Death of a Dreamer (21 page)

‘I cry a bit.’

‘That happens. Any weakness in the legs?’

‘No, they’re all right.’

‘Headaches?’

‘I had one at the funeral celebrations.’

‘You weren’t drinking too much?’

‘Wasn’t drinking at all.’

‘Good, because Lochdubh is one great hangover, and I’m plagued with the usual: “But, Doctor, I only had two drinks. It must be something I ate.” Take care of yourself. I
saw your boss, Mr Daviot, and told him firmly you needed peace and quiet.’

When he left, Hamish waited impatiently for Harry’s arrival. Harry had said he would arrive in half an hour or so, which by the highland clock could mean as much as two hours. As they say
in the Highlands, ‘mañana’ is too urgent a word.

An hour and a half later, Harry arrived. ‘Sorry, Hamish,’ he said. ‘Sheep on the road.’

Sheep on the road was another of those highland lies, like ‘I’ve just had two drinks’, ‘I’ve a bad back’ and ‘I’ll fix it for you right
away’.

‘I’ve got the coffee on,’ said Hamish. ‘Did you bring the photos?’

‘Yes, but why do you want to see them?’

‘It’s this idea I have that the murderer of the American could have come out of the loch. Jock Fleming, the artist, is from Glasgow. So is his wife. Maybe one of them took a diving
course at one time.’

‘Here you are.’ Harry fished a large photo album out of a duffel bag and put it on the table.

‘The ones of the diving school are at the back.’

Hamish opened the leather-bound album to the back. There were a lot of photos of scuba divers going into the sea and coming up out of the sea. But he found one of a Christmas party. He eagerly
studied the faces, but there was not one single one he recognized.

‘Is this all you’ve got?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Harry.

Hamish sat back in his chair, disappointed. Then he said, ‘Was it mostly men?’

‘Yes, pretty much. We got the occasional woman, but usually they didn’t stay the course.’

‘Remember anyone who did?’

‘There was one woman, Sarah Jerome. Middle-aged and quite plump, but she turned out to be a natural. Then a tall thin woman – what was her name? Harriet something or other. She was
pretty good.’

Hamish sat sunk in thought. Then he said, ‘Of course, it’s a long shot thinking it might have been someone who was there at the same time as you. Could you go into the office and use
the phone? Call the diving school and ask one of the instructors if there was any woman who passed the course with flying colours. Then ask if Jock Fleming or Dora Fleming was ever a
member.’

‘Right. Where’s the office?’

‘Just through to the right, next to the bedroom.’

Harry seemed to be on the phone for a long time. At last, he came back.

‘The name Betty Barnard mean anything to you?’

Hamish put his head in his hands.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Harry anxiously. ‘Not having a dizzy spell? Want me to call a doctor?’

Hamish took his hands away from his face. ‘No, I’m all right now. Tell me about Betty Barnard.’

‘She took the course last year. The instructor said he had never seen anyone learn so quickly. Said she was a natural. Someone you know?’

‘Oh, yes. May be nothing to do with the murders. I’m not being very hospitable, Harry. But I’ve got to get going on this case.’

‘That’s all right. I’ve got a friend over at Cnothan I want to see.’

After he had left, Hamish thought wearily: If she did it, why? The rooms at the hotel had been thoroughly searched. He didn’t remember any report of diving gear.

He suddenly thought of Elspeth. He felt that by his rudeness, he had somehow driven her into writing that silly article. Now she was out of a job. He went into the office and dialled her home
number. When she answered, he said, ‘It’s me, Hamish. Don’t hang up. Elspeth, I may just have found out who the murderer is. If you get up here fast, maybe I’ll have a story
for you that’ll get your job back.’

‘Thanks, Hamish,’ she said. ‘I’m so awfully sorry.’

‘Just get up here. You can stay in the cell here.’

‘I’ll be there by this evening.’

Hamish drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. He sat for a moment in the car park, looking at the hotel and remembering simpler days when it was a private residence.

Then he got out of the Land Rover, entered the hotel and went into Mr Johnson’s office.

‘Hello, Hamish,’ said the manager. ‘Help yourself to coffee. I wish you’d solve these murders. Bookings are a bit thin on the ground.’

Hamish poured himself a mug of black coffee and sat down wearily. ‘Tell me, Mr Johnson, if someone wanted to hide a diving outfit – you know, diving suit and tanks and all that
– is there anywhere in this hotel they could hide the stuff?’

‘Let me see. It’d need to be someplace the maids don’t clean. They’re good girls and not lazy, so there are few places. There’s the storage room in the basement,
but if someone wanted to leave anything there, they’d need to ask me for the key. We had a couple here last year who skipped out without paying. They’d run up a huge bill. They left
their suitcases behind, and I put them in that storage room. I thought they’d turn out to be full of rocks, but there was some expensive clothes in there. I keep meaning to sort them out and
give them to charity.’

‘I’d like a look at the place.’

‘I’ll give you the key. Just walk down the back stairs and you’ll find it.’

He opened the safe, saying over his shoulder, ‘I keep all the spare keys here. We used to have them up on a board, but in these evil days, we decided it was a bit too risky. Here you
are.’ He extracted a large key and gave it to Hamish.

Hamish thanked him and made his way down the back stairs. In the old days, he thought, the servants’ quarters would all be down here. He was wishing he’d asked Mr Johnson which one
was the door of the storage room. There were so many doors. He tried them one after another until he came to one that was locked.

He unlocked the door and swung it open. Maybe Betty had just taken the diving gear up to the moors and sunk the lot in a peat bog. But diving equipment was expensive. Yet how would she get the
key to this storage room if it was locked in the safe?

There was a window letting in pale light, set high up on the wall. He edged his way through broken furniture, suitcases and old steamer trunks until he was under the window. There was a steamer
trunk under it. He climbed up on it. He put on gloves and pushed the window upwards. It opened. And it opened enough, he noticed, to let someone climb in and drop down into the room.

He turned and looked around. If he found anything, he needed witnesses. He took out his mobile and called Jimmy and spoke rapidly.

Hamish waited until he heard footsteps on the stairs coming down. Jimmy came in, followed by two detectives and a policeman.

‘What have you got for us, Hamish?’

‘I haven’t searched yet. I need witnesses in case I find anything.’ He told Jimmy his theory about the diver and how Betty Barnard had taken a course in scuba diving.

Jimmy sighed. ‘Sounds like a complete flight o’ fancy to me, Hamish. But now we’re here, we may as well get on with it.’ He turned round and said, ‘We’re
looking for a diving suit and diving gear. It means opening up any cases or boxes. Get to it.’

Hamish went back to the window and looked round the room. She wouldn’t have carried the gear openly. Maybe she put it in a big strong rubbish bag. If she met anyone, she could say she was
looking for somewhere to dump extra rubbish. She would slide down from the window after throwing the stuff down first. She would pull the steamer trunk under the window so that she could climb out
again.

He studied the dusty floor and then the pile of trunks nearest him. He took out a magnifying glass and began to study the trunks. He saw faint marks in the dust. He moved the top trunks until he
got to a large leather-bound one at the bottom.

He lifted the lid. I really didn’t want to know, he thought sadly. Lying in the trunk was a rubber diving suit, with goggles and tanks.

‘Here, Jimmy,’ he said.

Jimmy came hurrying over. ‘I’d better get the forensic boys in here. Should be enough DNA on that mask.’

Hamish gingerly lifted an edge of the diving suit. ‘Leave it!’ ordered Jimmy.

‘Look at this,’ said Hamish.

Under the suit was a notebook Hamish recognized. ‘That’s Hal’s notebook,’ he said.

‘Right. We’d better take her in for questioning. Good work, Hamish. How on earth did you think of it?’

‘It was the heron,’ said Hamish sadly.

‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’re rambling.’

‘Never mind.’

‘Want to come up and make the arrest? It’s your collar.’

‘No, that’s fine. I’m feeling a bit shaky. I’ll chust get back to the police station.’

Hamish sat down at the table in his kitchen and stared into space. How could he have been so stupid?

He remembered the laughter and the sunny days. He remembered how Betty had looked after him when even Priscilla had cleared off and left him alone. He had even been thinking of marrying her.
There had been no sign of wickedness in her. I think it’s the first time I’ve been well and truly fooled, he thought miserably, and all because I was starting to dream of getting
married. Maybe we’re all dreamers and fantasists, like poor Effie.

The phone in the office rang shrill and loud. He went to answer it. It was Jimmy, his voice sharp with anger.

‘She’s gone!’

‘Whit?’

‘Gone. And it’s all the fault of that gabby porter and even gabbier manager. Sammy, the porter, asks Johnson what the police are doing now. Johnson says Hamish Macbeth is down in the
storage room looking for diving gear. “That should help with his poaching,” said Sammy, who considers himself no end of a wit. So when Betty Barnard walks into the hotel, he decided to
try the joke out on her. Result: she’s gone. Left everything behind and scarpered. We’ve got roadblocks set up, and police are watching all the ports, railway stations and
airports.’

‘I’m going to see Dora Fleming,’ said Hamish. ‘I think that one knew more than she was telling us.’

‘Okay. Get back to me.’

Hamish went out and walked along to Sea View. He turned in the doorway and saw that the cat and dog had followed him. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered.

‘What now?’ asked Mrs Dunne.

‘I want to see Mrs Fleming.’

‘I telt her to pack her bags and get out. I won’t have drugs in this house.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘I don’t know. But I tell you this: No one in Lochdubh would have her. That artist came and helped her with her bags.’

Hamish ran back for the Land Rover, the dog and cat loping behind him. He put them in the police station and drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel.

‘Is Jock Fleming in?’ he asked Mr Johnson.

‘No, he wanted his ex-wife to move in, but enough’s enough. I only gave him a free room because he was painting Priscilla’s portrait. I told him to find other
accommodation.’

‘Do you know where they went?’

‘They wanted cheap accommodation, so I told them to try the caravan park over at Cnothan. Hamish, I’m right sorry about Sammy . . .’

But Hamish was already out the door.

The caravan park was situated outside Cnothan. Hamish went to the office and asked if a Mr and Mrs Fleming had booked a caravan, and he was directed to one over against the
wall near the entrance.

He knocked at the door. Jock opened it and scowled. ‘What now?’

‘Let me in,’ said Hamish. ‘You’ve been withholding valuable information.’

Jock stood aside. Hamish removed his cap and walked past him. Dora was sitting at a table at the far end.

‘Betty Barnard,’ said Hamish, ‘killed Hal Addenfest, and so she killed Effie as well. I do not believe you pair divorced because Jock discovered that you, Dora, had been a
prostitute. I think you found out that Jock had been having an affair with Betty. Maybe after the divorce, Jock, you went off Betty, but she was still in love with you. The hold she had on you was
that she sold your paintings like no one else could sell them. But she was crazy about you. Crazy enough to kill, and I think you suspected it all along. You may as well tell me, because when
she’s caught, it’ll all come out. She’s made a run for it. Where would she go?’

Jock hung his head. ‘I can’t think. Maybe Glasgow.’

‘Betty wouldn’t go back there when she knows the police are looking for her.’

‘Honestly I can’t think of anywhere else.’

‘When that cocaine was found in Dora’s room, didn’t you suspect Betty?’

‘I didn’t. Honest. I thought there was some madman on the loose.’

‘You should have told me about Betty. It might just have stopped that American from being murdered. I’ll get back to you, Jock. Not only me but Jimmy Anderson will have a lot of
questions to ask you.’

After Hamish had left them, he phoned Jimmy and told him where they were.

‘Still not a sign of the Barnard woman,’ said Jimmy. ‘That bleeding artist can get his paints out and draw us a picture of her.’

‘No need,’ said Hamish heavily, ‘I have a photo of her.’

‘How did you get that?’

‘We were friendly. We went out on a picnic once, and I took my camera. The film hasn’t been developed, but I’m heading back to Lochdubh. I’ll meet you at the police
station and give it to you.’

‘Everyone’s on to digital cameras these days,’ grumbled Jimmy. ‘This camera of yours should be put in a museum.’

‘Don’t complain. There’s the film.’

‘Why did we never think of Betty Barnard?’

‘Because she seemed the only sane one of the lot of them,’ said Hamish. ‘I thought the hotel was searched from top to bottom.’

‘Not really their fault. They were concentrating on the rooms, not the basement. I’ll get off to Strathbane with this film. If I hurry, we can just make the morning edition of the
newspapers with her photo.’

After he had gone, Hamish decided to visit Caro. He felt she had a right to know that her sister’s killer had been found.

Caro eyed him warily when she opened the door to him. ‘What now?’

‘Can I come in? We’ve found who killed Effie.’