Death of Yesterday (13 page)

Dick arrived and came scrambling to join him, followed by Mrs. Macdonald. “It’s my man,” she wailed. “Is he dead?”

“I’m trying to keep him alive.” Hamish opened the man’s clothes and applied the pads of the defibrillator.

“He’s still with us,” muttered Hamish. “I hear that helicopter. Get on the beach and signal to them, Dick.”

Hamish sighed with relief as paramedics rushed up with a stretcher. He was carried to the helicopter that had landed on the beach. His wife followed him into the helicopter.

“Now,” said Hamish, taking out his phone. “Let’s see who was trying to kill him.”

After he had finished calling headquarters and asked them to find out the addresses of Bella Robertson’s son and daughter, he retreated to the Land Rover and waited.

“This is a bad business,” said Dick. “What’s happened to Sutherland? I’ve got some emergency rations in the back and a flask of coffee. I don’t know about you, but I could do with something.”

After half an hour, Jimmy phoned to say that he was on the road. Bella Robertson’s son and daughter shared a flat in Braikie. But Hamish was ordered to wait where he was.

At last Jimmy arrived with three detectives and a squad of policemen followed closely by the forensic van. Hamish took them to the rock and pointed out the ropes and spikes. They retreated before a great wave as the tide nearly engulfed the rock.

“The idea,” said Hamish, “must have been to leave him until he drowned, then come back and remove the evidence of the spikes and rope and maybe tip him down the rock so that it would look like natural causes. It’s a miracle the man survived at all.”

Police and detectives then spread out to interview the villagers. Jimmy suggested that he, Hamish, and Dick should go to Braikie to interview the son and daughter. “Neither of them’s married,” he said. “Dorothy Robertson works in a local café and Ian Robertson is at home on disability.”

He peered into the back of the Land Rover. “Do you have to take thae beasts with you everywhere, Hamish?”

“They’re not bothering anyone,” said Hamish crossly. “Let’s get on the road.”

The son and daughter lived in a small bungalow on the edge of the town.

Hamish glanced at his watch as Jimmy rang the doorbell. Six o’clock! Would he ever be able to meet Priscilla for dinner?

The door was opened by a scrawny woman in her thirties. Her mouth was turned down at the corners, witness to the highland curse of getting all one’s teeth removed after the first toothache. She had protruding brown eyes under heavy brows and hair scraped back from her face.

“Police!” said Jimmy. “May we come in?”

“I was just going out. I’m due to start my shift.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” snapped Jimmy. “If you don’t let us in, we’ll take you to police headquarters.”

She stood back and let them past. She opened the door to a cluttered living room. A man, presumably her brother, Ian, was sitting in a wheelchair in front of the television.

“What’s this about?” she demanded. Her brother switched off the television and moved his chair round. He had thinning hair combed in strips over a pink scalp and a long, lugubrious face.

“Bob Macdonald was found tied to a rock on the beach in Southey.”

“That’s awful,” said Dorothy. “But what’s it got to do with us?”

“You are reported as being bitter that Bella Robertson left the croft to Bob Macdonald. You are contesting the will.”

“It wasn’t fair. But what the hell’s it got to do with us?”

“Where were you around five o’clock yesterday afternoon?” asked Jimmy.

“Here! With my brother. He’s disabled as you can see. How could either of us go up to Southey and overpower Bob and tie him to a rock?”

Jimmy’s phone rang. He went outside to answer it.

“Why are you disabled?” asked Hamish.

“I was working on construction and took a fall,” said Ian.

“And when was this?”

“This time last year, over at the new office building on the other side of the town.”

Jimmy came back. “Bob Macdonald was struck a blow on the head, rendering him unconscious.”

“We were here all the time!” shrieked Dorothy. “Now get out!”

“We’ll be back with a search warrant,” said Jimmy.

Secret guilt by silence is betrayed.

—John Dryden

Outside, Jimmy said, “I’m going for a drink. They’ll phone me when the search warrant is being brought over. But it cannae be them. Someone strong had to have moved that body.”

“Ian Robertson’s got powerful arms on him,” said Hamish.

“Aye, but he’s in a wheelchair.”

“Jimmy, I think we ought to wait a bit in case they make a run for it.”

“I need a drink.”

“I’ve a flask of brandy in the back of the vehicle.”

“Oh, well fish it out.”

“We’d better look as if we’re going away,” said Hamish. “We can park round the corner and watch from the end of the street. Their house is a bit isolated so there’ll be no nosy neighbours to tell them we’re still here.”

Half an hour dragged past. Then the door opened and Dorothy appeared carrying two suitcases, which she put into the back of a Subaru estate car.

“Wait!” urged Hamish as Jimmy would have run forward. “Wait for the brother.”

The door opened and Ian appeared pushing his wheelchair, which he loaded in the back.

“That’s it!” cried Jimmy. “Let’s get them!”

Ian fought hard until Hamish was able to disable him, bring him down, and clip on a pair of handcuffs. Jimmy charged him with faking a disability and his sister with enabling him. He called for backup.

When brother and sister were taken away, the search warrant arrived, along with the Scenes of Crime Operatives. Hamish and Jimmy waited outside. Back at the end of the street, Dick took out a folding canvas chair and sat down, placidly watching the dog and cat run around.

“Do I have to wait?” asked Hamish, glancing at his watch.

“You’d better,” said Jimmy. “If they don’t find any evidence, we’re stuffed.”

Hamish felt he should phone Priscilla but kept putting it off, hoping he would still have time to get to the restaurant by eight o’clock.

“It’s a wonder none of the villagers in Southey saw anything,” said Jimmy.

“You would have to stand on the cliff and look down to see that rock,” said Hamish. “They probably knocked Bob on the head and put him in the wheelchair. You know what teatime in the Highlands is like. Nobody moves outdoors.”

Jimmy’s phone rang again. When he had finished his call, he said, “Good news. Bob Macdonald is going to recover. Thank God it was a warm night or he’d have surely died of cold and exposure. So that should wrap things up.”

“I’d better get back to the police station and type up my report,” said Hamish.

“All right. Off you go. Oh, wait a bit. They’ve found something.”

Hamish fretted while Jimmy talked to a white-coated figure, carrying a box. “Spikes!” he said, returning to Hamish.

“Great,” said Hamish. “Come along, Dick.”

Hamish raced to Lochdubh. His report would have to wait. He left Dick and his pets at the station and hurried along to the restaurant, still wearing his uniform.

Priscilla smiled as he joined her at the table. “It must have been something urgent,” she said. “But you’re only about ten minutes late.”

After they had placed their order and got rid of Willie, who showed a desire to hang over the table, Hamish described the two cases.

“How did you guess the man in the wheelchair was faking?” she asked.

“They were the likeliest suspects and sooner or later we would have traced them back to the attempted murder. But I got this feeling about him. Something bad. I wish I could get the same feeling about some of the suspects in the Cnothan murders.”

“Maybe,” suggested Priscilla, “you’ve been looking at them all at once. Say you were to go back and talk to each of your suspects individually and see if you can sense something about them.”

“I’ll try that,” said Hamish. “I can’t sit back and just let a murderer roam loose. How are things with you?”

“Pretty much the same.”

“Is the recession hitting the hotel?”

“Not at the moment. The whole hotel has been booked up by the executives of the Northern Scottish Bank and their wives.”

“But that’s wicked!” exclaimed Hamish. “The Tommel Castle Hotel is expensive, and that bank’s already had to be bailed out by the taxpayer.”

“That’s banks for you,” said Priscilla. “They live in a different world. They go on like the French royal family before the revolution. The press have got wind of it, so there’ll be another scandal. It’s cynical of me, but it will do the hotel no harm. They’ll photograph everything and exaggerate the luxury. How is Elspeth?”

“I haven’t heard a word.”

They talked amiably through the rest of the meal about people they knew and old murder cases.

After dinner, he escorted her to her car. Overcome by a sudden impulse, he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. For one glorious moment, he felt her response, and then she went rigid in his arms. He released her.

“Enough of that nonsense, Hamish,” she said. Priscilla got in her car and drove off, leaving him standing miserably on the waterfront.

He made his way slowly back to the police station.

“What’s up with you?” asked Dick.

“You give your heart to someone,” said Hamish bitterly, “and all they can say is ‘Enough of that nonsense, Hamish.’ ”

Hamish spent the following morning avoiding the press who wanted details of what they were calling the Wheelchair Murder. Fortunately, Superintendent Daviot—always keen to appear on television—arrived in Lochdubh to hold a press conference on the waterfront.

Hamish and Dick drove off to Cnothan with Sonsie and Lugs in the back.

When they arrived at the factory, a busload of tourists was just arriving. Hamish watched them walking in. He suddenly wished he knew more about Morag’s past. It would be easy for someone to arrive as a tourist, separate from the group, and waylay her. But the procurator fiscal’s report claimed she had been killed elsewhere. Morag had no immediate family. A second cousin had seen to the funeral arrangements.

He decided to start with Pete Eskdale. It was nearly lunchtime but he doubted Pete would want to eat in the factory canteen.

While Dick took the animals off for some exercise, Hamish waited by Pete’s car. Promptly at one o’clock he came out. He stiffened slightly at the sight of Hamish and then arranged his features in a friendly smile.

“Can I help you?”

“Just a wee talk,” said Hamish.

“Join me for lunch? I was just about to drive over to the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

“I doubt if you’ll find a place,” said Hamish. “It’s full of press and bankers.”

“Damn! The food in Cnothan is vile. Oh, well, I suppose it’ll have to be the workers’ canteen. Join me?”

“I’ll have a coffee.”

When they were settled at a table, Hamish studied the personnel officer. His suit, shirt, and silk tie looked expensive. Had he been fiddling the books? He had claimed that his lottery win had been dissipated by alimony. But Geordie Fleming did the accounts.

“It’s like this,” began Hamish. “I can’t leave these murders unsolved. Morag’s murder must have been something to do with her pregnancy. Or maybe she found out something else.”

“No use asking me,” said Pete. “I’ve batted my brains. Look. I know all these people at the factory. I know their backgrounds. Not one of them is capable of one murder, let alone three.”

“It would surprise you how often innocent-looking people can turn out to be villains.”

Pete nervously smoothed back his ginger hair. He poked a fork into a square of lasagne. “This canteen is good for the figure,” he said. “Can barely eat the stuff.”

“When you were in London, interviewing Morag, did you sleep with her?”

“No, I did not. And that’s been checked out with about all the staff at the hotel I stayed at. I mean, she thought she was God’s gift, but she was no looker. I’m not so desperate that I have to get my leg over women who look like Morag Merrilea.”

“What about Hannah Fleming?”

“Never touched her. Thought about it. Took her to lunch. What a bore she turned out to be!”

And I never knew until it was too late, thought Hamish with a sharp pang of guilt.

He remembered Priscilla’s advice. Pete was shifty about something. But people often got nervous and irrationally guilty when questioned by the police.

“How is the factory doing?” he asked.

“We’re doing great. We’re going to bring out an up-market line. Freda Crichton’s a genius. We plan to hold a fashion show down in Inverness in the autumn. I’ve employed a publicist. Wee lassie called Joan Friend. Bags of oomph.”

“Where did you get her from?”

“I spotted her in Inverness. She was hosting a fund-raiser for Scottish soldiers injured in Afghanistan. Real livewire.”

“I would like to meet her,” said Hamish, thinking that a pair of fresh eyes at the factory might have noticed something.

“She doesn’t start until next week.”

“Have you got her address?”

“She’s right here in Cnothan, settling in. You’ll find her at Cairn cottage in the High Street, right opposite the butchers. What do you want to talk to her about?”