Death of a Kingfisher (4 page)

‘That might do,’ said Nessie. ‘We’ve got our camel coats.’

They moved on, arm in arm. Their place was taken by Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, who despite the mugginess of the evening was dressed in tweed with a felt hat crammed down on her large head.

‘It’s got to be stopped,’ she said. ‘A funeral for dead birds! Sacrilegious, that’s what it is!’

‘What about all creatures great and small?’ asked Hamish.

‘I told my husband not to conduct the service, but he says it is expected of him. Heathen, pagan rubbish.’

On the following morning, Hamish and Dick with Lugs and Sonsie in the back of the Land Rover set out to
interview
Ginger Stuart. This is why they call the police ‘plods’, thought Hamish. One fruitless interview after another. Let’s hope this Ginger has something useful to say.

At first sight, it was a puzzle how Ginger had received his nickname. He was in his thirties with a completely bald head and a thick muscular body stripped to the waist showing prison tattoos on his arms. He was tinkering with a motorbike in his weedy front garden.

The front gate was lying on its side. Hamish followed by Dick walked into the garden. ‘I’ve got bugger-all tae say to ye,’ said Ginger.

Hamish sighed. ‘Full name, or I’ll have you in a cell for the night for obstructing the police in their inquiries.’

‘Walter Stuart.’

‘Do you know anything about what’s been going on at Buchan’s Wood?’

‘Me? Naw. Never go near the place.’

‘Have you heard of anyone in Braikie who might
possibly
have sabotaged that bridge?’

He scratched his bald head. ‘Nope. I’m clean. The ones I used tae know, well, what’s in it for them? They’re only interested in any crime that pays for drug money.’

Hamish handed over his card. ‘If you hear anything, let me know.’

‘Would there be money in it for me?’

‘Sure,’ said Hamish.

‘Right, boss. I know things about them streets what you don’t.’

Bless films and television, thought Hamish. He could see Ginger’s eyes narrowing and darting here and there as he tried to emulate a TV tough guy.

The rest of the day produced very little. Dick had given up and had fallen asleep in the passenger seat with Sonsie draped across his lap like a fur blanket. Hamish wondered how he could bear the heat. The wind had suddenly dropped. It was one of those close, grey days where the Highland midges were out biting in force. He rubbed his face neck and hands with repellent and looked at the sky.

If it rained that evening, he was going to have a
miserable
watch.

But Sutherland went in for one of its dramatic changes of weather. A light breeze was blowing as he set out. He did
not take a tent or sleeping bag because he only planned to stay in the Fairy Glen for an hour.

It was two in the morning when he entered the dark depths of the glen and made his way to the pool under the bridge. He sat down on a flat stone and waited. He could sense nothing but peace. There was the sound of the
waterfall
and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth of some small animal. Fairies, according to Highland superstition, were not glittery little things but small dark men. But the boys had seen something and then a voice warning them off. As far as he could gather, the wardens were nowhere around.

He gave it an hour and a half and then returned to Lochdubh. An idea suddenly struck him as he was serving Dick breakfast. ‘Did you tell anyone I was going to be in the glen last night?’

‘I might have said something to the Currie sisters.’

Hamish groaned. ‘That’s as good as taking out a
full-page
advertisement in the local paper. Don’t you see that everyone would soon know I was going to be there? No wonder nothing happened.’

Dick placidly chomped a large sausage. ‘Och, well, all ye have to do is go again and I won’t say a word.’

Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. ‘No, my friend, you’ll go the next time.’

‘It’s no’ suitable for a man o’ my years. I think I have the rheumatism.’

‘I think you’ve got the laziness. You’ll go when I tell you to go.’

The rest of the week passed in dreary police work, until Hamish felt he must have interviewed the whole of Braikie. He longed to see Mary again, but kept away, reminding himself that she was married.

The evening before the funeral of the kingfishers, Jimmy Anderson turned up with a thick file of papers. ‘Statements
and more statements,’ he said. ‘Go through them, Hamish, and see if you can pick anything out we might have missed. The bridge is repaired and there’s going to be a big crowd tomorrow. Lot o’ daft rubbish. Do you think Mary Leinster is right in the head?’

‘She’s a good publicist,’ said Hamish. ‘A lot of the press are going to be there and the weather forecast’s good.’

‘I’m surprised Mr Wellington’s going along with this farce.’

‘I don’t think our minister realizes what a circus it’s going to be. Even a funeral for birds means whisky to the locals. There’ll be a right party.’

‘The criminals down in Strathbane are rejoicing,’ said Jimmy. ‘Daviot sees it all as a big public relations exercise for the police. Going to be lots of us standing around like tumshies.’

‘Where are they burying the creatures?’

‘Get this! They’re burning the birds in the car park and then Mary carries the ashes in a wee box down to the bridge and chucks the ashes in the pool. There’s a choir and a piper. Got any whisky?’

Hamish started to say no but Dick was already bringing down a bottle out of a kitchen cupboard.

‘Well, here’s to tomorrow,’ said Jimmy. ‘Is Blair going to be there?’

‘Daviot thought it would be more diplomatic to leave him behind.’

Hamish grinned. ‘This funeral might be fun after all.’

‘What on earth is that noise?’ demanded Jimmy.

‘It’s Dick’s new dishwasher. I try to tell him to leave it till it’s full but he’s like a bairn wi’ a new toy.’

Although Hamish mourned the loss of such beautiful birds as the kingfishers, he could not help feeling there was something distasteful about the whole circus of the funeral. He found he did not find it funny at all. The Church of Scotland is well known for its charity in believing that everyone should be entitled to a Christian burial, but Mr Wellington, the minister of Lochdubh, hearing he had been chosen because no preacher in Braikie wanted to be involved, and, further learning of the funeral pyre, dug his heels in and refused to attend.

The enterprising Mary had discovered there was a small commune on South Rona called The Children of God and had persuaded the head of the cult, a weedy man called David Cunningham, to perform the service.

Cunningham arrived dressed in white robes covered in silver tinsel stars. Hamish was sure the stars had been made out of kitchen aluminium foil. Cunningham had a long ponytail down his back to compensate for the fact that he was nearly bald in front.

The day was fine and sunny. Crowds had gathered around a small funeral pyre in the car park. Mary was wearing a pretty, flowery dress which floated around her
pocket-size Venus of a body. She approached Hamish. ‘How you must be hating this,’ she said.

‘As a matter of fact I am,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m surprised at you, Mary.’

‘I’m a businesswoman, Hamish, and it takes something like this to save the glen. Jobs are at stake. Think of the money the local shops make from the tourists. Have you ever known tourists bothering to visit Braikie before?’

‘Well, I know, but it all seems a bit sacrilegious.’

She sighed. ‘Just look on it as a party. Television’s here. We even have no less a person than Elspeth Grant.’

Hamish’s heart gave a jolt. ‘Where?’

‘Just arrived. Getting out of that Winnebago over there.’

‘Excuse me, Mary,’ said Hamish hurriedly.

She caught his arm. ‘Hamish, why don’t we have dinner one evening?’

Mary’s blue eyes were opened to their widest as she looked up at him. Her lashes were black and tinged at the edged with gold. He had a sudden feeling of
breathlessness
. ‘That would be grand,’ he said cautiously. ‘You and your husband?’

‘Tim and I are getting a divorce.’

‘Why?’

Those beautiful eyes filled with tears. ‘I’ll tell you over dinner.’

‘What about this evening?’ asked Hamish. ‘There’s a good Italian restaurant in Lochdubh.’

‘I’d like that. Shall we say eight o’clock?’

‘Fine. I’ll be there.’

Elspeth was now in the middle of making a commentary. Cunningham raised his long skinny arms to the heavens. ‘Oh, God on high,’ he intoned, ‘bless these poor wee birdies and take them to Thy bosom where they may sit with the Lamb.’

Bollocks! thought Hamish sourly as Cunningham droned on and on. At last he got to ‘Amen.’

Two schoolgirls approached the pyre, which was in fact a charcoal barbecue, carrying a white cardboard box with a gold cross painted on top of it. The Braikie Ladies’ Choir burst into a rendering of ‘Amazing Grace’, their voices nearly drowned out by a piper.

The box was placed on the charcoal over a metal tray, where it burst into flames. Cunningham began to dance around the ‘pyre’ chanting in tongues. He was wearing open-toed leather sandals.

The choir at last fell silent and the pipes died away with a final wail. Cunningham danced on.

And then at the back of the crowd, someone burst out laughing. Soon, it seemed as if the whole crowd had fallen helpless with laughter. Cunningham stopped cavorting and glared. The laughter grew louder. He gathered his robes around him and stalked off.

Mary marched forward and nodded to the two wardens who, with gloved hands, retrieved the tray of ashes.

The crowd, now in party mood, followed Mary and the wardens into the glen and on to the repaired bridge. She solemnly scattered the ashes over the bridge into the water. She raised her voice. ‘The ladies of Braikie have supplied refreshments in the car park.’

Everyone scrambled back to the car park, where tables of food had been laid out. There was even a refreshment tent.

Hamish found himself accosted by Elspeth. ‘Going to make a fool of it?’ he asked.

‘Not me,’ said Elspeth. ‘Not with a country full of bird and animal lovers. But, Hamish, couldn’t you have found a way to persuade them to do something a bit more dignified?’

‘It’s all the work of Mary Leinster,’ said Hamish. ‘She’s passionate about bringing trade into Braikie, and the glen seems a good way of doing it. You look different.’

Elspeth’s normally no-colour frizzy hair had been straightened and highlighted. Her face was carefully made up for the cameras. Only those silvery Gypsy eyes of hers seemed familiar.

‘You know how it is, Hamish. Can you think of a
plain-looking
woman presenter? The men can be fat and old, but not the women. I’ve already picked up rumours that the glen is haunted by fairies. Looks more like it’s being haunted by saboteurs. Who doesn’t want an interest in the place?’

‘Can’t find anyone except perhaps Mrs Colchester, who lives at the old hunting box. Mind you, she’s got two
hellish
grandchildren, but I can’t see either of them having the power to wield a chain saw.’

‘I’ll go and pay her a visit,’ said Elspeth. ‘Why don’t we have dinner tonight and talk it over?’

‘I’ve already agreed to have dinner with Mary Leinster,’ said Hamish, ‘but come along as well.’

‘Quite beautiful, isn’t she? Married?’

‘Yes,’ said Hamish stiffly. ‘So you wouldn’t be butting in on a date.’

‘Okay. What time?’

‘Eight o’clock. The Italian place.’

‘I’ll see you there.’

Hamish sent Dick off to pick up gossip and then walked down into the glen and leaned on the bridge. Everyone was in the car park, eating and drinking. It really was a beautiful spot, he thought. The peaty water of the pool glowed with a golden light. A fuchsia bush leaned over the water, its blood-red blossoms looking down at their reflection.

He felt he should not have asked Elspeth to join them for dinner. Mary had said she would tell him about her divorce. Perhaps her husband had turned against her and
wanted to sabotage her pet project. He decided to put Elspeth off and arrange to see her on the following day.

But when he went back to the car park, it was to be told by Dick that the television crew had moved on to interview Mrs Colchester.

He and Dick drove up to the hunting box. Once more the front door stood open.

‘They should be a wee bit more careful,’ said Dick. ‘Anyone could walk in.’

The television van was parked on the drive outside. They walked into the house and followed the sound of voices.

Out on the terrace, Mrs Colchester was giving an
interview
. ‘No, I did not go to the funeral,’ she was saying, ‘nor would I let any of my family be a part of such nonsense.’

‘I believe you are against the glen being made into a tourist attraction,’ said Elspeth.

‘On the contrary, I am very much for it. I am all for
helping
the townspeople find work. But I do not hold with funerals for birds. Such rubbish. Do you know I was told that I would make the fairies angry if I did not go?’

‘Who told you that?’ asked Hamish walking forward.

‘Get out of the shot!’ howled the cameraman.

‘I can’t remember,’ said Mrs Colchester. ‘And you …’ she glared at the cameraman … ‘will refrain from giving orders on my property.’

The two grandchildren, Olivia and Charles, were sitting on the ground beside her, looking up at her with adoring expressions. Ralph and Fern Palfour were standing a little to one side, gazing fondly on the scene.

It all looked like a television soap to Hamish.

‘And I’m tired,’ said Mrs Colchester. ‘Shove off, the lot of you. Fern, help me inside, dear.’

‘Yes, Mother. Of course, Mother.’

With Fern on one side of her and Ralph on the other, she went inside to her stair lift and buckled herself in. Hamish had followed her in.

‘You,’ she said to him. ‘Come back tomorrow. I’ve decided to tell you something.’

‘Can’t you tell me now?’

‘No. This lot will be away by tomorrow. I don’t want them hearing what I have to say.’

She started the stair lift and glided smoothly upwards.

Hamish went back out to the terrace to join Elspeth. ‘I can’t join you this evening,’ she said. ‘I’ve been summoned back. It’s all these price cuts. If anything happens, Hamish,
follow
the money.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mrs Colchester is worth millions. Her son-in-law is nearly bankrupt. I feel something bad about this place.’

Dick said, ‘I don’t think anyone’ll try anything again. A lot of the townspeople are forming a Protect Our Glen squad. They’re going to patrol it at night as well.’

Charles Palfour tugged at Hamish’s sleeve. ‘Is the party still on?’

‘If you mean the funeral, yes, I should think so.’

‘Come on, Olivia,’ called Charles. The pair ran off.

‘Don’t go falling in love with Mary Leinster,’ cautioned Elspeth.

‘I haff no intention of doing such a thing. Mind your own business. Come along, Dick.’

Dick winked at Elspeth and then trotted after Hamish.

Hamish appeared in the kitchen that evening with his fiery hair brushed and his tall, thin figure wearing his one best suit. Dick was extracting two clean cups from the dishwasher.

‘You’re supposed to wait until the machine is full,’
complained
Hamish.

‘Och, I’m just playing with it for a wee bit. I should go with ye.’

‘Why on earth?’

‘Mary Leinster is a married woman.’

‘May I remind you this is the twenty-first century?’

‘Oh, aye? Well, set your watch back two hundred years. This is Lochdubh. There’ll be a right bit o’ gossip the morn.’

‘There’s always a lot o’ gossip. Lugs and Sonsie have been fed so don’t feed them again.’

‘She’s like one o’ thae china dolls,’ said Dick meditatively.

‘Who?’

‘Mary. You feel if you tilted her up, her eyes would close and if you pressed her belly button, she would say “Mama”.’

‘Stop havering. I’m off.’

Mary was wearing a simple black sheath of a dress with a row of pearls. She smiled as Hamish joined her, and he felt a bit shy and uneasy.

Willie Lamont, the waiter who had once worked as a policeman, came bustling up. ‘The advocates with shrimp are good,’ he said, ‘and the veal misery is the special.’

‘He means the avocados with shrimp and the veal Marsala,’ translated Hamish.

She gave a little shudder. ‘I don’t eat veal.’

Willie leaned a confidential elbow on the table between them and said in a low voice, ‘It isnae really the veal, see, it’s the pork fillet in disguise.’

‘Willie, go away and let us look at the menus in peace.’

‘Where’s your husband the night?’ Willie asked Mary.

Hamish stood up and marched Willie off into the kitchen and pushed him up against the wall. ‘You will quietly serve the meal or I’ll push your teeth down your throat.’ He gave him a shake and went back to join Mary.

‘Never mind him,’ said Hamish. ‘He’s a bit eccentric.’

When a chastened Willie reappeared, Mary ordered a feta salad and lasagne. Hamish ordered the same and a bottle of Valpolicella.

‘You wanted to tell me something?’ ventured Hamish at last, as Mary seemed to have relapsed into silence.

‘You seem so sympathetic,’ said Mary. ‘I feel
overburdened
with trouble. People will be frightened to come to the glen now.’

‘Mary, I am sure today’s publicity stunt will pay off. You’ll have more tourists than ever.’

‘I resent you saying it was a publicity stunt.’

‘Oh, come on, Mary. That long-legged loon dancing around a barbecue and chanting in tongues?’

‘I didn’t think he’d turn out to be so weird,’ said Mary defiantly.

‘And thon barbecue was hardly a consecrated altar. They were frying sausages on it as soon as the birds’ ashes had been taken away.’

She half rose from her seat. ‘If you are going to mock me …’

‘No, no, lassie. My apologies. I can see you’re sair troubled, and it’s not just this business o’ the glen.’

Willie put their starter down in front of them. ‘Feckit,’ he said proudly.

‘What did you just say?’ demanded Hamish furiously.

‘It’s the feckit cheese. A big Irish man was in here last night and that’s what he called it.’

‘It’s feta cheese. Go away, Willie. Now, Mary,’ Hamish went on gently. ‘Out with it.’

‘Our marriage has just broken down in bits,’ said Mary. ‘He hates the glen. He says I ought to be at home and start having children. I can’t stand any more of it, Hamish.’ She reached across the table and took his hand.

Aware of the curious eyes of the other diners, Hamish gently removed his hand. ‘But you got him the contract to build the gift shop.’

‘Yes, but all that did was seem to make him think he should be in charge of everything.’

‘Mary, there’s nothing I can do about it. He doesn’t beat you, does he?’

‘N-no.’

‘Then you need a divorce lawyer.’

‘Think of the scandal,’ said Mary helplessly. ‘People associate the glen with calmness and goodness. I’ve had the magic stepping-stones put in above the falls and little fairy footprints in the clay near the river.’

Hamish felt he was being torn between cold logic and enchantment. The logic told him that he was dealing with a shrewd businesswoman who knew exactly what she was doing, but as he looked at her dainty, curvaceous figure and huge blue eyes, he felt he wanted her as he had never wanted any woman before.

Fern Palfour called down to her mother from the landing. Mrs Colchester was sitting in an upright armchair in the shadowy hall. ‘Aren’t you coming up to bed, Mother?’

‘No, I’ll sit here for a bit. There’s something I have to work out.’