Mary was with them. As they got to work, she looked suspiciously at Hamish. “I don’t trust you, Macbeth,” she said. “I think you are holding back information.”
“Why?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence. You happen to be in a restaurant in Strathbane when Dr. Renfrew and Mrs. Fleming are having a row. You happen suddenly to remember a television programme on malpractice, and now you suddenly discover that this man’s Land Rover could have been driven on the night of Shona Fraser’s murder.”
“I didnae know anything about this Land Rover. You told me there had been a burglary and sent me off to investigate,” said Hamish.
“Maybe you’re just lucky. Get along with you. Write up your reports at the police station and leave them for me at the mobile unit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hamish touched his cap and headed off to his own vehicle.
As he was driving into Lochdubh, he saw the long, low Presbyterian church and stopped abruptly. The minister’s house was at the side of it, a modern bungalow with plaster gnomes in the garden. Hamish wondered why plaster gnomes were not considered too frivolous.
The door was opened by a pretty young woman. She had rosy cheeks and a mop of glossy brown curls.
“I saw you admiring the gnomes,” she said cheerfully. “Aren’t they awful? One of the parishioners gave them to Murdo, so we have to display them. You’re Hamish Macbeth. We met last year at Jaunty Sinclair’s wedding.”
“Of course! You’re the minister’s wife.”
“That’s me. Murdo’s out on his rounds. Can I help you?”
“You might be the very person.”
“Come in. I was just about to have a cup of coffee.”
Hamish followed her into a bright living room. “Sit yourself down,” she said, “and I’ll bring you a cup. Scones?”
“Yes, please.”
She left and came back after a short time carrying a laden tray, which she set on a table by the window. “We’ll have our coffee here,” she said. “I do so hate crouching over a coffee table.”
Once she had served Hamish with scones and coffee, she asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
“It’s Geordie McArthur up the brae from the Strathbane road. I feel he’s treating his wife right cruel and all in the name o’ religion. He doesn’t let her go out. She looks worn down. He’s jealous o’ the very air she breathes. I tackled him on it, and he said I was an emissary of Satan.”
“Does he beat her?”
“I don’t think so.” The scones were like bricks. He left one half-eaten on his plate. He thought the minister’s wife must have been taking baking lessons from Angela Brodie, who was a notoriously bad cook.
“You mean it’s mental cruelty?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll tell Murdo, and he will pay Geordie a visit. Goodness, these scones are quite terrible. I bought them this morning in Patel’s. I must be having a word with him. They had a label, “Local home baking.””
“I tell you what, pack them up,” said Hamish. “I’m going into Lochdubh, and I’ll speak to Mr. Patel about them.”
“That’s very good of you. I’ll get a bag.”
When she ushered him out, she said, “Don’t worry about Mrs. McArthur. We’ll sort something out.”
♦
Hamish stopped at Patel’s and carried the bag into the shop. He dumped it on the counter. “Did Angela Brodie supply you with these scones?”
“Yes, I told the local women I would sell any of their home baking they liked to give me. Mrs. Brodie said baking would be a welcome change from writing.”
“They’re awful,” said Hamish. “I’ll buy what you’ve got left, and then you tell her you’ve cancelled the scheme.”
“But some of the cakes the others bake are very good!”
“Angela can only bake scones and shortbread. Tell her there’s no market.”
Hamish bought the rest of the scones. He wrapped them tightly and dropped them in a rubbish bin in the front. Then he realised the television vans had gone and there wasn’t a reporter in sight.
His insides cringed as he heard himself being hailed by Blair. Blair’s piggy eyes were gleaming with malice. “Step inside the unit, laddie. I’ve something to show you.”
Hamish followed him in.
“That’s Cannon’s desk ower there,” said Blair.
On the wall behind the inspector’s desk was a large poster of a highlander wearing nothing more than a tam·o’·shanter, a tartan scarf, a cheesy smile, and a large erection.
“I cannae wait to see old thunder thigh’s face,” chortled Blair, rubbing his fat hands together. “It’s high time she learned to put a smile on her face.”
And she’ll wipe the smile off yours, thought Hamish. I’m not going to warn you what she’ll do. Aloud, he said, “I got to go. Reports to write.”
♦
In the police station, Hamish fed Sonsie and Lugs and then went into the police office and began to work. At one point, he heard a woman’s voice raised in fury. Then all was silent. He wrote long and detailed reports, attached Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson’s hotel receipt to the report on her, printed out the reports, and went out of the station to deliver them to the mobile police unit. He stopped in his tracks.
Outside the mobile unit stood Mary Gannon, Blair, and Superintendent Daviot. Daviot was holding the crumpled poster in his hand.
“I don’t care if it’s a murder investigation,” Daviot was saying to Blair. “You are coming back to headquarters with me. You, too, Inspector.”
Jimmy Anderson arrived. Daviot ordered him to take charge of the investigation. He drove off with Blair and Mary following in their cars.
Hamish told Jimmy the reason for the ruckus, and Jimmy yelled with delight. “The whisky’s on me, Hamish. Blair must ha’ gone mad. What if one of the press had called in at the unit, seen that poster, and photographed it? It would have been front page o’ the News of the World.”
“Let’s hope he gets suspended,” said Hamish. “Here’s my reports, Jimmy. I would like to interview that Miss Creedy again. I want to know what guilty secret she has, if any.”
♦
Before Hamish drove off to Lochdubh, he took out his mobile phone and called Elspeth and told her about Geordie’s Land Rover. He felt he owed her some news in return for her research. “Don’t worry about Miss Greedy. I’ll tackle her again myself. Call at the police station this evening,” said Hamish, “and I’ll see if I can let you have anything else. Where have all the press gone?”
“Hostage situation in Perth. Young children involved. Luke’s rushed off to cover it, although the Perth man is furious at him invading his patch. See you later.”
♦
Miss Creedy’s shop was closed, and a For Sale sign was in the window. Hamish retreated to the Land Rover and looked up the local phone book. She lived, he noticed, in the same council estate as Mrs. Gillespie.
She was working in her small front garden when he arrived. She started when she saw him, made a move as if to run indoors, and then stood her ground.
“I have talked and talked to the police,” she said, her voice shrill with fear. “I have nothing more to say.”
“Yes, you have.” Hamish took a gamble. “Mrs. Gillespie was blackmailing you, and I know it. I think we should go into the house.”
Miss Creedy began to cry, great gulping sobs racking her thin body. Hamish guided her into the house.
When she was seated, he pulled a seat up in front of her and faced her.
“Why did you do it?” he asked when she finally dried her eyes.
“It was the price,” she said. “I’d ordered the tourist stuff before from a factory in Strathbane. Then one day, this Chinaman called at the shop and said he had an import-export business in Glasgow. There was a factory in China that made the stuff so cheap, Scottish tourist things, in fact tourist things for a lot of countries, and he could let me have cheap stock. I thought nothing of it. It seemed all right to order from him and save a lot of money.