♦
“Come on, come on,” muttered Hamish.
Suddenly there was a cry. “Get me out o’ here!”
Hamish peered round the rock. Granger had fallen into a peat bog. Wally put his gun down on the heather and tried to pull him out. “I’m sinking,” moaned Granger. “You’ve got to hold me.”
“Here!” said Wally. “Hold on tae the butt o’ my rifle and I’ll pull you out.”
There was a loud shot and Wally fell to the ground.
He forgot to put the safety catch on, thought Hamish. The man’s shot himself.
Hamish hurried towards them. Someone had left a long branch, which they had been using as a walking stick. He seized it and then crouched down by Granger. “I’m going to wedge this under your arms. Don’t move or struggle. I’ll get help.”
He then went to Wally. The man’s blank eyes looked up to the indifferent sky.
“I shot him.” Tears ran down Granger’s cheeks. “When I grabbed his rifle, I must ha’ pulled the trigger.”
“It won’t be long,” said Hamish.
He ran off. Further down the slopes he met a posse of ghil-lies and gamekeepers and told them what had happened.
“Air-sea rescue’ll be along in a minute. They can pull him out of the bog,” said one ghillie.
By the time they returned, a helicopter had come over the mountains and was hovering over the bog. Two men came down. “The best thing you can do,” said Hamish, “is get a rope round him and pull him out.”
As they fastened the rope under Granger’s armpits, Hamish charged him with attempted murder.
The rope was then tied securely on to the cable, and the helicopter was signalled to haul away.
The rope strained, and then, with a great plop like a cork being pulled out of a bottle, Granger was up and out of the bog.
“Get a stretcher down and lash him on to it,” ordered Hamish.
“There’s no need for that at all,” said an ambulance man. “The winch is here. They can haul both of us up.”
“I’m ordering you to get this man on a stretcher. I fear he may attack you.”
“I’m a paramedic and he looks as quiet as a lamb to me. Come on, son, let’s get you winched up.”
Hamish watched as the two figures rose up to the helicopter. Then the paramedic screamed and Granger fell, spiralling straight down. He smashed into the rock Hamish had been hiding behind and lay still.
Sirens were sounding in the village below.
Another paramedic was winched down. His face was white with shock. “He knifed Johnny.”
“Is Johnny going to be all right?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, he just slashed at his hand. Is this fellow dead?”
“Yes, very. I think he blamed himself for the deam of his friend. I was worried something like this might happen.”
♦
It was to be a long day. The bodies of Walter and Granger were winched up to be taken to the procurator fiscal in Strathbane.
Hamish told the ghillies and keepers to make sure none of the approaching police went into the bog.
Jimmy Anderson eventually arrived, gasping and panting, surrounded by armed police.
“You’re too late,” said Hamish. “Two dead men. Where’s Blair?”
“Down in his car. You won’t see him climbing up anywhere.”
Hamish described what had happened. “Lot of paperwork for you,” said Jimmy when Hamish had finished. “You weren’t armed?”
“No.”
“That’s a mercy. I wouldn’t put it past Blair to try to claim you shot Wally.”
“Do you want me to help you down the hill?”
“Hamish, I’ve got to stay here for the forensic team. You’d better go down and report to Blair. Have you heard the news about Lesley?”
“No. What?”
“She’s engaged to be married to her boss, Bruce. She did ask me to be sure to let you know.”
“I’m not going down to report to Blair,” said Hamish. “Tell him I’m looking for clues or something.”
Jimmy’s phone rang. Hamish, listening, assumed it was Blair. He wandered off up the hillside until the scene below him grew smaller and smaller. He stayed up in the mountains until dark when he returned to the police station and wearily began to type up his report.
∨ Death of a Witch ∧
13
He seldom errs
Who thinks the worst he can of womankind.
– John Home
Hamish had decided to take his mother’s offer of a free holiday. His first duty was to call at the London office of Pedro’s Olive Oil to be photographed and given the large bouquet of flowers that had originally been intended for his mother.
Hamish made two speeches extolling the virtues of the oil, shook hands all round, allowed himself to be embraced several times, and then was sent on his way with a gift of one thousand euros and his train tickets.
The ceremony being over, he travelled to St. Pancras station to catch the Eurostar.
He did not know that his first-class ticket allowed him a special entrance to avoid the rush or that there was a lounge for first-class passengers, so he waited in the vast and highly uncomfortable general waiting room. There were horseshoe sofa arrangements in front of round tables, which, by the geographical siting of chairs and tables, meant that only two people could make use of the table. Other rows of seats were backless. There was only one small café and one small newsagent to service all the hordes.
When the train departure was announced everyone rushed to the escalators, fretting and fidgeting while passports and tickets were checked.
At last he was on board. What maniac had designed the seating? he wondered.
He was seated at a table, one passenger beside him and two across. There was very little legroom. He put his long legs out into the corridor but kept having to draw them in when people came past. The man opposite him was nearly as tall as Hamish and so they worked out that Hamish should stretch his feet out to the left and his fellow traveller to the right.
During the two-and-a-half-hour journey, they were served three-course meals with wine. Hamish’s opposite companion had a burning desire to go to the loo as soon as the food was served. In trying to stand up and get over Hamish’s legs, he stumbled, held on to his tray for support, stumbled against Hamish, and knocked Hamish’s meal across into the lap of the woman opposite.
What screams and swear words until the woman was cleaned down and presented with a complimentary bottle of champagne. No one suggested replacing Hamish’s dinner, and he was too fed up by this time to demand one.
He finally got out in Paris at the Gare du Nord. Rain was thudding down on the roof. Outside a line of people waiting for taxis seemed to stretch for miles. He pulled a thin raincoat out of his backpack, put it on, and began to trudge through the streets of Paris. He knew the next train left from the Gare d’Austerlitz on the Left Bank of the Seine.
He dropped into various brasseries for comforting hot drinks, then he would consult his map and plough on.
At Bastille, he saw a cruising cab and flagged it down. The rain had thinned and watery sunlight was gilding the greenish brown waters of the Seine as the taxi crossed the river and then swung into the courtyard of the Gare d’Austerlitz.
The train, the Joan Miro, was already standing on the platform. The coach attendant took away his ticket and passport and said he would return mem before arrival in Barcelona.
Hamish was ushered into his compartment. It contained a comfortable armchair and a private shower and toilet.
“Go straight to the dining car,” said the coach attendant. “It gets very busy. Your bed will be made down when you return.”