Death of a Witch (9 page)

“She had just gone when an ice cream van came along the waterfront. I was so hot and thirsty and I craved an ice cream. I bought a large one and hid the change in my shoe.

“I was sure she would understand but when she came back and started talking about all the plum jam she was going to make, I panicked and lied. I knew we were pretty poor and we weren’t allowed luxuries like ice cream. I said two youths had attacked me and taken the money.”

Hamish sighed. “It was misery. She marched me to this police station. It was a Constable McWhirter, a big slow-moving highlander. I told my story and he just sat there, studying my face. Then he said, ‘Take off your shoes, laddie.’

“I blustered and argued but I had to take my shoes off. He shook them and the change came rattling out. My mother gave me a tongue lashing but McWhirter said, ‘I think the lad has learned a good lesson. Crime doesn’t pay. I swear he’ll never do anything like that again.’

“That policeman seemed like God to me, and I loved Lochdubh. As soon as I left school, I went through police academy and got a job in Strathbane. But as soon as I heard that after McWhirter had died, they had trouble finding anyone for the job up here, I volunteered. I’ve never wanted to be anywhere else. What about you? Why forsensics?”

“I’ve always been fascinated by forensic science. But that was what broke up my marriage. I was working for Strathclyde and there was an enormous workload. I was hardly ever home. He said it was either the job or him, not both. I chose the job.”

“But why Strathbane?”

“I was silly enough to have an affair with a colleague. It got messy. I had to get out. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

There was a long silence. She poured them cups of coffee from a thermos.

“It’s frustrating,” said Hamish at last.

“What is?”

“Being out of the loop. Not having all the facts as they come in.”

“That was your choice, remember?”

“Aye, I suppose I want to run the case without the responsibility of rank,” said Hamish.

While they finished their coffee, Hamish wondered what he was supposed to do now. Invite her to stay the night?

But she suddenly stood up. She said abruptly, “I’ll call back sometime for the cheesecake plate and the stew pot. I’ll take the thermos because I use that for work. Good night.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hamish, uncoiling his long legs from under the table. “This has been a fabulous meal. I must take you out for dinner.”

“I’ll phone you,” said Lesley, and with that she fled out the door.

Hamish scratched his fiery hair. His animals looked sleepily up at him.

“What brought that on?” said Hamish.

Lesley got into her car and drove off. A slight wind was shifting the fog into bewildering pillars of mist floating in front of the car. “Fool!” she told herself. “He may be attractive but you’re not destined to spend the rest of your life stuck in a highland police station.”

In the Highlands of Sutherland it’s possible to get three climates in one day. When Hamish arose the following morning it was to find the fog had cleared, leaving a damp, warm blustery day with choppy waves on the loch and a feeling almost of spring in the air. But he knew from experience that it could be freezing again by the evening.

He cleaned up the dishes from the night before, putting the stew pot and the dessert dish to one side to return to Lesley.

Hamish went along in the direction of the mobile police unit and then backed off. A line of villagers, all men, were queuing up outside.

He stopped a Strathbane policeman who was moodily smoking a cigarette and staring at the water.

“What’s happening?” asked Hamish.

“The boss is getting the DNA off all the men in this village,” said the policeman. His accent had the fluting sound of the Outer Hebrides.

“That won’t do him any good,” said Hamish. “As far as I know no DNA was recovered from the scene.”

“Aye, well, they are going to look at the DNA database.”

“Why didn’t they ask me?” asked Hamish. “I could have told them no one in this village has a criminal record.”

The policeman tossed his cigarette butt onto the beach. “I had best be getting on. But I’m right sick o’ chapping at doors and asking hard-faced wifies what their man was doing when that Braid woman was getting herself killt.”

Hamish stood, irresolute. Before, Blair would have been shouting at him to do something or other. But he had no instructions. This time Blair seemed determined to keep him right out of the case.

He took out his phone and called Jimmy. “Can you speak?”

“I’m at headquarters making calls.”

“Can you tell me where Paul Simmonds is working in Glasgow?”

“You can’t go there, Hamish. Your expenses wouldn’t be paid. Besides, you’d be seen as poaching on Strathclyde’s police territory.”

“Would I do a thing like that? Chust for interest.”

“Oh, well, he’s working at Wylie’s, a big sort of Harrods-type store in Buchanan Street.”

Hamish told his pets to look after themselves. He felt he didn’t dare inflict them on Angela again. He drove rapidly to Inverness airport and caught the shuttle to Glasgow. He had changed into civilian clothes.

Glasgow was freezing cold. The balmy air, blessing Sutherland when he left, had not reached south.

Hamish shivered his way along Buchanan Street until he came to Wylie’s.

A member of the staff informed him that the security guard was off on his coffee break and could be found in the shop’s café in the basement.

The café was quiet, but Hamish spotted a middle-aged man in dark blue coveralls with a badge proclaiming security on the front. Paul Simmonds was small for an ex-detective and plump, with a discontented face covered in red veins. His eyes were faded blue and watery.

Hamish sat down opposite him and introduced himself.

“What now?” snarled Simmonds. “If it’s about that woman what got murdered, I’ve answered all the police questions I’m going to answer.”

“Come on,” coaxed Hamish. “This is unofficial. I’m not out to blame you for anything. I want to know what the woman last calling herself Catriona was like.”

Paul stared into his coffee cup. Then he raised his head. “You’re not wearing a wire, are you?”

“I’m here at my own expense and my boss would kill me if he found out.”

“You’re that Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh, aren’t you?”

“The same.”

“Well, I’ve heard nothing but good about you. I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. I’m out of the force. I think she really was a witch. Yes. We had her bang to rights. Found a bag of Ecstasy tablets. I phoned over the find. She didn’t seem the least put out. Just smiled and said, ‘Let’s drink to success.’ It was a bottle of twelve-year-old malt. I was all for hauling her off but Peter said it wouldn’t hurt to have just the one drink. I don’t know what was in that drink but I suddenly felt happier than I’d done in my whole life. The fire was crackling on the hearth and the room was cosy what with the wind howling outside down the loch.

“Suddenly she looked beautiful. ‘We’ll have a party!’ she cried, and somehow there we were singing and dancing. It was all a blur. Then she kissed us both good night, and when we were halfway to Inverness we came to our senses and searched for the evidence. It was gone and in that moment, we realised we hadn’t even arrested her. We went back but the place was in darkness and she didn’t answer the door. We tried to break it down because we still had the warrant, but the door was too tough for us and man, we were still drunk and shaky.

“Then came the enquiry. They cleared us of any wrongdoing but it was on our records and we knew we’d never get any promotion after that. I’m right glad she’s dead and I hope she suffered.”

“And was she using her maiden name of Catriona Burrell?”

“Yes. Look, if you catch whoever killed her, shake his hand from me.”

“When you were searching the house for drugs, can you remember anything else, letters, postcards, photos, things like that?”

“Let me think. I know, Peter picked up a framed photograph and says, ‘Do you think her man’s still around?’ I only had a wee keek at it, mind, but it was of a big strong fellow and written at the bottom was from your loving husband, rory.”

“That’s grand,” said Hamish. “Anything else?”

He sat for a few minutes in thought. Then a voice from the tanoy barked, “Security guard, report to the main entrance.”

Hamish handed over his card. “If you remember anything at all, phone me.”

Simmonds got to his feet. “I ’member now. Behind the fellow was a view of a harbour. It looked like Oban.”

When Hamish reached Inverness airport, before getting into his old car, he phoned Mr. Johnson at the Tommel Castle Hotel. “Do me a favour,” said Hamish. “If Blair phones you, tell him I was up at the hotel all day checking on the guests.”

Mr. Johnson agreed. Hamish drove off towards Lochdubh, feeling that at least he had covered himself in case the erratic Blair had suddenly decided to hound him.

As he drove back, he turned over in his mind what Simmonds had said. If Catriona had married this Rory, then it might be worthwhile to go to Oban and look for a Rory McBride.

Jimmy Anderson was waiting for him. “I thought you might be back soon. Have you anything for me because I’m right tired of getting nowhere.”

Hamish led him into the kitchen and told him what he had found out.

“I thought,” said Hamish, “if you’d cover for me, I might take a run over to Oban in the morning and see what I can find out.”

“I’ll think of something if there’s any whisky left.”

“One, Jimmy, only one. I don’t want you to be done for drunk driving.”

When Hamish put the bottle and a glass on the table, Jimmy filled the glass up to the brim and took a swig. “That’s better. Blair’s been worse than ever. Mike Haggerty, thon foreman who gave Fergus Braid an alibi, well, Blair’s decided they’re in cahoots and Mike is lying. Mike’s in the cells at the moment.”

“Why?”

“He shouted, ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Blair said yes, so Mike socked him on the nose. But I think Mike will be out by now.”

“Why?”

“Because Mike’s sister, Shona, is an advocate who lives in Dingwall, and she’s demanding to hear a tape of the interview and screaming police harassment. Daviot told Blair to let her hear the tape and wouldn’t you know it, Blair hadn’t got the interview recorded so he’s in deep poo.”

“Let’s hope that keeps him quiet for a time,” said Hamish. “He was always awful about badgering and arresting the innocent, but I swear he’s getting worse.”

“Aye, that’s the drink for you,” said Jimmy, taking another hearty swig from his glass.

Hamish drove down to Oban the following morning, taking the cat and dog with him. He sometimes thought the pair were worse than children, having to be regularly watered and fed. At least Sonsie’s company meant that Lugs would roam far and wide with the cat up on the moors and manage to consume quite a large amount of food without getting fat.

The day grew darker as Hamish drove south into Ross & Cromarty. Oban was a pretty place in the summer but as he drove down to the waterfront, a gale was whipping across the harbour. He asked about Rory McBride in various shops, pubs, and restaurants along the waterfront but without meeting any success.

He then went up to the offices of the local newspaper, the
Oban Journal,
and asked to see the editor.

The editor listened to his request and then asked a reporter, Isla Damper, to go with Hamish and search the files. Isla was a tall thin girl with thick glasses and a spotty face. Her unfortunate appearance was redeemed by a soft highland voice, a charming smile, and beautiful large brown eyes flecked with gold.

“I’ll try the weddings first,” she said, going to a large filing cabinet. “We’re putting everything on computer disks but it’s a long slow job and Wee Geordie who’s supposed to be doing the job went off to Thailand two months ago and hasn’t come back. The best thing is to look in the photo file. If this Rory McBride wasn’t local then there might just be a photo and caption.”

She searched diligently, puffing on a cigarette. “I thought smoking was banned in offices in Scotland,” said Hamish.

“Aye, well, there’s offices and offices.”

After an hour of searching, she sighed. “You know, I should just put the mannie’s name up on the computer.”

She sat down at a computer and switched it on. Hamish could see the early northern night coming down outside the window, where a seagull looked in at him with contempt before flying off.

“Got something!” she cried. Hamish unwound himself from the typing chair he had been sitting on and looked over her shoulder. “There was a photo,” she said, “but not under marriages.”

The photograph showed Catriona and Rory McBride on the waterfront. “On their honeymoon in Oban, happy couple Rory McBride and his wife, Catriona.”

“Can you give me a copy of that photograph?” asked Hamish.

“If I can find it.”

“Try under Catriona McBride.”

“Okay.”

She tapped away busily. Then she said, “Our cross referencing leaves a lot to be desired. Here we are. But it’s about him. That photo was taken four years ago in July. Now here we are, still in the same July, and Rory McBride is appealing for any sighting of his missing wife.” There was the same photograph of the couple to illustrate the news item. Rory McBride was described as a crofter from Torgormack outside Beauly in Inverness-shire. He and Catriona had come to Oban to spend their honeymoon. In the middle of the second week, she had disappeared, but as she had taken her belongings with her, Hamish gathered the police were not really looking very hard for her.

He looked at his watch, trying to calculate how long it would take him to get to Torgormack and see if he could find Rory McBride.

He thanked Isla and left, stopping on the waterfront to buy a fresh fish for Sonsie, haggis-and-chips for himself, and a hamburger for Lugs. They all sat in the Land Rover, eating in companionable silence. Hamish wondered whether to leave going to try to find the crofter until the next day or he could phone Jimmy and get the Inverness police on to it. But he decided he wanted to see the man for himself. He also wondered if Strathbane had found out anything about Catriona Burrell’s background.