Cheryl gave a contemptuous yawn.
Hamish gave up and went outside and began to search around for the scooter. The wind was howling through the piles of refuse and old cars which dotted the field among the buses and caravans. A dismal scene. But there was no sign of the scooter.
He began to experience a pressing nagging fear that he was in the wrong place, that the clue to the murder lay back in Lochdubh, buried among the inhabitants. But he stubbornly decided to wait in Strathbane until evening and see Johnny Rankin and the Stotters. It was no use questioning Cheryl again. He would not get anything out of her.
He drove into Strathbane, a misery of a place with tall concrete blocks of flats and an air of failure. Nothing had changed. The seagulls here seemed dirtier than anywhere else and the oily sea sucked at the rubbish-strewn shore, heaving in on long rolling slow waves, as if exhausted by pollution. He went to the Glen Bar, which he had once frequented when he had been briefly stationed in the town, ordered an orange juice and then sat in a corner and took out a notebook and began to write anything that came into his head about the case.
It slowly dawned on him that he had let his feelings become involved in a dangerous way. Not only was he protecting the three women, he had not questioned Mr Ferrari thoroughly enough, having let his partiality for hardworking Scottish Italians sway his judgement. Then there was the minister. There was no doubt that the normally scholarly and gentle Mr Wellington had gone temporarily mad, and the murder had definitely been done by someone in the grip of a murderous rage. Had Mr Wellington considered himself to be the hammer of God?
He had half a mind to call at headquarters and report the finding of the money, drugs and video and then ask for leave so that he could get away from the village and leave the Strathbane police to do their work.
But perhaps, just perhaps, he might find a clue during the performance of the pop group.
It was a long dreary day and he was glad when evening arrived and he drove to Mullen’s Roadhouse, anxious to get it over with.
The huge bar was crowded with a mixture of young people wearing what looked to Hamish like an assortment of jogging suits, and staid Scottish couples who had no doubt come because the entertainment was free and there was nothing much else in the way of entertainment in Strathbane.
He was getting tired of orange juice and switched to tomato juice.
There was a small stage in the bar. Various young men were setting up sound equipment and plugging in things and arranging loudspeakers.
At last Johnny Rankin and the Stotters came on. Johnny Rankin was an emaciated young man wearing black leather trousers covered in sequins and nothing else. The only female performer was Cheryl, who was wearing an old–fashioned black corset and black stockings, perhaps hoping to emulate Madonna, although there was something peculiarly sexless about her, but then, reflected Hamish, he had always thought there was something peculiarly sexless about Madonna.
The band swung into action, a hellish cacophony of sound. Cheryl shouted the lyrics and gyrated and twanged a large electric guitar, making up in energy what she so obviously lacked in talent. Strobe lights hurt Hamish’s eyes but he kept them fixed on Cheryl. At no time did she leave the stage. He suffered through the whole performance and then went out into the blessed quiet of the night, feeling low. There was no way Cheryl could have left the stage.
He drove back to Lochdubh, regretting that it was now too late to call on Priscilla – Priscilla who had a marvellous way of clarifying his thoughts. He resolved to see her the next day. The need to turn the evidence over to Strathbane was becoming pressing.
And then, as he was driving past the manse, he suddenly stopped abruptly a little beyond it and looked back up at the field. All the lights were on in the bus. He got out of the car and sprinted up towards the field.
He reached the bus and quietly leaned in through the door. Mr Wellington, the minister, was feverishly looking through the cupboards. Groceries and Seari’s clothes were lying tumbled on the floor.
Hamish stepped inside.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded.
Mr Wellington swung round, his face grey.
“I-I-I lent Sean a v-valuable book,” he stammered. “I was looking for it.”
“In the middle of the night?” demanded Hamish. “This iss breaking and entering.”
“I have a spare set of keys,” said Mr Wellington. “Sean left them at the manse in case he should ever lose his own.”
“Then it wass your job to turn them over to the police,” snapped Hamish, torn between anxiety and fear. “Do you know what I think? I think you either killed Sean yourself or you think your wife did it.”
The minister began to slowly replace everything in the cupboard without speaking.
“I will need to report this,” said Hamish heavily.
The minister sat down suddenly on a bench seat at the table and buried his face in his hands. Hamish sat on the bench opposite him. “Tell me what you know,” he said gently, “and I will see what I can do to help.”
“He was an evil man,” muttered the minister. “I thought when he was dead that everything would return to normal. But my wife is still a wreck.” He took his hands from his face and looked at Hamish and then gave an odd little sob like a tired child. “You may as well charge me and get it over with, Hamish. I killed him.”
Hamish felt deathly tired.
“How?” he asked.
“I took the sledgehammer and hit him.”
“Where?”
“Right here…in the bus.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, where did you strike him?”
The minister looked at him and then said slowly, “I waited until he had his back to me and then I brought the hammer down on the back of his head.”
Hamish felt a wave of relief. “Mr Wellington, you did not see the body or hear the pathologist’s report. The blow that killed him was the very first one and that was a blow to the forehead. Once he was down, the murderer kept on hitting until his head and face were wrecked.”
“Yes, yes, that was it,” said Mr Wellington eagerly. “I had forgotten.”
“Havers,” said Hamish. “You didn’t forget because you didn’t do it, but you thought your wife did. Why?”
The minister looked defiantly at Hamish and then seemed to collapse. “She was in his bus on the night of the murder,” he said.
“What!”
“It was right after the evening service. I saw her walk across. I followed her. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but she was crying when she came out. I seized her and demanded to know what was wrong. She became almost hysterical and refused to tell me. I took her indoors and went back. Sean laughed at me and said she had lost her faith as well and was pleading with him to hand it back, just like a book, he said. I tried to punch him, but he was so very strong. He simply picked me up and threw me out on to the grass, laughing his head off.”
“I told my wife what he had said and she agreed that was the case. I suggested we pray together and then she began to laugh at me in a terrible parody of Sean’s laughter and told me not to be such an old fool. Later that evening, I heard the back door slam and was sure she had gone back to him again. Perhaps Sean was in love with her. Mrs Wellington can be a very seductive woman, although she is not aware of it.”
Hamish thought of the large and tweedy Mrs Wellington and blinked.
“Your wife has not been honest with me,” he said. “Look, put all the stuff away, lock up and give me the keys. Get your wife out of bed.”
But by the time everything was put away, Hamish had decided to leave interviewing Mrs Wellington until the morning. He said he would call for her and take her along to the police station. If he interviewed her now, he would find it hard to get her alone without the minister. Although his loyalty to the three blackmailed women had been badly shaken, he still did not want to speak to her in front of her husband and so reveal to the minister that his wife was a thief.