Death of a Village (6 page)

‘Get in the house this minute!’ ordered her mother.

The girl slid past them and vanished into the cottage.

‘And is everything all right with you?’ pursued Hamish.

‘Yes, yes. Fine. Now, if you don’t mind . . .’

‘Was anything going on at Stoyre?’

She had been about to close the door but hesitated. ‘No, why?’

‘There was a strange atmosphere when I was there.’

‘Well, ye cannae be arresting an atmosphere,’ and with that she closed the door firmly.

Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his fiery hair. He turned and walked back down to the waterfront and along to the harbour. Archie Maclean, a fisherman, was sitting on the wall outside
his cottage, puffing on a hand-rolled cigarette.

‘Grand morning, Archie,’ said Hamish, sitting down next to him.

‘Aye, it is that.’

‘Don’t you ever sleep?’

‘I will be having a kip this afternoon. Herself is cleaning again.’

The sound of frantic activity sounded from the cottage behind them.

‘I went up to see the Bains,’ said Hamish.

‘Aye, Harry Bain was out with us last night.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Quiet wee man. Nothing much to say for himself. But a good worker.’

‘He’s just moved here from Stoyre. Have you heard anything about Stoyre, Archie?’

‘Nothing much except they seem to have a rare powerful preacher. The kirk is aye full.’

‘If you get talking to Harry, see if you can find out anything.’

‘I’ll do that. But why? You think something criminal’s going on?’

‘I don’t know. Just a feeling.’

Hamish went back to the police station after collecting the newspapers from Patel’s. Time to relax and forget about Bella and about Stoyre. He took a deck chair out to the garden and, with
Lugs at his feet, settled down to read.

The phone rang in the police station. Hamish rustled a newspaper impatiently. Let the answering machine pick it up. The window to the police office was open. The answering machine clicked on.
Blair’s voice broke the peace of the day. ‘Get yourself over to Stoyre. Major Jennings’s cottage has been blown up.’

‘Where is the major?’ asked Hamish as he and Jimmy stood with detectives and police officers surveying the burnt-out shell that had once been the major’s
bungalow.

‘Flying up from the south. We’ll have the anti-terrorist squad here.’

‘Can’t be the IRA this far north.’

‘The major’s retired but he was once in army intelligence. May have had something to do with Northern Ireland.’

‘Are they sure it was some sort of explosive? Couldn’t have been a faulty Calor gas tank?’

‘Too early to say. Could just be some anti-English bastards. You mind that film
Braveheart?’

‘Of course,’ said Hamish. ‘And what a load of inaccurate historical rubbish it was, too.’

‘Aye, but you know it caused a lot of anti-English feeling in some weak heads. Then there was that showbiz chap, Cameron McIntosh over in Mallaig. His cottage got destroyed.’

‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Hamish uneasily. All the while he thought, This can’t be happening in Stoyre. He looked down at the calm sea and the sun-warmed stone harbour.
Something evil was going on here.

Blair came marching up to him. ‘Move your lazy bum, Macbeth, and see what you can get out of the local yokels.’

Hamish set off down the slope from the ruins of the major’s cottage.

He decided to try the manse first. The door was eventually answered by what he at first thought was a young girl. She was wearing a short summer dress and her hair was in pigtails. Her thin legs
ended in white ankle socks and black flat shoes. Her features were small but then he noticed the thin, spidery lines on her face. ‘Mrs Mackenzie?’

‘Yes, Officer. Won’t you come in? My husband is going about his parochial duties.’ Her voice was soft and lilting.

Hamish took off his cap and followed her along a stone-flagged passage to the manse kitchen. The long sash windows were open and a breeze fluttered the crystal-white net curtains. A scarlet
Raeburn cooker stood against one wall and a dresser with brightly patterned plates against another. There was a scrubbed wooden kitchen table in the centre surrounded with ladder-back chairs.

‘Sit down, Officer,’ said the minister’s wife. ‘Coffee?’

‘That would be grand.’

She put instant coffee in two mugs and poured boiling water from a kettle on top of the stove. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ she said, sitting down opposite him. ‘I
suppose you’ve come about that terrible business.’

‘The major’s cottage, yes. What can you tell me about it?’

‘Nothing.’ Her eyes were greyish blue and slightly slanted, the sort of Highland eyes which reflected everything back, in a way, without betraying their owner’s feelings.
‘We were woken up about dawn with this tremendous blast, and the windows of the manse rattled.’

‘So you got up and went out to have a look?’

‘Well, no. We were both still tired, so we went back to sleep.’

‘Heavens, woman! Surely natural curiosity would ha’ impelled you to go out of doors to see what had happened.’

‘Odd things happen every day,’ she said serenely. ‘It is God’s will and it is not up to us to question the will of God.’

‘I would think it was up to everyone to question the will of man,’ said Hamish dryly. He looked at her curiously. ‘I mean, God didn’t blow up the major’s cottage.
Some villain or villains did it.’

‘It could have been lightning or a thunderbolt.’

‘Meaning God zapped the major’s cottage? Havers. And what do you think a douce body like the major would have done to incur the wrath of God?’

Her thin lips became even thinner as she folded them into a reproving line. ‘He did not attend the kirk when he was here.’

‘The kirk is Free Presbyterian. Stands to reason, the major is probably a member o’ the Church of England.’

‘That is as may be.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

She sipped her coffee in silence while Hamish gave her a frustrated look. At last he said, ‘So you’ve nothing to tell me?’

‘There’s nothing I can tell you.’

He stood and picked up his cap. ‘If you think of anything, let me know.’

‘You can find your own way out?’

‘Aye.’

Baffled, Hamish went off. He stood outside the door of the manse and looked down on the village of Stoyre, a huddle of houses before a tranquil sea. The air smelled fresh and clean. Somewhere up
on the hill a sheep bleated.

He walked down into the village and into the pub. A few locals were sitting at tables. When he came in, they rose to their feet and went out. Andy Crummack, the landlord, was polishing
glasses.

‘I seem to be bad for business,’ commented Hamish.

‘We keep ourselves to ourselves in this village,’ said Andy, ‘and we don’t like nosy coppers asking questions.’

‘Then get used to it,’ snapped Hamish. ‘Because I’m the first of many.’ He took out his notebook. ‘Now, where were you when the major’s cottage was
blown up?’

‘I was in my bed.’

‘And did you go out to see what happened?’

‘No, I thought it was thunder.’

‘Man, the blast must have been horrendous. What time did you hear it?’

‘I looked at the clock. It was just after five.’

‘Andy, something’s going on in this village and I mean to get to the bottom of it.’

‘Aye, well, that’s your job.’

The pub door opened and Elspeth came in. Hamish was relieved to see someone, anyone, from outside this strange village. ‘Come and have a drink,’ he hailed. He jerked a thumb at Andy.
‘No use asking him anything.’

Hamish ordered a tonic water for himself and a whisky for Elspeth and carried them to a corner table. ‘Got any news for me?’ he asked.

‘Not a thing. They all heard that blast at dawn and inexplicably no one admits to going out to see what happened or even to looking through a window.’

‘Do you still think they’re scared of something?’

‘No, that’s the odd thing. They’ve got carefully blank faces, but underneath they’re elated about something – elated and secretive, like children hiding
something.’

‘Don’t you think,’ asked Hamish, surveying her outfit, ‘that you might get a bit more out of the locals if your clothes weren’t so strange?’

Elspeth was wearing a grey chiffon blouse with a pair of cut-off denim shorts and clumpy hiking boots.

‘No, you old fuddy-duddy. No one is going to get anything out of this lot.’

Hamish looked across her out the window and saw a familiar figure heading for the pub door. ‘Blair,’ he hissed. ‘Don’t say you saw me.’

He vaulted the bar and made his way through to the back premises just as the detective chief inspector came through the door. There was a back storeroom with a door opening on to a weedy garden.
In the middle of the storeroom, clutching a Bible and on his knees in prayer, was the landlord. Hamish edged round him and darted out into the sunlight. Andy seemed unaware of his existence.

Hamish then went diligently from cottage to cottage, asking questions and getting the same replies as Elspeth had received. He had just left one of the cottages when he heard himself being
hailed by Jimmy Anderson. ‘Get anything?’ asked Jimmy.

Hamish sighed. ‘I get the impression they all believe it was the wrath of God. They’ve never actually attacked anyone English up here before. I mean, they don’t even like
people from anywhere south of Perth.’

‘See Blair?’

‘He was heading for the pub. He’s probably still there.’

‘Well, that’ll keep him away for a bit. The major should be here this afternoon. I wonder what he’ll have to say. The bomb squad is combing the ruins. They think it was one of
those fertilizer bombs like the IRA uses.’

‘Now, why don’t I believe it was the IRA?’ muttered Hamish. ‘There’s something odd going on here, Jimmy.’

‘I agree with you. I think one of them did it out of spite. Maybe the Lord told them to do it. Is there a lot of inbreeding in these parts?’

‘Not now. No.’

‘It would drive me daft living in a place like Stoyre. Think what it’s like in the winter when the sun rises at ten in the morning and sinks at two in the afternoon.’

‘It does that in Strathbane.’

‘Aye, but there’s life there, man. Lights, traffic, theatre, cinema, clubs.’

‘And crime and drugs.’

‘Maybe, but we haven’t had anything as dramatic as this.’

‘Oh, here’s the boss,’ said Hamish.

Blair, red in the face and breathing whisky fumes, came up to them. ‘You,’ he said to Jimmy, ‘come back up to the major’s with me. You, Macbeth, get back to your local
duties. We’ve enough men here.’

Hamish trotted off. He knew that Jimmy would probably fill him in later and he also knew that he wasn’t going to get anything more out of the locals.

As he drove off to Lochdubh, he noticed a cloud, a small round cloud, travelling towards the sun. The breeze through the open window felt damp against his cheek and the countryside had that
waiting feeling it gets when rain is about to arrive. By the time he got back to the police station, the sky was a uniform grey, as if the clouds had sunk down rather than blowing in from the
sea.

He walked Lugs and fed him and then himself. He checked on his sheep and went back indoors as the first fat raindrops began to fall. He made a pot of tea and sat down at the kitchen table to
mull over the situation in Stoyre. Somehow the greyness of the day and the soft rain falling outside seemed to bring back reality to the Highlands and to his mind. He was now sure that some local
had blown up the major’s cottage to get rid of him. The major or some of the guests he usually invited in the summer might have offended someone, and Highland malice, as Hamish knew, ran slow
and deep and took its time over getting revenge.

He carried his mug of tea through to the office and stood at the window, looking out at the rain-pocked waters of the loch. Mist was rolling down the hills opposite to hang in grey wreaths round
the top of the forest trees. A small yacht sailed into view. Two figures were taking down the sails, and he could hear the chug-chug of the donkey engine.

He sat down at his desk and switched on the computer and began to type a report. The next day would be a Sunday. Hamish remembered he had promised to go to church in Stoyre with Elspeth. Might
be interesting to hear one of Fergus Mackenzie’s sermons and discover what it was in them that had prompted such a strong religious revival.

Jimmy Anderson arrived in the early evening. ‘Blasted weather,’ he said. ‘Got any whisky?’

‘No,’ said Hamish, ‘and the shop’s closed. Closes early on Saturday.’

‘Got anything?’

‘I’ve got some brandy left over from Christmas.’

‘That’ll do.’

Hamish took down the brandy bottle from the cupboard. ‘I won’t join you,’ he said. ‘I don’t like brandy much.’

‘And that’s why you’ve got it left over from Christmas. Good. All the more for me,’ said Jimmy. ‘Pour it out.’

Hamish poured a measure of brandy into a glass and placed it in front of him.

‘Got cold in here,’ complained Jimmy.

‘I’ll light the stove,’ said Hamish. ‘Any more orders?’

‘No,’ said Jimmy, taking a swig of brandy. ‘Ah, that’s better. Blair’s been getting on my tits. There’s bigwigs up from Scotland Yard and some bods from MI5,
and Blair’s been showing off by pushing me around and crawling to them.’

Hamish filled the stove with kindling and paper and struck a match. When the stove was lit, he added several slices of dark peat and a couple of logs. ‘I think it was a local job,’
he said.

‘Well, to be sure, the dafties are all blaming it on God.’

‘Did you manage to get out of them why God should be angry with Major Jennings?’

‘Mrs MacBean at the general store was more forthcoming than the rest of them.’

‘What did she say?’ asked Hamish.

‘When I asked her why God would see fit to blow up the major’s cottage, she replied that God moved in mysterious ways. And believe me, that meant she was being downright talkative
compared to the rest of them up in Brigadoon.’

‘So long as everyone’s convinced it’s a terrorist attack, they’ll leave the locals alone. Did the major arrive?’