And Tim never knew what he had said wrong.
♦
Hamish collected the keys to the bus from the police station and then strode up to the field behind the manse. Sean’s presence still seemed to be around the place. He had a superstitious feeling that he was still in the bus and would laugh at him when he opened the door.
The day was warm and overcast, with great clouds of midges dancing on the muggy air.
He unlocked the door of the bus and climbed inside.
Everything was as the forensic team had left it and as he had last seen it. He began to search methodically, but wondering all the time what he could find that an experienced forensic team had missed. He even opened packets of coffee and bags of sugar in the hope of discovering something hidden in them. He worked for hours and did not find one thing.
He sat down miserably on a bench at the side of the table and looked dully at the blank screen of the small television set. There were videos piled up in a heap at the end of the table. As a last hope, he slid them out of their packets. They were mostly of the brutal sex-and-violence kind, but nothing under the counter, nothing illegal. He sighed. Then suddenly a little picture came into his brain, a picture of Sean striding along the waterfront with that easy athletic pace of his, carrying a video camera. He looked wildly around. There was the television, there were the videos, there was the video recorder, but no camera. But Patel rented one out.
The bus was still hitched up to the manse electricity. He switched on the television set and began to feed the videos into the machine, fast-forwarding them through a series of murders and rapes and general mayhem. The weather was clearing outside and yellow sunlight suddenly flooded the interior of the bus. Children’s voices drifted in along with the other homely sounds of the village, a different world from the misery of filth and violence which was flickering in front of him.
He ejected the one he had scanned through and put in another called The Rage of the Mutants and pressed the fast-forward button. Then, with an exclamation, he ran it back to the beginning and began to play it at normal speed. With a sinking heart, he found himself looking at Mrs Wellington. She was smoking and giggling and drinking. Hamish stopped the film and peered hard at that cigarette. It was a reefer, hash, grass. “You do make me feel wicked,” Mrs Wellington burbled as he started the film again. Her eyes were glazing over. Sean’s voice was only a mumble in the background. Then there was a long blank and suddenly a couple in an amorous embrace leaped onto the screen. Angela Brodie and Sean. His mouth was clamped over hers and one hand was stroking her breast and she was moaning in his embrace. Angela suddenly pulled free and the film went blank again. It ran on towards the end and then Hamish blushed. For there was Jessie Currie, stark-naked, roaring and laughing and holding a glass of something. And then the film finished.
Hamish sat back, sweating. It all fell into place: Mrs Wellington’s distress and the missing money from the Mothers’ Union, Angela and the secondhand dress and the missing morphine, Jessie and Nessie selling their house.
He should phone Strathbane and send them the video and let them take it from there. But he could not. Even if none of them had murdered Sean, their reputations would be in rags. Dr Brodie and Mr Wellington would have to know what their wives had been up to.
Hamish switched off the television set and put everything back in place, except the incriminating video, which he took with him. There must be some way round this. For a start, he would have to try to get the culprits alone.
He let himself out of the bus and carefully locked the door. He stood blinking in the late sunshine. A brisk wind was blowing and the midges had gone.
He had a sudden picture of Sean, smiling and lounging beside the bus, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, and Hamish Macbeth felt that he could have murdered the man himself for wrecking such innocence. Hamish was sure Cheryl either did not know about the money or, if she had, had not been able to get any of it. If that was the case, it still had to be hidden somewhere. He looked slowly around. There was no outside toilet, and none on the bus. Sean had probably used one of the lavatories at the manse, the one situated just inside the back door. There was nothing outside except the packing case lying on its side, gaping empty, on which Sean and Cheryl had sat on the day he had come to search for morphine. He gave it a slight push and then peered inside. It was weighted down with rocks.
He placed the video carefully on the grass and crawled inside the packing case and dragged out the rocks. Then he pushed it aside. A square patch of bleached grass was revealed. He examined it closely and noticed that the square was made up of squares of long-grassed turf. Excited, he started to haul them up; a difficult job, for they had begun to grow together. Finally he got the last one clear and smiled with satisfaction. Buried underneath was a plastic rubbish bag full of something. He pulled it up and opened it. It was heavy but proved to be weighted with stones. But inside as well was a square cash box. The box was locked. “Tampering with the evidence,” screamed a voice of warning in his head, but he shrugged it away and took out a set of skeleton keys from his pocket and got to work. It took some time and he was glad the bus screened him from the manse windows. Finally the lock clicked and he opened the lid. The box was stuffed with pound notes – fifties, twenties, tens and fives. Underneath lay four packets of morphine. He counted the money carefully. Just over a thousand pounds. Hardly blackmail on a grand scale. He carefully replaced everything and put the bag back in the hole and covered it over with the turf and the packing case and then crawled inside to replace the rocks. Once the rocks were pushed to the back, he realized that to the forensic team, they would not be visible and it would have simply looked to them like an empty packing case on its side, showing the world that there was nothing there.
He consoled himself with the thought that he could always pretend to find the stuff later. Right now, he meant to confront the women on that video. But how to get them alone?
♦
Two days later, Angela Brodie opened a thin envelope and stared mesmerized at the thin typewritten slip inside. It said, “Come to the police station at ten this morning. I have a film to show you. Hamish Macbeth.”
“What’s that?” asked Dr Brodie. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Nothing,” said Angela. “I thought it was my exam results and got all upset, but it’s just a note from Mrs Wellington. There’s to be a meeting at the church hall to discuss raising funds.”
“Hope nobody pinches them again,” said the doctor, losing interest.
Mrs Wellington at that same moment was reading a note from Hamish Macbeth. She let out a squawk and her husband lowered his newspaper and looked at her impatiently. “Another bill?” he asked.
“No, it’s nothing,” she said, crushing the envelope and slip of paper in her large hand. “Some Mothers’ Union business. I’ve got to go out this morning.”
But the minister was once more reading his newspaper and did not seem to care.
♦
Nessie Currie twitched the slip of paper out of her sister Jessie’s trembling fingers.
“I’m ruined…ruined,” whispered Jessie.
“You’ll need to face up to him,” said Nessie. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, no. I’ll need to go on my own, on my own. Everyone will find out, find out. I cannae stay here.”
“You have sinned against the Lord,” said Nessie, “and you must take your punishment.” Then her face softened. “I’ll come along as well, Jessie. I’ll stand by you. We’ll face this together, and then we’ll sell up and go far down south, Inverness or somewhere like that.”