Death of Yesterday (10 page)

“What about us having lunch together?” she asked.

Geordie miserably shuffled the papers on his desk. “Can’t. I’ve got too much work. Whatever Morag was, she was damn efficient. The new secretary is no good and it means more work for me.”

“Does the pretty lady want lunch?” asked a voice from the doorway.

Pete Eskdale stood there. “All right,” said Hannah. “Where?”

“What about the Tommel Castle Hotel?”

Hannah’s eyes gleamed. “Grand.”

As Pete drove Hannah up to the hotel in his red Jaguar, Hannah began to wonder if she might not be throwing herself away on a mere police sergeant. She remembered that Pete had won the lottery. Over an excellent lunch and a bottle of wine, Pete talked about how well the factory was doing.

“So the murders haven’t affected business,” said Hannah.

“No, not a bit. In fact, they’ve brought more tourists for their guided tours. And Freda’s new designs are selling like hotcakes.”

“Tell me about your new job.”

Hannah did at length until Pete’s eyes started to glaze over. She could feel his earlier interest in her slipping away and so she said, “Aren’t you worried a murderer is still at large?”

“Sometimes. But we’ve been so busy. Och, it was probably some maniac from Morag’s past. The police think that Fergus fellow tried a bit of blackmail. I’d better be getting back.”

“Aren’t we going to have coffee?”

“Sorry, got to rush.”

Pete signalled for the bill.

“Pity,” said Hannah. “I know who the murderer is. And it’s someone from the factory.”

“What? Who?”

Hannah smiled. “Wouldn’t you just like to know? I’m going to arrange a press conference in Strathbane.”

“You’re lying!”

“You’ll see. You look a bit white. Have I worried you?”

“You should be worried about yourself,” said Pete viciously.

He dropped her off at her brother’s home and went back to the factory. Pete bumped into the supervisor Maisie Moffat. “Pooh, you reek o’ booze,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You’ve been out wi’ Geordie’s sister, haven’t you?”

“I think that one’s off her head,” said Pete. “She says she knows who committed the murders and it’s someone in the factory.”

“So why doesn’t she tell the police?”

“Says she’s off to Strathbane in the morning to call a press conference.”

“I bet that one never gets there.”

“Why?” jeered Pete. “Think she’ll be murdered?”

“Naw. She made it up.”

But the news of Hannah’s discovery spread round the factory.

* * *

Hamish had not gone to Cnothan that day, as he had to go off with Dick to investigate a burglary at a tiny village up on the west coast called Sanndasaid.

The squally wind had died, and as he drove down the heathery one-track road into the village, he realised again how much he loved Sutherland.

The village consisted of only a few houses facing a curved bay of pure white sand. It was sheltered by the soaring mountains rearing up behind it. The house they were looking for was two old fisherman’s cottages knocked into one.

Hamish knocked at the door, which was answered by an elderly lady. Her hair was snow white and her face crisscrossed with wrinkles. She was leaning on two sticks.

“Mrs. Macgregor?” asked Hamish. “We’ve come about the burglary.”

“About time. Come ben.”

They walked into a low parlour. “When did this happen?” asked Hamish.

“It must have been when I was asleep during the night,” she said, with the slow speech of a person who normally spoke Gaelic.

“Do you know how they got in?”

She shook her head.

“Do you lock your doors and windows at night?”

“I’ve never bothered afore. Please to take a seat.”

Hamish removed his cap and sat down on a high backed Orkney chair. A peat fire smouldered in the hearth. An old clock ticked sonorously on the mantel. The stone-flagged floor was covered in brightly hooked rugs. A black cat rose from a rug before the fire, stretched and yawned, and indolently strolled out.

Mrs. Macgregor watched the cat go. “A fine watchdog thon one turned out to be,” she said. “We get the odd stranger in the summer calling at the door for directions and she hisses like anything.”

“Right!” Hamish put his cap on an old wooden table by the window and took out his notebook. “What was taken?”

“Two silver candlesticks, a silver teapot, two old silver snuffboxes, some miniatures that has been in my family for, oh, over two hundred years. Let me think, some spare cash in a tin in the kitchen, a walking stick with a silver knob, and two wally dugs.” By wally dugs she meant those china spaniel dogs which ornament many a Scottish home. The old ones are valuable.

“Are you insured?”

She shook her head sadly. “I never saw the need.”

“Who calls on you?”

“My great-niece Bertha Sutherland comes by most days. Oh, and Mrs. Moxton cleans for me because I’m not that fit any more. She does for me twice a week.”

“May I have their addresses?”

“You don’t think . . . ?”

“No, no,” said Hamish soothingly. “But they might have seen or heard something.”

“Bertha’s got the wee cottage, three on your left as you go out the door. Mrs. Moxton’s house is upon the brae behind me. It’s painted blue.”

“With your permission, I’ll take a look around.”

Hamish and Dick searched the small cottage, but there was no sign of a break-in.

“I’ll be back in a while,” said Hamish. “I’ll just be asking around.”

“What do you think?” said Dick when they were outside. “Poor auld soul.”

“We’ll try the niece first.”

At Bertha’s cottage, the door was standing open. Hamish called but there was no answer. “I think I’ll just go in,” he said to Dick. “You wait outside and give me a shout if you see anyone coming.”

“That’s trespass,” said Dick.

“Och, I can say what with the burglary, I thought something nasty might have happened to her.”

Hamish walked into the low cottage. In the parlour were the remains of breakfast on a table. He checked all the rooms, looking under the bed and gently sliding open drawers. He then walked out to the back of the cottage where there was a vegetable bed. Propped against the kitchen door was a spade. He noticed there was fresh earth on it. He picked up the spade and wandered through the rows of vegetables. He found a freshly dug patch at the very end of the garden and began to dig. He had only dug a little way when his spade hit something. He put on latex gloves, crouched down, and scraped away the earth with his fingers to reveal a canvas duffel bag. He lifted it out and opened it. The sun sent slivers of light dancing on silver.

Hamish sat back on his heels, feeling suddenly sad. He felt it would have been better if the burglar had turned out to be some stranger.

He went back through the house to join Dick. “Found the stuff buried in the garden,” he said. “What a nasty thing to happen in a paradise like this.”

“If I’m no’ mistaken,” said Dick, “here comes Bertha.”

A small woman wearing a tweed coat despite the warmth of the day came hurrying towards them.

“Get those beasts of mine in the front seat,” said Hamish. “We’ll need to take her in.”

“What is it?” asked Bertha. She was in her thirties but her face had a worn look.

“I am arresting you for the theft of items belonging to your great-aunt,” said Hamish. He cautioned her as she screeched protests.

He locked her in the back of the Land Rover which was parked outside Mrs. Macgregor’s cottage. He took out a camera and went back to the garden and photographed the bag in the hole before lifting it out.

He dumped it in the front of the Land Rover where Dick was feeling crushed with the dog and cat.

Mrs. Macgregor came out. Wails of, “Ochone! Ochone!” were coming from the back of the Land Rover.

“I’m afraid the culprit is your great-niece,” said Hamish. “She buried the items in her garden. We are taking her to police headquarters and . . .”

“No, that won’t do. I’m not making a charge.”

“What!”

“If you charge her I’ll say I gave her the stuff.”

“I haff the good mind to charge you with wasting police time.”

“An auld woman like me? I forget things these days. I probably gave them to her and forgot.”

Hamish looked around the tranquillity of the little village, at the great glassy waves curling onto the perfect white beach. He sighed. He unlocked the back of the Land Rover and helped Bertha out. She flew to Mrs. Macgregor, babbling, “I’m sorry.”

“Could ye not have waited until I was dead?” asked Mrs. Macgregor sadly. “Come ben and we’ll have a cup o’ tea and a chat.”

Hamish took out the bag of stolen goods and put it inside the door of Mrs. Macgregor’s cottage.

Dick got down from the Land Rover followed by the dog and cat. The animals raced off to the beach.

He told Dick what had happened. “She cannae dae that!” said Dick. “Dragging us all the way up here.”

“I don’t think it will happen again,” said Hamish. “I’ll bet Bertha is the only family she’s got.”

“Curtains have been twitching all over the place,” said Dick. “I’m hungry. There’s a wee store down there round the bend. I saw it as we came in.”

* * *

Soon they were sitting on the beach eating chicken sandwiches, which had been made up for them in the store. “Beautiful here,” said Dick dreamily.

“It’s grand now,” said Hamish, “but you never know what goes on in these remote places in the winter.”

His mobile phone rang. It was Jimmy. “How did it go?”

“Nonstarter,” said Hamish. “I’ll send in a report when I get back.”

“You’d better get back fast. Hannah Fleming is missing.”

The highest form of vanity is love of fame.

—George Santayana

Hannah, heavily disguised, had checked into a small hotel on the Ness Bank in Inverness. The minute that Pete told everyone she knew the identity of the murderer, the police would be calling on her. But, she decided, if she hid out for a few days and then called a press conference, her picture would be back on television and in all the papers. That tide of fame, which had ebbed leaving her stranded on the bleak shores of mediocrity, would come roaring back.

The fact that she would need to make up something to justify her dramatic statement caused her some worry. But not much. She was sure she would think of something as soon as the cameras were focussed on her again.

She was confident that her disguise of full red wig and sunglasses made her anonymous, not realising that wearing a flaming red wig and dark glasses in Inverness on a sunless day would get her some curious looks.

And so it was that Freda Crichton on a day off down in Inverness to do some shopping noticed the woman with the red hair in a café. Freda sipped her coffee and studied her. And then she noticed on the woman’s slim fingers were two rings, a large amethyst set in gold and a cairngorm set in silver. Hannah wore rings like that, she thought with quickening interest.

If it were Hannah, what was she doing in disguise? The more Freda studied the woman, the more she became convinced it was Hannah. Silly Hannah, she thought. Shooting off her mouth like that to show off. There could be no other reason. If Hannah really knew the identity of the murderer, then she would have gone to the police.

When Hannah got up to leave, Freda followed her at a discreet distance until she saw her turn in at the doors of the Farm Hotel. Self-absorbed as ever, Hannah had not noticed her.

When she reported for work the next day, she told the staff what she had seen. “Geordie’s out looking for her,” said Pete. “I’d better phone him.”

“Let her make a fool of herself for a bit longer,” said Freda. “I’ll tell the police this evening.”

* * *

Dick was watching television that evening when he called to Hamish who was working in the kitchen, “Come quick and see this.”

A presenter for Strathbane Television was saying, “Hannah Fleming who has been missing has just contacted us. She is to hold a press conference at the Red Hackle hotel in Strathbane at ten tomorrow morning when she says she will reveal the identity of the murderer of Morag Merrilea and Fergus McQueen.”

“And I’ll be right there to arrest her before she opens her mouth,” said Hamish. “What is she playing at?”

Jimmy phoned Hamish early the next morning. “Thon Freda Crichton’s been on the phone. She’s sure she saw Hannah Fleming going in to the Farm Hotel in Inverness, heavily disguised.”

“I’ll get down there now,” said Hamish.

“Inverness police are covering it. Just wait there.”

“I’m coming to that press conference of hers,” said Hamish.

Hannah, restored to her former beauty, got into her car outside a different hotel that she had taken the precaution of checking into the night before. It would not start.

She had phoned her brother the night before, her never usually active conscience working for once and prompting her to allay his fears. Hannah warned him, however, not to tell the police where she was.

She was about to go into the hotel to call for a taxi when a Range Rover drove up and a voice said, “Hannah! Everyone’s looking for you.”