Hamish Macbeth 09 (1993) - Death of a Travelling Man (13 page)

They shuffled off silently, without a word.

Hamish followed them just as slowly. He was haunted by the sight of Angela holding that hammer. You think you know people so well, and when something like murder happens you realize you really don’t know much about them at all. Angela had previously proved herself to be unstable, but the circumstances had been stressful. Mrs Wellington he had believed to be the sort of character of a Good Woman that she presented to the world, and Jessie and Nessie he had regarded affectionately as a couple of jokes. He must try Cheryl again.

§

Next morning, he told Willie he wanted the day off and asked him to look after things. Hamish cynically noticed his dog, who would normally have been scrabbling at the Land Rover, was happy to be left behind. Towser had been seduced by Willie’s cooking.

He took Willie’s battered Ford instead of the police car, not wanting to advertise his presence in Strathbane to anyone from headquarters.

The farther he drove from Lochdubh, the more he felt like an irresponsible fool. He should never have become so involved with the locals in a murder inquiry. He should have phoned Strathbane, told them about the new evidence, and let them take it from there. For all he knew of them, Mrs Wellington, Angela, or even Jessie Currie might be capable of murder.

If only Cheryl hadn’t so many witnesses. He would no doubt find her again and she would swear and curse and he would get nothing more out of her. He could not tell her about the video without risking exposing the three women.

It was all so hopeless.

He was approaching Mullen’s Roadhouse. He slowed down. A large new poster was pinned up on the window. Top of the bill was Johnny Rankin and the Stotters. He stopped the car and climbed out. They were due to perform that evening.

He decided to phone Willie and say he would be in Strathbane until very late. He had to see that performance and judge if there was any way Cheryl might have managed to slip out. She had that scooter. But it would take about two hours surely to get to Lochdubh, park the scooter outside the village, go to the bus on foot, murder Sean, and then get back.

He was turning the problem over in his mind when a slim figure on a scooter shot past. Under the crash helmet he could see the driver had bright orange hair.

Cheryl!

He set off in pursuit, wishing he were in the Land Rover, wishing he could switch on the siren. The scooter had been painted bright pink and the licence plate was obscured by dirt, but there could not be more than one person in the Highlands with that colour of hair. The figure on the scooter glanced back and then simply swerved off the road on a forestry track and sped through the tall thin pine trees. Hamish swung the car off the road, but after only half a mile the track disappeared and ahead he could see that orange hair flitting off through the darkness of the trees.

He cursed under his breath, turned and went back to the road. He would go on to the campsite and confront Cheryl when she arrived.

When he drove into the campsite, that woman was still there, still stirring the pot. As he was not in a police car or in uniform, no one ran away at his arrival. There were fewer old buses and caravans this time, but the bright-blue one belonging to the Stoddarts was still there. He went up and knocked at the door. Again the thin bearded man answered it.

“I would like to wait until Cheryl Higgins returns, Mr Stoddart,” said Hamish.

“Why wait?” he asked amiably and then stood aside. “Help yourself. Herself’s in bed as usual.”

What will not woman, gentle woman dare,

When strong affection stirs her spirit up?

—Robert Southey

T
he Stoddarts were again watching television. Hamish thought, as he leant over Cheryl to wake her, that he would have expected the Stoddarts to be weaving cloth, painting pictures or doing something artistic rather than watching an Australian soap. They did not seem in the least troubled by his presence.

Cheryl came awake, and as soon as she saw who her visitor was, began her usual litany of oaths and curses. Once he could get a word in, Hamish asked, “Where’s your scooter?”

“Whit?”

“You heard.”

“I sold it,” she said sulkily.

“Who to?”

“Some fella I met in a bar.”

“What’s his name?”

“I dinnae ken,” said Cheryl, shifting restlessly among the frowsty bedclothes. “He gied me cash, I gied him the papers.”

“What did he look like?”

“Wee man wi’ a leather jacket and black hair.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” demanded Hamish plaintively. “Were you out this morning?”

“No, I was here in ma bed.”

Hamish stood up and approached the Stoddarts. “Was Cheryl out this morning?”

Wayne Stoddart wrenched his eyes from the television screen. “Don’t ask me, man,” he said. “Only just got up.”

Bunty Stoddart, whose face was hidden under a tangled mass of hair, continued to watch and listen avidly to the Australian soap, a vision of sanitized life in the antipodean middle class.

Hamish returned to Cheryl. “I think it was you I chased this morning. There can’t be more than two of you in the Highlands with that colour of hair.”

Cheryl gave a contemptuous yawn.

Hamish gave up and went outside and began to search around for the scooter. The wind was howling through the piles of refuse and old cars which dotted the field among the buses and caravans. A dismal scene. But there was no sign of the scooter.

He began to experience a pressing nagging fear that he was in the wrong place, that the clue to the murder lay back in Lochdubh, buried among the inhabitants. But he stubbornly decided to wait in Strathbane until evening and see Johnny Rankin and the Stotters. It was no use questioning Cheryl again. He would not get anything out of her.

He drove into Strathbane, a misery of a place with tall concrete blocks of flats and an air of failure. Nothing had changed. The seagulls here seemed dirtier than anywhere else and the oily sea sucked at the rubbish-strewn shore, heaving in on long rolling slow waves, as if exhausted by pollution. He went to the Glen Bar, which he had once frequented when he had been briefly stationed in the town, ordered an orange juice and then sat in a corner and took out a notebook and began to write anything that came into his head about the case.

It slowly dawned on him that he had let his feelings become involved in a dangerous way. Not only was he protecting the three women, he had not questioned Mr Ferrari thoroughly enough, having let his partiality for hardworking Scottish Italians sway his judgement. Then there was the minister. There was no doubt that the normally scholarly and gentle Mr Wellington had gone temporarily mad, and the murder had definitely been done by someone in the grip of a murderous rage. Had Mr Wellington considered himself to be the hammer of God?

He had half a mind to call at headquarters and report the finding of the money, drugs and video and then ask for leave so that he could get away from the village and leave the Strathbane police to do their work.

But perhaps, just perhaps, he might find a clue during the performance of the pop group.

It was a long dreary day and he was glad when evening arrived and he drove to Mullen’s Roadhouse, anxious to get it over with.

The huge bar was crowded with a mixture of young people wearing what looked to Hamish like an assortment of jogging suits, and staid Scottish couples who had no doubt come because the entertainment was free and there was nothing much else in the way of entertainment in Strathbane.

He was getting tired of orange juice and switched to tomato juice.

There was a small stage in the bar. Various young men were setting up sound equipment and plugging in things and arranging loudspeakers.

At last Johnny Rankin and the Stotters came on. Johnny Rankin was an emaciated young man wearing black leather trousers covered in sequins and nothing else. The only female performer was Cheryl, who was wearing an old-fashioned black corset and black stockings, perhaps hoping to emulate Madonna, although there was something peculiarly sexless about her, but then, reflected Hamish, he had always thought there was something peculiarly sexless about Madonna.

The band swung into action, a hellish cacophony of sound. Cheryl shouted the lyrics and gyrated and twanged a large electric guitar, making up in energy what she so obviously lacked in talent. Strobe lights hurt Hamish’s eyes but he kept them fixed on Cheryl. At no time did she leave the stage. He suffered through the whole performance and then went out into the blessed quiet of the night, feeling low. There was no way Cheryl could have left the stage.

He drove back to Lochdubh, regretting that it was now too late to call on Priscilla—Priscilla who had a marvellous way of clarifying his thoughts. He resolved to see her the next day. The need to turn the evidence over to Strathbane was becoming pressing.

And then, as he was driving past the manse, he suddenly stopped abruptly a little beyond it and looked back up at the field. All the lights were on in the bus. He got out of the car and sprinted up towards the field.

He reached the bus and quietly leaned in through the door. Mr Wellington, the minister, was feverishly looking through the cupboards. Groceries and Seari’s clothes were lying tumbled on the floor.

Hamish stepped inside.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded.

Mr Wellington swung round, his face grey.

“I-I-I lent Sean a v-valuable book,” he stammered. “I was looking for it.”

“In the middle of the night?” demanded Hamish. “This iss breaking and entering.”

“I have a spare set of keys,” said Mr Wellington. “Sean left them at the manse in case he should ever lose his own.”

“Then it wass your job to turn them over to the police,” snapped Hamish, torn between anxiety and fear. “Do you know what I think? I think you either killed Sean yourself or you think your wife did it.”

The minister began to slowly replace everything in the cupboard without speaking.

“I will need to report this,” said Hamish heavily.

The minister sat down suddenly on a bench seat at the table and buried his face in his hands. Hamish sat on the bench opposite him. “Tell me what you know,” he said gently, “and I will see what I can do to help.”

“He was an evil man,” muttered the minister. “I thought when he was dead that everything would return to normal. But my wife is still a wreck.” He took his hands from his face and looked at Hamish and then gave an odd little sob like a tired child. “You may as well charge me and get it over with, Hamish. I killed him.”

Hamish felt deathly tired.

“How?” he asked.

“I took the sledgehammer and hit him.”

“Where?”

“Right here…in the bus.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean, where did you strike him?”

The minister looked at him and then said slowly, “I waited until he had his back to me and then I brought the hammer down on the back of his head.”

Hamish felt a wave of relief. “Mr Wellington, you did not see the body or hear the pathologist’s report. The blow that killed him was the very first one and that was a blow to the forehead. Once he was down, the murderer kept on hitting until his head and face were wrecked.”

“Yes, yes, that was it,” said Mr Wellington eagerly. “I had forgotten.”

“Havers,” said Hamish. “You didn’t forget because you didn’t do it, but you thought your wife did. Why?”

The minister looked defiantly at Hamish and then seemed to collapse. “She was in his bus on the night of the murder,” he said.

“What!”

“It was right after the evening service. I saw her walk across. I followed her. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but she was crying when she came out. I seized her and demanded to know what was wrong. She became almost hysterical and refused to tell me. I took her indoors and went back. Sean laughed at me and said she had lost her faith as well and was pleading with him to hand it back, just like a book, he said. I tried to punch him, but he was so very strong. He simply picked me up and threw me out on to the grass, laughing his head off.”

“I told my wife what he had said and she agreed that was the case. I suggested we pray together and then she began to laugh at me in a terrible parody of Sean’s laughter and told me not to be such an old fool. Later that evening, I heard the back door slam and was sure she had gone back to him again. Perhaps Sean was in love with her. Mrs Wellington can be a very seductive woman, although she is not aware of it.”

Hamish thought of the large and tweedy Mrs Wellington and blinked.

“Your wife has not been honest with me,” he said. “Look, put all the stuff away, lock up and give me the keys. Get your wife out of bed.”

But by the time everything was put away, Hamish had decided to leave interviewing Mrs Wellington until the morning. He said he would call for her and take her along to the police station. If he interviewed her now, he would find it hard to get her alone without the minister. Although his loyalty to the three blackmailed women had been badly shaken, he still did not want to speak to her in front of her husband and so reveal to the minister that his wife was a thief.

Willie was asleep in his room by the time Hamish got home. He went to bed but did not undress. He lay on top of it, with Towser at his feet, worrying. Evidence was piling on evidence and he was keeping it all from Strathbane.

He fell into a heavy sleep at dawn and awoke at nine o’clock, all the worries pouring back into his brain. His one thought was to see Priscilla before he interviewed Mrs Wellington.

“You cannae go out like that,” said Willie reprovingly from the kitchen sink. “You’ve no’ shaved and you look as if you’ve slept in your clothes.”

“Haven’t time,” said Hamish. “Look after Towser for me.”

He drove up to the castle. Priscilla was in the office, working at the computer.

“Hamish! What has happened?” she cried. “You look awful.”

The door of the office opened and her father came in and bristled at the sight of Hamish.

“Shouldn’t you be about your duties, officer?” he barked. “I don’t want you coming in here and keeping my daughter from her work.”