Death of a Witch (8 page)

“I’ve got someone to see,” said Hamish. “Look, Jimmy, do me a favour. The minute you get anything from Dr. Forsythe, let me know.”

“I’ll do that if I can with Blair breathing down my neck.” Behind him, the mobile unit dipped and swayed. “Here he comes. You’d better be off.”

Hamish hurried back along the waterfront. Timmy, he knew, shared lodgings with several other forestry workers in caravans on the other side of the loch. He got into his Land Rover and drove off.

He located Timmy’s caravan by dint of knocking on other caravan doors and asking where Timmy lived.

Timmy answered the door, and his face fell when he saw Hamish.

“I’m right sorry I brought ye all the way here on such a cold night,” said Timmy.

“Yes, it is cold, so ask me in?”

“I’ve got company,” said Timmy, looking nervously behind him.

“And who would that be?”

“It’s just a lassie who minds the bar in Braikie.”

“All right. Step outside and talk to me.”

Timmy reluctantly came down the caravan steps. “I feel a fool, Hamish. It’s really nothing now I think of it. I saw a couple of deer poachers up on the hill.”

“So what was so private about that?”

“Thae deer poachers can be vicious. I didn’t want any of them to see me going to the station. They saw me watching them.”

Hamish took out his notebook. “Where?”

“Up on Brechie moor. Two big fellows, one with a beard, a short grey beard. Must ha’ been middle-aged. The other was young. Could ha’ been his son. Tall thin laddie wearing a wool cap like the older one. They had dark green shooting jackets and both were carrying deer rifles.”

Hamish studied Timmy’s face in the light shining from the caravan window. “And did one of them have a scar on his face?” he asked.

“Now you come to mention it . . .”

“Timmy, you’re telling me a bunch o’ lies. What was it you really wanted to tell me?”

“I’m telling you the truth, I swear.”

“Your eyes tell me you’re lying.”

“That would make a good song, Hamish,” said Timmy. “Got to get back to business.” He nipped quickly into his caravan and slammed the door.

Hamish remembered that Colin Framont and his wife, Tilly, lived next door to the Braids. Perhaps they could give him some details about Ina Braid’s life and whether she had made any enemies.

Tilly answered the door to him. “Come ben, Hamish,” she cried. “Isn’t it awful. Poor Ina who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Hamish removed his peaked cap and followed her into the living room, where her husband was watching television. He rose when he saw Hamish and switched the television off.

The living room was neat and clean. Almost too uncomfortably clean, thought Hamish.

“I wonder if you, Tilly, could tell me what sort of a person Ina was,” began Hamish. “I never really knew her that well.”

“Very quiet,” said Tilly.

“Did she and her husband ever quarrel?”

“Never a cross word.”

“That’s going a bit far, Tilly. All married couples surely quarrel sometimes.”

“Yes, but not violent. I mean I never heard any shouting or yelling. Besides, if there had been anything like that, Ina would have told me.”

“I keep wondering whether it had anything to do with the death of the woman who called herself Catriona Beldame.”

“It could be,” said Tilly. “I mean, there could be some maniac on the loose. The police have been in her house, searching it from end to end. Poor Fergus. He must be heartbroken. They took him away for questioning. They must be mad.”

“He should be back soon,” said Hamish. “It seems he has an alibi.”

“Oh, that’s grand, isn’t it, Colin?”

“Aye,” said Colin. “I’ll give him a knock and get him in here for a drink.”

Hamish asked more questions, but they did not seem to have anything interesting to say.

When Hamish began to walk down the lane, he saw a tall figure silhouetted by the lights from the waterfront. The fog had thinned to a slight haze.

“Is that yourself, Fergus?” he called.

“Yes, it’s me, Hamish.” His voice broke on a sob. “That bastard Blair. I could kill him!”

“Hush, now. Don’t let anyone hear you saying things like that. I’ll walk you back to your house. Do you want me to go and get you a dram?”

“I’ve got a bottle in the house. Come back wi’ me, Hamish. I feel a wreck.”

Housekeeping in Lochdubh, thought Hamish as he looked around the living room in Fergus’s cottage, was not a chore but a religion. It was so clean, it looked sterile.

He took off his cap and sat down as Fergus took a bottle of whisky from the sideboard along with two glasses and poured a couple of drinks.

Fergus settled back in an armchair and looked moodily at the fireplace. He took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. “Who on earth would kill Ina?” he said. “I can’t get it into my head that she’s dead. I keep expecting her to walk into this room any moment.”

“Your ash is about to drop on the carpet,” said Hamish. “Can I get you an ashtray?”

“None in the house,” said Fergus, flicking the ash into the fireplace. “Ina was allergic to cigarette smoke.”

“I have to ask you this, Fergus. Could she have been seeing another man?”

“What? Ina? Man, who’d even look at her?”

“That’s a wee bit harsh.”

“Well, she wasn’t a beauty, that’s for sure.”

The doorbell rang. “I know who that is,” said Fergus. “It’s them next door. Could you go and tell them that after I answer police questions I’m going straight to bed?”

Sure enough, Tilly was standing on the doorstep holding a casserole. She listened to Hamish making his excuses for Fergus and then handed him the casserole. “It’s a good lamb stew,” she said. “You tell him I’ll be round first thing in the morning to pick up his laundry and do his cleaning.”

Hamish took the casserole in and placed it in the gleaming kitchen. “I heard what she said,” said Fergus when Hamish joined him. “I won’t answer the door.”

“So, Fergus,” said Hamish patiently, “rack your brains. Did Ina have any enemies?”

“No.”

“Did she have anything to do with Catriona Beldame?”

“No, I mean she wouldn’t.”

“She might have gone there for something like a love potion.”

“What for? Me? Ah, well, you’re not married, are you?”

Hamish continued to question him. He asked if there were any letters he could see but Fergus shook his head and said they hadn’t a computer, either.

Hamish at last rose. He turned in the doorway. Fergus was studying a TV guide. “Man, there’s American football on tonight,” he crowed.

There’s a man who looks as if he’s just been let out of prison rather than having lost a wife, thought Hamish.

Chapter Five

Kissing don’t last! Cookery do.

—George Meredith

Hamish was surprised when he returned to the police station to find not one single hectoring message from Blair on his answering service. Then he decided that it was because the chief detective inspector wanted to keep both murder cases firmly to himself.

Jimmy came in after him without knocking and sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh.

“What a day!”

“Got any background on Catriona?”

“A bit. She was married to a Rory McBride, crofter of Inverness. Maiden name was Catriona Burrell.”

“On the police records?”

“Nearly but not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gimme a whisky and I’ll tell you.”

“One of these days,” said Hamish, lifting down a bottle of whisky from a kitchen cupboard, “Blair’s going to die of acute alcoholism and you’ll find a hellfire teetotaller is your new boss. Probably a woman. And she’ll have you in rehab as fast as anything.”

“When Blair pushes off, I’ll get his job. I’m practising my funny handshake already.”

“You’re never going to join the Masons!”

“If it was good enough for Rabbie Burns, it’s good enough for me. Just joking.”

“So,” said Hamish as Jimmy took a first gulp of whisky, “tell me what you meant about Catriona.”

“She was in Drumnadrochit not long after her separation, right down at the end of Loch Ness. Police got a rumour she was pushing drugs—Ecstasy. Two detectives got a search warrant and went along. One of them phones in to say they’ve found a stash of the stuff and they’re bringing her in. An hour later, the other one phones back and said they’d made a mistake and there were no drugs in the cottage at all.”

“Who are these detectives?”

“Detective Sergeant Paul Simmonds and Detective Constable Peter Lyon.”

“Odd.”

“Wait a bit. There’s more. You’re going to love this. Although the cottage is a bit isolated, folks walking back to the local hotel said they heard the noise of a party going on. Lights shining, music blaring. Then two men staggered out and one shouts back, ‘See you soon, Catriona.’ The men answered the descriptions of the two detectives. A waitress at the hotel was walking to her evening shift as well. Evidently her husband had been visiting Catriona and she was jealous. So she phoned it in. More police were sent but there wasn’t a drug to be found although they took that cottage apart. Shortly after that, Catriona disappeared.”

“And what happened to the detectives?”

“Suspended from duty pending an enquiry. Nothing found against them. Simmonds is now working as a security guard in Glasgow and Lyon got a transfer to Edinburgh.”

“She could hardly have had much custom to peddle drugs in a wee place like Drumnadrochit,” said Hamish.

“There was a rumour she had been seen at a couple of the clubs in Inverness. I’m telling you, Hamish. Wi’ a woman like that, anyone out of her past could have had it in for her.”

“I hope it is someone from her past,” said Hamish.

“What’s this? You’ve cracked at last and think one of your precious peasants could be a murderer?”

“Let’s hope not.”

After Jimmy had left, Hamish was wondering what to eat. He had frozen food in the freezer out in the shed in the garden but he didn’t feel like defrosting anything. There was a knock at the door.

He was half tempted to ignore it, fearing Blair had decided that some Hamish baiting was called for, but after a short hesitation, he opened it and found Lesley on the doorstep carrying a large pot.

She seemed almost shy, and avoiding his gaze she said, “I made too much beef stew and I wondered if you would like some.”

“Bring it in,” said Hamish. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“Then we’ll have our dinner together. The stove’s hot. Just put the pot on top.”

“Right. I’ve got some wine in the car.”

“Now, is this wise?” Hamish asked Lugs. “But that stew smells wonderful.” Lesley came back brandishing a bottle, which she put on the table. Hamish helped her off with her coat. She was wearing a lime-green woollen dress that clung to her ample curves.

“So how are things going?” asked Hamish.

She pulled a flowered pinafore out of her capacious handbag and put it on. She went to the stove and began to stir the stew. When did I last see a woman under sixty in a pinafore? wondered Hamish. And oh, the aroma on that stew! Was anything ever more seductive than a curvaceous woman in a pinny bent over a stove?

“As you’ve probably already been told, the weapon used was something very thin and sharp. Although she was wearing a tweed coat, it would not take all that much force. It was driven straight through her back and pierced her heart.”

“But could she have gone on walking after being stabbed?”

“Not in this case. I think she died instantly and in the shop. I gather the thick fog is the trouble. Someone could easily have followed her in and got out again quickly and the fact that Patel was asleep was a bonus.”

“But why her?” asked Hamish, laying out plates, knives, and forks and then searching for wineglasses. “I can understand someone wanting to kill Catriona. She seems to have been a right evil woman.”

“Say this Ina Braid knew something and had to be silenced,” suggested Lesley. “The stew’s hot enough. Pass me the plates.”

“I don’t like that idea,” said Hamish. “Not a bit.”

“Why?”

“If Catriona was murdered by someone from her past, he wouldn’t hang around the village. Your idea makes it look like someone local.”

Lesley dished out the stew and they ate in silence, Hamish relishing every delicious morsel.

When they had finished eating, she collected the plates and put them in the sink. “Back in a minute,” she said. “I’ve got the dessert and coffee in the car.”

Refusing Hamish’s offer of help, she went out and then returned carrying a cheesecake on a plate and a thermos of coffee.

“You’re spoiling me, lassie,” said Hamish.

“It’s the least I can do after that meal you bought me,” said Lesley. “My God! What’s that?”

Sonsie appeared in the kitchen and stood glaring.

“Oh, that’s my cat. Nothing to worry about. Yes, it’s a wild cat. Harmless.”

Lugs came back into the kitchen and sat beside the cat.

“There’s some stew left,” said Lesley. “Do you think they would like some?”

“I’m sure they would.”

Lesley filled up the animals’ feed bowls with stew. How pretty she looks, thought Hamish, mellowed with food and wine.

“What made you want to be a policeman in a remote place like this?” asked Lesley. “And I’ve heard gossip about how you keep sidestepping promotion.”

“It goes a long way back,” said Hamish. “I was a lad in my early teens. Patel’s shop was a greengrocers then but it was going bust. Not much call for fresh vegetables in Lochdubh and folk grew pretty much all they needed. So the owner was selling everything off cheap. My mother drove me over. It was a scorching hot summer day and we only had an ancient Land Rover with a cracked radiator and we had to keep stopping on the road to fill it up with water.

“My mother bought a lot of stuff and we loaded it in the Land Rover. Then she said she would go and visit a friend. I said I’d stay and look at the boats in the harbour. She gave me a couple of pounds and told me that the greengrocers was selling off boxes of plums at a pound each. She’d decided to buy some after all. She suddenly wanted to make plum jam. So she gave me the car keys and told me to buy a couple of boxes.