“Oh, aye.” Cheryl turned away, indifference in every line of her body.
But it must work. It’s got to work, thought Hamish as he drove home. I’ll tell the Wellingtons, the Curries, and Angela Brodie, and Mr Ferrari, too, that I’ve found stuff which will enable the forensic department to find the murderer. Forensic investigation is the new witchcraft. Any guilty person’s going to be frightened of being smelt out.
And if it doesn’t work, reflected Hamish sadly, I’ll turn everything over to Strathbane and throw myself on Jimmy Andersen’s mercy. What a gamble! What a thin chance! But the murderer, or murderess, must be badly frightened, must still be desperate to cover his or her tracks. And if I get whoever did it, then I have to gamble on that person keeping quiet about the blackmailing. If it’s Cheryl, point out that she’ll get a more lenient sentence; if it’s Ferrari, he didn’t know about the blackmailing anyway. But if it’s one of the others, the blackmailing is their best excuse for the murder and whoever it is will damn the other two innocent blackmail victims when presenting her defence. But it can’t go on. I’ll have to try.
♦
The next day, he decided that there must have been something in the orange juice he had bought at the club. He was behaving ridiculously. Better to wait until Bert recovered from his drug overdose and get Jimmy Anderson to find out if he had stood in for Cheryl on the night of the murder. Then question Johnny Rankin and the rest. Then see if Cheryl could be broken. It was possible she did not know of the blackmailing, but how could she not know? But something drove him on to get Mrs Wellington, Jessie Currie and Angela Brodie on their own and tell them a variety of what he had told Cheryl. All looked at him hopelessly, as if they were exhausted with weeping and worry.
When Hamish returned to the police station, Willie said, “Jimmy Anderson was on the phone. You’re to call right back.”
Hamish phoned Strathbane and was put through to the detective. “It’s Bert Luscious, real name Bert Maxwell,” said Anderson. “He’s been and gone and died on us. I had a go at Johnny Rankin and the rest and they swear blind Cheryl was with them all the time and I cannae break their story. Rankin’s got enough syringe marks on his arms tae make him look like a walking pincushion, but he started screaming about police harassment and said he’s been clean for months. We searched his flat and the others but couldnae find any drugs. Look, Hamish, Mullen tells me you’ve been tae the Roadhouse and it’s no’ on your beat. You’re going tae have to look the facts in the face, and it’s that one o’ that lot in Brigadoon up there did it, and stop running yourself ragged wi’ a bunch o’ daft men in women’s frocks and a lot o’ drug addicts who can’t sing for two pence. Are you keeping anything back?”
Hamish said reluctantly, “I’ve got new evidence. Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, was back at the bus on the night of the murder, so was her husband, and so was the restaurant owner, Ferrari, and a couple of his relatives.”
“And why havenae we seen those statements?”
“I’ve just done them,” said. Hamish.
“Look here, when is that mother coming up tae sell the bus?”
“In a few days’ time.”
“Well, I’m coming up there tomorrow to go over the whole thing again, and do you know why, Hamish Macbeth?”
“No.”
“Because I’ve got a feeling in ma bones you’re protecting someone. If Blair’s as bad as I think he is, he’ll have to retire and I’m in line for promotion, so it’s no more easygoing auld Jimmy Anderson. See you in the morn.”
Priscilla, thought Hamish. I need Priscilla, and as if on cue, Priscilla walked into the office.
“Sit down,” said Hamish. “I’m in a grand old mess.”
Willie came in with a tray of coffee. “Willie, could you take off your pinny and go on your beat,” said Hamish. “We want to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Use your brains, man, I’ve got something serious to ask Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
“Oh, I see,” said Willie. “I’ll give you a long time then.”
When Willie had gone, Hamish outlined what had happened to date and his plans for catching the murderer.
“It might just work,” said Priscilla. “What will you do if no one turns up?”
“I’ll chust haff to tell Anderson everything.”
“I suppose you can lie and tell him you just found the stuff. When do you expect your murderer to show?”
“After dark.”
“That’ll be about midnight, and even then it never gets really dark at this time of year,” pointed out Priscilla. “If I were you, I would begin watching about ten. I’ve got a nifty little tape recorder up at the castle. I’ll bring that and keep you company.”
“Nice of you, but why?”
“Better to have proof and a witness.”
“And what do I tell Willie?” asked Hamish.
“Tell him we’re walking out. He thinks you’re proposing to me anyway.”
“Och, no,” said Hamish. “The man can’t be that daft.”
♦
“I’m telling you for a fact,” said PC Willie Lament in Patel’s grocery store, “that Hamish Macbeth is in that polis station right now proposing marriage to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”
“High time,” said Mrs Maclean.
“Our Hamish getting married!” Mr Patel’s dark face lit up. He enjoyed a good bit of gossip. “Well, I never thought to see the day. My, my, my. And it’s yourself, Mrs Anderson, and how are you this fine day? Have you heard the news about our Hamish?”
A reporter from the Strathbane and Highland Gazette, who was standing patiently behind Mrs Anderson waiting to buy a packet of cigarettes, pricked up his ears. Nice gossip piece. Forget the cigarettes. He’d better phone it over right away.
♦
Hamish and Priscilla made their way to the field behind the manse by a circuitous route so that they would not be seen. This involved walking all the way over to Gunn’s farm and then doubling back over the fields, past the greenish water-filled quarry and then up the steep path by the side of a cliff which overlooked the water, and so down towards the manse.
The twilight, or gloaming, as it is called in Scotland, was soft and clear. The residents of Lochdubh went early to bed, and as Hamish and Priscilla sat down in the field behind the shelter of the bus, the lights in the village were going out one by one.
They sat talking quietly of this and that but gradually fell silent, straining their ears for the slightest sound.
By one o’clock, the wind of Sutherland had risen and was moaning through the long grass and gaining in force every minute, filling the night with movement.
“We’ll never hear anything in this,” whispered Priscilla.
“I’m a fool,” muttered Hamish bitterly. “These damn women should never have put themselves in a position to be blackmailed anyway, and they’d better face up and take their medicine. Why should I protect them and risk letting a murderer go free?”
“Because Sean was a worthless man and these women are not worthless. They just did not have any experience of evil before. They were all so innocent and he took advantage of that.”
“Aye, I’ve had bad dreams over this. I had one about you, Priscilla.”
“Oh, what was I doing?”
“We were on our honeymoon and you were taking off your clothes and you had a flat hairy chest.”
“You know how to flatter a girl and make her feel good, Hamish.”
“It wass chust a dream! You do not haff the flat hairy chest!”
“How do you know?” said Priscilla huffily.
“Because…” He grabbed her by the arms in a fierce grip. “Listen!” he muttered.
“Only the wind,” whispered Priscilla, “I don’t hear anything exactly. I feel something coming.”