Death of a Village (7 page)

‘Yes, but he seemed quite unfazed. He said the cottage was insured. He said he’d had some trouble with the locals. He believes it was a piece of spite.’

‘What trouble?’

‘Usual trouble any incomer has up here – not getting help, plumber not turning up, no one prepared to help with the garden or building repairs, that sort of thing.’

‘I’m off to the kirk tomorrow,’ said Hamish. ‘Maybe I’ll start off by finding out why they’ve all gone religious.’

‘Maybe you’ll see the light yourself,’ said Jimmy. ‘Pass that bottle over.’

Hamish’s first thought when he picked up Elspeth the next day was that at least she had made the effort to dress in a more conventional manner. He had been afraid that
she might have decided to turn up for church in something like hot pants. But she was wearing a long black skirt with a black sweater and had a tartan stole around her shoulders. When she climbed
into the Land Rover, however, he noticed that she was still wearing her favourite clumpy boots.

‘Haven’t you got a pair of shoes?’ he asked.

‘Hamish Macbeth! Somehow you have graduated to being a grumpy husband without ever having been one. Have you seen the feet of women who have worn high heels all their lives? All bent and
twisted. So just drive on and mind your own business.’

A fine drizzle smeared the windscreen. Hamish switched on the wipers, which made a grating sound. ‘You need new wipers,’ commented Elspeth.

‘I do not,’ said Hamish, who was sometimes mean about small items like windscreen wipers. ‘They’re chust fine when the rain’s heavy.’

As if to prove his point, the rain began to pour down. ‘The weather forecast’s pretty good,’ said Elspeth. ‘It said it would get better later.’

‘Do you have any idea why Major Jennings’s cottage got blown up?’

‘It’s something to do with the villagers. I’m sure of that. There’s a sort of religious mania emanating from them.’

‘You mean God told them to do it?’

‘Something like that,’ said Elspeth vaguely ‘Oh, look, I can see a little patch of blue sky ahead.’

As they approached Stoyre, the rain abruptly ceased. Elspeth was used to the lightning-quick changes of weather in the Highlands but she still stared in wonder as the clouds rolled back and the
sun blazed down on the still-black sea. Smoke rose from the cottages below them. Most villagers still had their water heated by a back boiler in the fireplace, so fires were often kept going all
year round.

Up on the hill, the police tapes fluttered outside the major’s cottage. The waterfront was full of cars and television vans. ‘You’ve got competition,’ remarked
Hamish.

‘They won’t get anything out of the villagers,’ said Elspeth. ‘If I can’t, they can’t.’

‘Fancy yourself as an ace reporter?’

‘No, but I’m Highland and they aren’t.’

Hamish parked amongst the cars. They won’t get a drink here anyway,’ he said. ‘The pub closes on the Sabbath.’

They climbed down from the police Land Rover. There were groups of jaded press standing around. No one bothered to approach them. After their experiences trying to get something out of the
villagers and failing, they probably summed up the small population as a waste of time.

Elspeth and Hamish caught up with the line of villagers making their way to the church.

‘Now,’ said Hamish, ‘let’s see what the preaching is like.’

The interior of the church was small and whitewashed. There were no religious statues, no crosses. There wasn’t even an organ. A chanter, a man who struck a tuning fork on one of the front
pews and sang the first note, started off the hymn singing.

They sang, ‘There is a green hill far away without a city wall.’

‘I used to think that meant a city that didn’t have a wall,’ whispered Elspeth. ‘Then I learned it meant outside the city wall.’

‘Shhh!’ said an old lady waspishly.

The hymn was followed by two readings from the Bible, and then the minister rose to deliver his sermon. Hamish listened in surprise. Whatever had caused this religious fervour in Stoyre, it
could hardly be the preachings of Fergus Mackenzie. Hamish and Elspeth were seated at the back of the church and they had to strain to hear what the minister was saying. His soft voice did not
carry well. There was no passion or threat of hell-fire in his sermon. He said the villagers all knew that they were chosen by God and must live up to this privilege. He talked of Moses and the
burning bush and then of the leading of the Israelites to the promised land. His soft voice and the heat of all the bodies in the church and from the sun, now blazing in through the windows, had a
soporific effect on Hamish, and his head began to droop. Elspeth nudged him in the ribs. ‘Pay attention.’

The service ended with the Twenty-third Psalm.

Elspeth and Hamish waited outside by the church door to see if any of the villagers said anything of interest to the minister, but all they could hear were murmurs of ‘Grand service’
or replies to the minister’s occasional questions about health or children.

Hamish saw Mrs MacBean, who ran the general store, and taking Elspeth’s arm, he fell into step beside her. ‘Bad business about the major’s cottage,’ he remarked.

‘We should not be discussing such things on the Sabbath,’ said Mrs MacBean primly. ‘We have our minds on higher things.’ This reminded Hamish that it was a peculiarity
among some Presbyterians to not even hail their best friend on a Sunday. As Mrs MacBean had said, the mind was supposed to be on higher things. They had strict observance of the Lord’s Day.
There would even be a member of the congregation whose duty it was to ‘police’ the village on a Sunday to make sure no one was doing anything sinful like watching television or hanging
out their clothes.

She hurried on down the hill.

‘I brought a bit of a picnic,’ said Hamish to Elspeth. ‘We may as well have something to eat and drink. Let’s sit on the harbour wall. It should be dry by now.’

He opened the Land Rover and lifted out a basket. ‘You’re very domesticated,’ commented Elspeth. Hamish felt a stab of irritation and wondered why even the smallest thing
Elspeth said to him sounded like criticism.

Hamish had brought fruit and sandwiches and a flask of coffee. ‘Now,’ he said between bites of sandwich, ‘what have we got?’

‘Bugger all,’ said Elspeth, looking dreamily over the sea.

‘Think!’ commanded Hamish sharply. ‘Maybe the boys up the hill have found evidence of an IRA visit and so we can forget about the whole thing because whoever did it will
probably be back in Ireland by now.’

‘Okay, I’ll think,’ said Elspeth. ‘At first they were afraid. Something threatened them. Then they lost that fear. Something reassured them. Let’s go off on a
flight of fancy. The minister talked of Moses and the burning bush. He said they were the chosen people – not the Israelites, but the people of Stoyre. They’re very superstitious up
here. I mean, it’s not often you get weather like this right on the coast. Battered by gales all year round, poor soil to scrape a living out of, meagre fishing what with the decline in
stocks and all those bloody European Union regulations.’

‘We should all go and live in Brussels,’ said Hamish. ‘I bet they don’t give a damn about rules and regulations over there.’

‘Quiet! You told me to think, so I’m thinking. Maybe someone in the village has been having visions.’

‘Probably the DTs.’

‘Someone sees something. Can’t have been the Virgin Mary. They would consider that too popish. Can’t be something old and Celtic like a kelpie. That wouldn’t prompt all
these visits to the church. Some vision that at first frightened and then reassured. But something that told them not to talk about it.’

‘Let’s take it away from the supernatural,’ said Hamish. ‘More coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘Right. Say someone or some people wanted Stoyre kept sealed off. Why?’

‘Nice little harbour for landing drugs.’

‘True. But they would see real live men in a real live boat. I’ll have another talk to Sean Comyn and then I’ll try the Bain family again. There’s Jimmy.’

Hamish waved to Jimmy Anderson, who was heading down the harbour towards them. Jimmy came up mopping his red, sweating foxy face with a large handkerchief. ‘Didn’t know it was going
to be this warm,’ he complained when he came up to them. ‘Hello, Elspeth. Got anything to drink, Hamish?’

‘There’s a cup of coffee left in the flask.’

‘Coffee! Yuk! There’s not a dram to be found in this place.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Stone-faced locals without a word to say. Blair took over some of the interviewing and I thought he was going to have a stroke. Nobody saw anything. Nobody even got out of bed to see what
the noise was.’

‘Any news of any terrorist activity?’

‘Nothing. You find out anything?’

‘Only that something has prompted a religious fervour. The major usually brings up some friends for the fishing. Did he have anyone on the guest list that might excite the attentions of a
terrorist?’

‘No. And he only did some low-key work in Belfast ages ago. He’s retired. Actually he’s quite chipper about the whole thing. He planned to sell up and the insurance will bring
him a lot more than he could have got from selling it.’

‘Maybe he did it himself.’

Jimmy grinned. ‘That’s what Blair accused him of and they had to fly Daviot up to soothe the major down. This your day off?’

‘Aye.’

‘I might drop round to see you in Lochdubh on my way back. Got any whisky?’

‘No,’ said Hamish, ‘and you finished the brandy.’

‘Patel’s open?’

‘Not now. He only opens in the morning for the Sunday papers.’

‘Damn! I’ll be off, then.’

‘How long will the police be around?’ asked Elspeth.

‘A good few days yet, and if there’s any funny business going on in Stoyre, believe me, nothing’s going to happen until they give up and leave. Say it’s a local job
– the major’s cottage, I mean. It could just be spite but I don’t think so. The man only came up in the summers. Now, the major was once in army intelligence. Perhaps someone
didn’t want any sharp-eyed outsider around, someone who might notice things the locals wouldn’t.’

‘Any word of Bella Comyn?’

‘Nothing yet. I’d like that one caught before she messes up someone else’s life.’

Once back at the police station after having dropped Elspeth off, Hamish fed his hens, some of whom were quite elderly as he never had the heart to kill any of them for the
pot, walked Lugs, and settled down to watch television. He felt he’d done enough on his day off. Sean and the Bains could wait until the morning.

He had just untied and kicked off his heavy regulation boots, which he wore even when not wearing his uniform, when he heard the phone ringing in the office. He was just wondering whether to
answer it or not when the answering machine clicked on and he heard the loud voice of Mrs Wellington. ‘Clarry phoned from the hotel. He’s been trying to get you. One of the maids says
she saw Bella Comyn in Bonar Bridge today.’

Hamish rang the minister’s wife and asked her, ‘Where was she seen?’

‘In that grocery shop just by the bridge.’

Hamish thanked her, retied his boots, and with a sigh set off on the long road to Bonar Bridge with Lugs beside him in the passenger seat.

‘Now, Lugs,’ said Hamish, ‘I wonder just what is going on in Stoyre.’ The dog turned his odd blue eyes reluctantly from the passing countryside and gave a slight sniff.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Hamish. ‘I don’t know either. And I don’t like it. I’ve got some holidays owing. I’ve a good mind to go and stay there for a few days and
see what I can find out. I could stay at that place Sean rented. Would you like Stoyre?’

Lugs sighed again.

‘Me neither,’ said Hamish, ‘but something weird’s going on there.’

Master and dog then drove in companionable silence to Bonar Bridge.

The sun had gone behind a bank of clouds when Hamish finally drove into Bonar Bridge.

The place looked deserted. He parked outside the grocery shop and went in. There were no customers. A woman behind the counter asked, ‘Can I help you? It’s Mr Macbeth, isn’t
it?’

‘Aye,’ said Hamish, stepping forward and removing his peaked cap. ‘Have we met?’

‘Up at the Highland Games at Braikie two years ago. My boy got stuck up a tree and you got him down.’

‘I remember. It’s Mrs Turner, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m looking for a Bella Comyn, small, blonde, pretty. I heard she was in here today.’

‘Oh, her! What’s she wanted for?’

‘Oh, just part of a general inquiry. Do you know where she lives?’

‘Up in one of the Swedish houses on the council estate, number twenty-four Sutherland Lane.’

‘She living on her own?’

‘No, she’s Jamie Stuart’s girlfriend. They’re going to get married.’

‘Are they really? Who is this Jamie Stuart?’

‘He’s a motor mechanic. He works at a garage in Alness.’

‘Thanks. I’ll go and see them.’

Swedish houses are wooden two-storey houses built by the government right after World War II. Hamish cruised around the estate until he found Sutherland Lane. Number 24 seemed
to be in good repair. The garden was neat and tidy. The window frames had recently been painted, as had the front door.

He rang the bell. A thin young man opened the door. ‘What’s up?’ he asked anxiously.

‘I’m here to see Bella.’

The young man stood back. ‘Come in. I hope it’s not bad news.’ He led the way into a living room. Bella was sitting embroidering a tablecloth, the picture of pretty
domesticity. When she saw Hamish, a look of pure hate flashed in her eyes, but then she smiled and said, ‘Why, Hamish. How nice to see you. Tea?’

Hamish sat down and surveyed her. ‘We’ve been looking for you, Bella.’

‘What’s this all about?’ demanded Jamie.

‘It’s about that dog I killed,’ said Bella. ‘I told you about that. I hit it on the head to defend myself, and now the RSPCA’s looking for me.’