“Come along, Priscilla,” whispered Hamish urgently. “Let’s get out of here before Daviot sees the dog and cat. Neither of them has as good a pedigree as you, and Daviot will give me a bollocking for taking them around in a police vehicle.”
They drove off. When they were well clear of the scene, Priscilla said, “Stop!”
“What is it? Are they back?”
“No, I feel a bit sick and shaky.”
“And here’s me thinking you were made of iron. I’ll take you back.”
“No, let’s go on. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
♦
The manager of the paper works, Mr. Benjamin Worthy, looked at them both impatiently when Hamish asked whether Fergus could possibly have left the works unnoticed.
“I’ve been through all this before,” he said. Worthy was one of those lowland Scots who should never be put in charge of anyone. He had a brusque, bullying manner. He was small and round, wearing a suit, collar, and tie. He had small, black eyes in a discontented face.
“As I said already, they clock in here and clock out. There is only one way out of this factory for the men and that is past the security guard at the entrance.”
“But your trucks go in and out,” Hamish pointed out.
“Fergus Braid is not a truck driver. He is a machine operator.”
“Has he got any special friend here?”
“Is this necessary?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’ll get the foreman.”
He bustled out, leaving them in his pretentious office with its framed Rotary Club photographs on the walls and its oversize desk.
After what seemed like a long time to Hamish and Priscilla, the door opened and a man in blue overalls came in. “I’m Mike Haggerty,” he said. “The foreman. The boss said you had some questions.”
“Did Fergus Braid have any special friend at the works?”
“You could maybe say that was me. We often grabbed a drink after work.”
“Could Fergus possibly have left the works on the day of his wife’s murder without anyone knowing?”
The foreman was tall and thin with thick glasses. A ray of sun shone in the window. The mist had lifted. Hamish noticed a thin film of sweat of Mike’s brow.
Hamish’s eyes sharpened. He decided to guess. “I know you covered for him,” he said sternly. “You may as well tell the truth or I’ll haul you in and charge you with impeding the police in their enquiries.”
“He wouldnae hurt a fly, Fergus wouldn’t,” blustered Mike. “He only wanted a couple of hours so I told him he could nip out through the lorry bay at the back.”
“And why didn’t you report this before?”
“Because there was one nasty swine o’ a detective bullying me and more or less telling me that Fergus had murdered Ina, and Fergus would never do such a thing.”
“Wait there,” ordered Hamish. He nodded to Priscilla, and they stepped outside. With a heavy heart, Hamish took out his phone and called Jimmy.
“Great!” enthused Jimmy, when Hamish had finished speaking. “Keep an eye on the bugger. I’ll be right over.”
♦
When the foreman was taken away, Hamish sadly went back to the Land Rover with Priscilla and drove off. “I only hope Fergus comes up with an alibi and a real one this time. I chust can’t believe that man would murder his wife. Blair will try to pin the other murders on him as well.”
∨ Death of a Witch ∧
9
The cruellest lies are often told in silence.
– Robert Louis Stevenson
The arrest of Fergus Braid struck the village like a bombshell. Lesley, opening the newspaper the next day, found a photograph of him on the front page and a different story on the inside, HIGHLAND BOBBY ATTACKED BY ARMED POACHERS screamed the headline. There was a photograph of Priscilla laughing as she handed the rifle over. Lesley read the story carefully. There was nothing about why Priscilla was on the scene and why she had a rifle. She did not know Priscilla’s involvement had been suppressed.
Lesley scowled. Priscilla was real competition. All Hamish needed was the support of a strong ambitious woman who could get him out of that village and into the mainstream of police work. For all his intelligence, she suspected he was shy.
She decided she would invite him to her flat in Strathbane for dinner. That way she would be safe from interruptions.
ELSPETH RECEIVED A call from the features editor. “I’m sending up Perry Gaunt.”
“But I’ve done two colour features for you,” complained Elspeth.
“The editor wants to give Perry a break. Book him a room and show him the ropes. He’ll be with you shortly. He set off yesterday. He was planning to spend an overnight in Inverness.”
Elspeth knew it was futile to protest further. Perry Gaunt was an old Etonian, and his father was a close friend of the London editor.
No sooner had she put down the phone in her room than it rang again. It was Mr. Johnson. “There’s a Mr. Gaunt asking for you.”
“I’ll be right down,” said Elspeth.
Perry Gaunt was leaning on the reception desk. He was tall and lean with thick fair hair and a pleasant face. He was wearing an expensive scarlet anorak over a black cashmere sweater, black cords, and sensible boots. As reporters had little to do with features writers and as Perry had only recently joined the paper, Elspeth barely knew him.
“Elspeth,” he said with a smile. “You must be cursing me for moving in on your patch. I read your pieces and they were damn good.”
“It’s all right,” said Elspeth, thawing before that charming smile and noticing his eyes were green. “Mr. Johnson, can you manage a room for Mr. Gaunt?”
“He’s in luck. One of our guests has just checked out. If you’ll just sign these forms, Mr. Gaunt, I’ll show you to your room.”
“I’ll wait down here for you,” said Elspeth, “and then I’ll show you around.”
Elspeth began to feel quite cheerful. The idea that a murderer might be lurking about trying to kill her made her feel uneasy. Hamish Macbeth always seemed to have women around him. Let’s see how he likes me being accompanied by Perry.
Perry came down. “Right,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve read all your stories as well as your features. The trouble is there doesn’t seem to be anything left for me to write about. You seem to have covered it all.”
“I’ll drive you down to the village and introduce you to a few people,” said Elspeth. “Have you had much experience of journalism?”
“I got a degree in journalism from Lander University in Birmingham. They’ll give you a degree in anything. Someone even got a degree in flower arrangement. Before that I got a degree in mediaeval history from Oxford. Before that I was in the army. I’m quite old to be starting out. I’m thirty-three. I haven’t worked on a newspaper before.”
“So how did you land this one?” asked Elspeth, curious to know whether he would admit to his father’s friendship with the editor.
“You’ll hate me for this. My father is a friend of Josh Appleton.” Josh was the London editor. “He spoke to him and next thing I knew was I had the job in Glasgow. Now you’ll despise me for taking it.”
“It’s really no different from what goes on in Glasgow,” said Elspeth. “Sons of printers get jobs in reporting when they’ve got no aptitude whatever.”
“Well, let’s see if I have any talent.”
♦
They were just crossing the forecourt to Elspeth’s car when Priscilla emerged from the gift shop. She was wearing hip-hugging jeans and high boots with a black turtleneck sweater.
“Talking about local colour,” said Perry. “Who the hell is that?”
“That is Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the hotel owner.”