“She didn't use the computer much,” said Hamish. “No e-mails.”

“I'm amazed anyone can get on the Internet up there,” said Jimmy. “No mobile phone.”

“Wait a bit!” cried Dick. “You'll never believe what she had in the bank.”

“So go on. Tell us,” said Jimmy.

“She had about half a million.”

“Maybe the family's rich,” said Jimmy.

“Maybe worth killing for,” said Hamish. “Who inherits?”

“There's her will in this tin box along with instructions for her funeral,” said Dick. “Her brother, the minister, gets the money and the house.”