Death of an Outsider (9 page)

‘I checked up on those houses,’ said Hamish wearily. ‘One had a damaged roof and the other had no bathroom and no electric light laid on. Mainwaring bought the one for ten thousand pounds and the other for eight. Small beer to a man like Mackay who sells castles.’

‘You’re all the same,’ said Alistair bitterly. ‘Mackay’s a toff and ye willnae touch the toffs. It’s one law for the rich and one for the poor.’

Hamish fought down his temper. He had heard Alistair trapped and shot game for sport, unlike most Highlanders, who only killed what they needed to eat. A brace of dead rabbits hung from his belt. He exuded a sort of peasant cruelty.

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Hamish abruptly.

‘Well, I’m sitting here until I get you to take down a statement,’ said Alistair threateningly.

Hamish looked at him thoughtfully and then his thin face lit up in a charming smile.

‘Stay as long as you like, you handsome brute, you,’ he said softly.

Alistair Gunn stood up so quickly that the chair went flying.

‘Oh, don’t go,’ cried Hamish. ‘We have
lots
to talk about.’

The only answer was the slamming of the police-station door.

Hamish leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head and fought down the desire to go and see Jenny.

Any attraction she’d held for him had surely died when she had confessed to liking Main-waring and to having lied about her sister. He had an uneasy feeling he had been allowed to share her bed to keep him quiet. And yet he wanted her. He wanted her very badly. Then he wanted a cigarette. Then the longing for her hit him in a second wave, more powerful than the first.

He was just convincing himself that it was all in the order of duty to ask her more questions when there was a commotion outside and then the doorbell rang.

Outside stood three couples, three schoolgirls, and the minister, Mr Struthers.

The minister herded the party into the police station as Hamish stood aside.

‘Behold the guilty!’ cried Mr Struthers, his pale eyes flashing with triumph.

Hamish collected chairs from the kitchen and waited until everyone was seated. Then he took out his notebook. He looked at the three schoolgirls, who were sitting with their heads hanging.

‘I guess I am looking at the Mainwaring witches,’ said Hamish. ‘Names?’

Mr Struthers acted as spokesman. The girls were all fourteen years old. They were Alison Birrell, Desiree Watson, and Marleen Macdonald.

Hamish pricked up his ears at the sound of the names Birrell and MacDonald.

He interrupted Mr Struthers. ‘Mr Birrell and Mr Macdonald – you are both crofters?’

Birrell was a tough little dwarf of a man and Macdonald an enormous giant. Both nodded.

Their wives were sitting holding hands and sobbing.

‘And Mr Watson?’

Jimmy Watson, a dapper little man in a blue serge suit, said, ‘Motor mechanic.’

Hamish looked at the minister. ‘I think it would be better, Mr Struthers, if you took the parents through to the living-room and left me to have a word in private with the girls.’ He saw the parents were about to protest and added quickly, ‘I will not be taking statements until you are present.’

Reluctantly, they shuffled out.

‘Now,’ said Hamish, perching on the edge of his desk. ‘We’ll just have a wee talk.’

The girls all looked remarkably alike. Two had red hair and one black, but they had the same sullen, pinched white faces and beaky noses. Bad diet, thought Hamish. Boil-in-the-bag meals and fish and chips.

He selected the more composed-looking girl, Desiree Watson, and said, ‘You, Desiree, what on earth were you thinking of to scare poor Mrs Mainwaring?’

‘We couldnae get rid o’ Mr Mainwaring,’ sniffled Desiree, ‘so we thought we could frighten his missus into getting him to leave.’

‘But why should you three girls take it upon yourselves to do this?’

Alison Birrell spoke up. ‘Will we go to the bad fire, mister?’

Hamish decided that if he reassured them on that point, he would not get another word out of them.

‘If you do not make a full confession,’ he said, ‘I shudder to think what will happen.’

The girls clutched each other and began to cry again.

Hamish soothed them down. Haltingly, it all began to come out. They had heard their parents complaining and complaining about Mainwaring. Mainwaring had said that Mr Watson, the motor mechanic, had overcharged him and had reported the garage to the Consumers Council. So the girls had planned to take matters into their own hands. They had waited behind the churchyard wall until they heard Mrs Mainwaring coming along.

After half an hour of close questioning, Hamish called the minister and the parents back in and took statements from the girls.

‘Will they go to prison?’ asked Alec Birrell.

‘Not if they co-operate,’ said Hamish, thinking quickly. ‘This witchcraft nonsense is stopping anyone from seeing the facts of the disappearance of William Mainwaring clearly.’ He saw the freelance reporter, Ian Gibb, passing along the street outside and opened the door and called to him.

‘Come along, Scoop Gibb.’ Hamish grinned. ‘Another exclusive for you.’

Blair was sitting in the television lounge of the Anstey Hotel, drinking beer, when Hamish reported to him.

‘What?’ roared Blair. ‘You daft pillock. Didnae you charge them with something?’

‘I did better than that,’ said Hamish. He told Blair of giving the freelance reporter the story. ‘Don’t you see, man,’ said Hamish, ‘the sooner the press stop asking questions about witchcraft and that skeleton, the better? We’re left with the skeleton, but at least this should take some of the heat off.’

‘Damn waste o’ time,’ growled Blair. ‘I can’t move without tripping over television cables. With Mrs Mainwaring identifying these teeth and once the dentist in Edinburgh confirms it, the funeral will be held and that’ll be more mayhem in the press.’

‘Have you considered it’s going to get out sooner or later?’ said Hamish. ‘The lobsters, I mean.’

‘It can’t get out,’ said Blair. ‘If it gets out I’ll lose my job, and I’ll make sure you lose yours too. Shuddup. Here’s the news.’

He crouched forward, his hands clasped and his head bent in a ludicrous attitude of prayer.

The news started off with the headlines. A bomb had gone off in Number 10 Downing Street. Intended to kill the Prime Minister, it had not succeeded but had killed two members of the Cabinet, a policeman, two detectives, and a messenger. Hamish watched in a dazed way. The next headline was that the tail-end of the American hurricane Bertha had struck the Clyde estuary. Ships had gone down, people had been killed by flying slates, trees uprooted, and cars blown off bridges.

‘Oh my God,’ breathed Blair. ‘Saved by the bell. Was ever a man so lucky!’

Thoroughly sickened, Hamish walked out. The hotel was a buzz of activity with reporters packing up and photographers paying bills; the air was full of the sound of cars revving up in the car park outside.

Hamish was standing in the forecourt of the hotel, moodily watching the hectic departure of the press. Ian Gibb was running frantically from one to the other, crying, ‘You won’t forget? You’ll ask your editor?’ Obviously he had been trying to wangle a job on some paper in the south.

‘Macbeth!’

Hamish swung around and looked at Blair, who had followed him out, his eyes quite blank. Hamish was reflecting he had never before disliked the Detective Chief Inspector quite so much as he did at that moment.

‘I want ya tae go doon tae Inverness the morrow,’ said Blair, ‘and check out Jamie Ross’s alibi. The wedding was held at the Glen Abb Hotel on Ness Bank.’

‘But the Inverness police have already checked it out,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘There was a point at the wedding reception when no one can quite remember seeing him, but he didn’t have his car and he didn’t take the train or bus.’

‘Look, jist do as you are told, laddie. He was missing for a bit. See if anyone in Inverness saw him. And don’t argue. And leave the Land Rover. You can take the morning train.’

Hamish opened his mouth to protest and then thought the better of it. He would be out of Cnothan and away from the town and its residents, and he might be able to think more clearly.

He nodded and turned away and walked up the village street.

Jimmy Anderson was waiting for him outside the police station. ‘Any more whisky?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Aye,’ said Hamish. ‘But I would like ye to do something for me. Do it, and I’ll get you a bottle o’ the best malt.’

‘Okay. What?’

‘There’s a Xerox machine at the hotel. Run me off a copy of all the statements and bring them along with you.’

‘That’ll take me ages,’ grumbled Anderson.

‘Come on,’ said Hamish. ‘No statements, no whisky.’

‘I’ll see,’ said Anderson sulkily.

Hamish walked away, smiling. He knew Anderson would do almost anything for a free drink. He bought a bottle of whisky and went back to the police station.

Jenny was waiting for him outside. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee?’ she asked.

She was wearing a dress, a soft red, clinging wool one, which moulded her figure. Her legs were not good, being much too plump and thick at the ankle. Hamish’s eye ran over her, looking for other physical imperfections to cool his rising lust, but the general effect Jenny presented was one of warmth and prettiness.

As Hamish made the coffee, he told her about going to Inverness in the morning.

‘Why?’ asked Jenny. ‘Surely that end has already been covered by the Inverness police.’

‘I think Blair wants me out of the way,’ said Hamish. ‘He’s anxious not to find the murderer.’

‘Why on earth …?’

‘Oh, he’s an odd man,’ said Hamish, remembering in time that he must not tell anyone about the lobsters.

‘Can I come with you?’ asked Jenny.

‘No.’

‘“No” meaning I am a suspect?’

Hamish tried to think of a gracious lie and failed. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Do you think I did it?’

‘I cannae say,’ said Hamish miserably. ‘I don’t really know you.’

She stood on tiptoe and kissed the end of his nose. ‘I thought you knew me pretty well.’

Hamish blushed and backed away.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Jenny. ‘Not when you’re on duty.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s just I need to keep my mind clear.’

She edged her chair round the kitchen table until she was next to him. ‘So I do disturb you,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t just a one-night stand.’

‘Of course not,’ said Hamish uneasily. ‘I am not in the habit of … I don’t … I … I …’

‘Don’t what?’ she giggled. ‘You’re blushing like a schoolgirl, Hamish.’

She stood up and went behind him and put her arms around his neck. He turned his head sharply around and pressed it into the softness of her breasts.

It was like being drunk, thought Hamish groggily an hour later.

They had been in the kitchen and next they were in his bedroom without their clothes on and he couldn’t even remember having removed one stitch.

‘You’re a bad man, Hamish Macbeth,’ he said aloud. Jenny let out a gentle snore. ‘A bad man,’ repeated Hamish. ‘Are you going to ask her to marry you? You
should
ask her to marry you.’

The sharp ringing of the bell at the police-station end jerked him upright.

‘Anderson!’ cried Hamish, appalled. He shook Jenny awake. ‘Jenny! Get up. It’s that detective, Jimmy Anderson. He mustn’t find you here.’

‘Macbeth!’

The police station had not been locked and Anderson had walked in.

Jenny was struggling into her clothes at the same time as Hamish. He jerked open the bedroom window. ‘Leave this way, Jenny,’ he said urgently.

He picked her up and lifted her through the window. ‘I’ll look after Towser for you while you’re away,’ whispered Jenny. ‘Bring him over tomorrow.’

‘Right.’

‘And give me a kiss.’

Hamish leaned through the window and kissed her.

‘I’ve got the papers, Macbeth,’ Anderson called. Jenny swung around in confusion. Not having found Hamish in the house, Anderson had decided to search the garden.

Jenny scampered off, not looking at the detective.

‘She chust called around to say hello,’ said Hamish. ‘Go round to the police station.’

‘Some hello.’ Anderson grinned. ‘Better fasten up your collar and cover that love bite.’

Hamish slammed the window shut.

When he got through to the police station, it was to find Anderson already seated at the desk with a sheaf of papers.

Hamish forgot his embarrassment, poured Anderson a drink, and then began to read the statements.

‘Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job,’ he murmured, ‘but you don’t seem to have been able to pin anyone down. Everyone in Cnothan seems to have been at The Clachan that Saturday night, but they can’t remember when they arrived, who was there, or when they left.’

‘Obstructive lot,’ said Anderson.

‘Oh, I’m with you there. But Blair usually gets you to bludgeon people so much they end up telling you something – anything concrete to get you off their backs.’

‘Grand whisky this,’ said Anderson.

Hamish looked at him sharply. ‘In other words, you’ve all decided it would be better not to find the murderer.’

‘I didnae say that,’ said Anderson, holding his glass up to the light and squinting at it.

Hamish turned over the statements. ‘Here! What was Mrs Struthers doing in The Clachan?’

‘Oh, her. Collecting for famine relief in the Third World. Evidently she turns up with her tambourine on a Saturday night because she knows the drunks will hand over their money easily.’

Hamish moved on to Jenny’s statement. He wondered that Blair had accepted it without comment. She had gone for a walk on Saturday morning with Mainwaring up to Clachan Mohr. They often went up there and took a flask of coffee. He had insulted her work. He had been laughing and smoking his pipe in between insulting her. She had smacked his face and knocked the pipe from his mouth. Then she had run away.

‘I’m surprised Blair has such sensitivity towards the artistic soul,’ said Hamish drily.

‘Meaning what?’ asked Anderson lazily.

‘Meaning Jenny Lovelace and Mainwaring.’

‘Och, all that stuff about artistic integrity and wounding her very soul? In Blair’s opinion, she’s a hot little baggage who was being screwed by Mainwaring and the affair turned sour.’

‘Watch your mouth!’ said Hamish furiously.

‘Keep calm, friend. I’m not saying it. I’m only saying how Blair said it.’ Anderson wondered whether to add that Blair had said that anyone who got into the sack with a daftie like Hamish Macbeth would open her legs for anyone, but decided against it.

Hamish fought down his anger. He was dismayed to realize he was furious because Blair’s nasty comments held the ring of truth. Mainwaring had been nearly sixty and hardly an Adonis. But he had been a well-built man, and that marriage-of-true-minds bit might have been very seductive to a woman like Jenny.

The door of the police station opened and Diarmuid Sinclair walked in. Anderson gulped down the whisky in his glass and, picking up the bottle, walked off with it.

‘You’re really coming out of your shell,’ said Hamish as the crofter sat down. ‘Gadding about like a two-year-old. I’m off to Inverness in the morning, so if you want me to save you a trip, I’ll buy that present for you. I’ve got to go to the Glen Abb Hotel to check Ross’s alibi.’

‘No,’ said Diarmuid. ‘I ha’ a mind to go masel’. While you’re there, book me a room at the Glen Abb, and see it has the telly and a private bathroom.’

‘And dancing girls? You’re living it up. What are you going to get young Sean?’

‘A train set,’ said Diarmuid dreamily, ‘wi’ wee houses and fields and tracks and all.’

‘Set you back a bit,’ said Hamish. ‘Not to mention the price o’ a room at the Glen Abb.’

‘I’ve a good bittie put by,’ said Diarmuid. ‘You jist book me the room for Friday night.’

*    *    *

After the crofter had left, Hamish drove over to Mrs Mainwaring’s and asked for a photograph of her husband. He had a vague notion of sending it down to London to Rory Grant on the
Daily Recorder
. The riots in Paris were over and the journalist might be able to find something out about Mainwaring from the newspaper files. He stayed as short a time as possible. The house and Mrs Mainwaring depressed him. Ashtrays were overflowing and dust had settled on everything, and Mrs Mainwaring had been well and truly drunk.

When he returned to the police station, he could see the lights shining from Jenny’s cottage. He wanted her again. A cynical voice in his head told him he could if he wanted. His conscience fought it down. Hamish did not believe in love without responsibility. One more night in her arms and then he really would have to propose to her.

He settled down to read the Xeroxed papers thoroughly. Along with the statements, there were reports on Mainwaring’s background from the police in the south. Mainwaring’s brother, a lawyer, had said that Mainwaring had borrowed large sums of money from him over the years and had never paid them back. He had ended up refusing to see him or communicate with him. Mainwaring’s two sisters said pretty much the same thing. Main-waring’s parents were dead. He had inherited a tidy sum from them when he was still a comparatively young man. He had bought an hotel in Devon, but had seemed to run it like a sort of ‘Fawlty Towers’, insulting the regular customers. Three years later, he had declared himself bankrupt.

Then came the surprise. Mainwaring had been married twice before. One wife, the daughter of a garage owner, had divorced him, and the other, an elderly lady, had died of a heart attack. A police comment said that Main-waring had a reputation for having great success with the ladies.

Hamish fished out the photograph of William Mainwaring and looked at it. The small prissy features set in the large round head looked out at him. Amazing, thought Hamish. No accounting for taste.

As the small train chugged out of Cnothan next morning, Hamish settled back in his seat and felt himself begin to relax. Cnothan and all its dark hates and enmities and Bible-bashing religion was losing its grip on him and he was journeying towards the light. That’s just what it was like, he thought. It was as if Cnothan was some science-fiction black mist that twisted and turned the minds of all who lived in it.

The train crawled its way round the hillsides, stopping and starting, finally picking up speed until at last it clattered over the points into Lairg station, the first civilized outpost in Hamish’s mind. The sky was turning light and the birds were chirping in the trees. He leaned out of the window and watched the man in charge of Lairg station bustling about. Hamish knew him of old. He was like a station-master in a children’s book, rosy-cheeked, white hair, kindly eyes twinkling behind spectacles, unfailingly helpful, unfailingly good-humoured.

Now Lairg, as Hamish remembered, was very like Cnothan in size and design. It, too, was the centre of a crofting community. But it was a bustling, cheerful, welcoming place.

The days were getting rapidly lighter. One long ray of sun struck the top of the station roof. There was a tinge of warmth in the air. That was the way of winter in the Highlands. It seduced you into thinking it had lost its grip and then came roaring back. The train moved off in a series of jerks, through Ardgay, Tain, Fearn, Invergordon, Dingwall, Muir of Ord, and on to Inverness.

The restless seagulls of Inverness were screaming overhead wÏhen he got off at Inverness station. The Tannoy was belting out a Scottish country-dance tune. Hamish was tempted to spend a day going around the shops, tempted to forget about the investigation. What on earth could he find out at this late date that the Inverness police could not? He was not wearing his uniform, correctly guessing that Blair had not warned the Inverness Police Department of this intrusion into their territory.

Inverness is the capital of the Highlands, crowded, busy, lively, and almost beautiful if you keep your eyes away from a big, grey, ugly modern concrete building that squats by the side of the River Ness and quite ruins the view of the castle.

It was past this architectural monstrosity that Hamish went, and then along Ness Bank to the Glen Abb Hotel.

The hotel had been created out of two large Victorian villas. The clever owner had kept the cosy Victorian effect with large overstuffed armchairs and log fires. The chef was French and the prices as high as those in a West End London restaurant, but the owner, Simon Gaunt, knew there was a lot of money in and around Inverness and not too much to spend it on in the way of entertainment.

He was in his office when Hamish arrived. He was a very thin, tall Englishman as gaunt as his name, wearing full Highland dress.

‘The tourists like it,’ he said, fidgeting with the hem of his kilt, although Hamish had made no comment.