Hamish Macbeth 20 (2004) - Death of a Poison Pen (20 page)

Hamish swore and screeched to a halt and looked down at the excited features of Archie Brand.

He got down from the Land Rover and said severely, “I could have run you over. Don’t ever do that again.”

“But I saw something awfy weird last night.”

“What?”

“I sometimes sneak out at night and go for a walk. Don’t tell my ma.”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Up on the cliffs, the other side o’ Braikie, I was up there last night. I like lying on the top of the cliffs and looking down at the waves. So I was lying in the heather when I hear this car. It drives offa the road and right to the edge o’ the cliff. Then this man gets out and he gets behind the car and gies it a God Almighty shove and it goes right o’er the cliff and down into the sea, just like in the movies. I hid right down in the heather until he had gone.”

“Get in,” said Hamish. “Show me where.” Archie clambered in beside Hamish. “What did this man look like?”

“Couldnae tell. It was right dark and I was feart. There wasnae any moon.”

What now? wondered Hamish grimly. He drove through Braikie and out and up on the cliff road until Archie shouted, “Right here!”

Hamish stopped and he and Archie got out. “Tide’s out,” said Archie, tugging Hamish along by his sleeve. “We might see something.”

Hamish went to the edge and then lay down on his stomach and peered over. Large glassy waves were crashing on the rocks below and pouring over a shattered Morris Minor.

“Och, it didnae burst into flames,” said Archie’s disappointed voice at his ear. “In the fillums, they aye burst into flames.”

Hamish recognised Iain’s Morris Minor. He went to the Land Rover and radioed for help. Then he phoned Iain and asked him if he’d rented the car to Jenny. “Yes, I rented it to the lassie yesterday,” said Iain.

“You’d best get out here fast and identify it because it looks as if it’s your car that’s in the sea.”

Hamish gave him instructions and sat down to wait. “Will I have to say I was out here at midnight?” said Archie.

“I’m afraid so,” said Hamish. “You saw the man. You may remember something about him. Your mother will forgive you. It’s not a crime.”

“You don’t know my ma,” mumbled Archie miserably.

“Does she have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, what’s your phone number? We’d better have her up here while they interview you.”

Hamish phoned Mrs. Brand, who said she would be with him as fast as she could.

It was as well she arrived the same time as Blair, or Hamish was sure the bad-tempered detective chief inspector would have tried to shake information out of the boy.

It was a long morning. Policemen in climbing gear went down the cliff and reported that there was no body inside the car but that the driver’s window was open and that Jenny might have tried to swim to safety. Hamish was then sent back to Lochdubh to see if Jenny had been seen in the car.

Her landlady said her bed had not been slept in, Pat Mallone was nowhere to be found, and Hamish drew a blank right, left, and centre until he met the minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington.

“I thought you would have been the last person to see her,” she boomed, fixing Hamish with a gimlet eye.

“Why’s that?”

“I saw her in the distance late last night. She was leaving the police station and she got straight into her car and drove off.”

Hamish stood staring down at her, deaf to Mrs. Wellington’s lecture about the seduction of innocent maids from London. Elspeth thought she had heard something. What if Jenny had been listening to their conversation? What if Jenny had decided to go and see the Robertses?

He should phone Blair. But Blair would go crashing around to the Roberts house and they would deny it and that would be that.

Hamish jumped into the Land Rover and sped off back in the direction of Braikie.

Jenny recovered consciousness. She was bound and gagged. She felt terribly sick and was terrified of vomiting into the gag and choking. All around was blackness. Where was she?

Memory came flooding back. She had been talking to the Robertses and then she had received a blow on the head. She kicked out with her feet, which met a wooden door. She kicked again.

Cyril Roberts’s voice came from the other side, low and menacing. “I’ve a shotgun here. If you make a sound, I’ll blast you through the door.”

Jenny slumped back in terror.

Then she heard Mary Roberts’s voice. “We cannae keep her in that cupboard forever. When are you getting rid o’ her?”

“When it’s dark.”

“Why didnae ye just shove her over the cliff in her car?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want another killing.”

“Too late for that,” came Mary’s grim voice.

“Well, it was your idea to get rid of the car. You said you’d see to her.”

Their grumbling voices faded away.

Jenny began to pray. If only God would get her out of this, she vowed, she would go back to the safety of London, work hard at her job, and forget about men.

Pat Mallone arrived at the office, late as usual. The phone on his desk was ringing. He picked up the receiver. “Jack Pelting here,” said a voice at the other end. “I’m the news editor of the
Bugle
. Can you come down to London for an interview?”

Pat’s heart beat hard with excitement. “Yes, I could,” he said eagerly. “In fact, if I leave now, I could put up somewhere in London overnight and be ready for an interview in the morning.”

“We’ll book you in at the Jessop Hotel near St. Katherine’s Dock. Know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”

Pat thanked him and rang off. He punched the air. Sam came in and glared at him. “Get yourself over to Braikie. Jenny Ogilvie’s car has been found at the bottom of a cliff and she may have drowned.”

Pat hesitated for only a moment. Jenny could take care of herself if she was alive, and if she was dead, there was nothing he could do about it.

“Right,” he said cheerfully. “On my way.”

He went straight to his digs and packed up. He left a note for his landlady to say he would not be back, packed a suitcase, slung it in his car, and drove off whistling, taking the long road south.

I passed through the lonely street
.

The wind did sing and blow;

I could hear the policeman’s feet

Clapping to and fro
.

—William Makepeace Thackeray

H
amish parked outside the Roberts house. What had seemed so clear-cut now began to seem like nonsense. They were a respectable couple who doted on their daughter. They were not serial killers. And how should he approach the subject? But concern for Jenny gnawed at him. He climbed down from the Land Rover, went up to the front door, squared his shoulders, and rang the bell.

Mary Roberts answered the door. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “We were just going out.”

“Husband not working?”

“He had time owing, so he’s having a bit of a holiday.”

“May I come in?”

She looked reluctant. “I haven’t got round to cleaning up. Oh, well, just for a minute.”

Hamish followed her into the living room. Cyril Roberts rose to meet him, putting down the morning paper as he did so. “What brings you here, Officer?”

“Jenny Ogilvie’s gone missing and her car’s been found at the foot of the cliffs.”

“That’s terrible,” said Cyril. “Was the poor lassie drowned?”

“We’re still searching. The passenger window of the car was open and she might have escaped that way and the body taken out to sea. Have you seen her recently?”

Upstairs in her cupboard prison on the landing, Jenny heard the sound of voices. She tried to summon up courage to scream, but she was feeling weak and sick. And what if whoever was visiting the Robertses was in on the plot?

“No, we haven’t seen her since she was last here with you,” Cyril was saying. “Do you need any help in the search?”

“No, we have enough men on it. Where is Penny?”

“Half-term. She’s over at my sister’s in Lochinver,” Mary said.

“When Miss Beattie first came to Braikie, she did house cleaning. Did she clean for you?”

“Yes, she did, for a bit, and then she found they needed a postmistress and took the exams and got the job. She was lucky, although, mind you, no one in Braikie wanted the job and folks from Strathbane usually don’t want to live anywhere so remote.”

Hamish’s confidence in his theory was ebbing by the minute. They both seemed so relaxed.

“Did you hear a car round about midnight last night?”

“Not a sound,” said Mary.

Hamish gave up. “Well, if you hear anything, let me know.”

Mary Roberts showed him to the door.

Upstairs, Jenny slumped in the cupboard, weak tears running down her face.

Hamish called at the villas next door and asked if they had heard a car around midnight. But no one seemed to have heard anything. Yes, said one, he might have heard a car, but he took no notice of cars passing on the road.

Hamish leant against the Land Rover and thought hard. Surely, the Robertses could not be guilty. It would be a mad risk to drive Jenny’s car off when any of the neighbours might just have been looking out of the window. But the neighbours were all elderly and could be guaranteed to go to bed early.

And yet he had a feeling that the murders had been committed by rank amateurs, and amateurs with an amazing amount of luck; amateurs who barely stopped to think what they were doing. And Jenny had last been seen hurrying away from the police station. If she had heard what he was discussing with Elspeth, then maybe she had decided to play detective herself.

“What’s he doing?” hissed Cyril Roberts. Mary turned away from the window where she had been keeping watch. “He’s just standing there.”

“I don’t like it.”

“They’ve got no proof.”

“Och, why didnae ye just have the girl in the car when you pushed it over the cliff?”

“Stop saying that. You were the one who told me to get rid of the car. You were the one who said you would see to her.”

“He cannae stand there all day,” said Mary. “He’s been to the neighbours and thank God they don’t seem to have seen anything. We’d best get her out and kill her and that way there’ll be no danger of her making a noise in case Macbeth or anyone else calls.”

“Is there any way we can get out of this without killing her?”

“Don’t be daft. Are you going soft?”

“It’s getting like a nightmare. I can’t just go up there and kill her in cold blood. If I shoot her with the shotgun, the police will call in every registered shotgun in Braikie. I can’t thole the idea of bashing in her head in cold blood. You do it.”

“Might make too much of a noise. That call from the police will have alerted the neighbours to something. We’ll need to wait until dark. We’ll drive her up in the hills to that old quarry and throw her in. The sides are so steep, no one could get out of there.”

Hamish’s mobile phone rang. It was Priscilla, phoning from London. “Hamish, what’s happened to Jenny? She has sent a sick note but I’d swear Jenny was never sick.”

Hamish told her briefly about Jenny’s car. “Oh, Hamish,” cried Priscilla. “What’s become of her?”

“I hope to find out before it’s too late,” said Hamish. “I’ll call you back as soon as I hear anything.”

“He’s still there,” said Mary Roberts, “and we’ll need to go out.”

“Why?”

“I told him we were on our way out, and if we don’t go, he might get suspicious.”

Hamish’s mobile rang again. It was Elspeth. “Hamish, Pat Mallone has done a bunk. He was supposed to go to Braikie, but he left a note for his landlady to say he wouldn’t be coming back, and all his stuff has gone. Do you think Jenny’s gone with him?”

“Let’s hope so. Have you got a note of his car registration number?”

“Yes, I got it out of the records.” She gave it to him. “What about the Robertses?”

“Cool as cucumbers. I’ll get back to you.”

Hamish phoned Jimmy Anderson and explianed about Pat Mallone and that Jenny might be with him. Then he said, “I’d better check if her stuff’s been packed up as well. But I still think it might be worth pulling Mallone in for questioning. Why should he run off today of all days?”

“I’ll get on to it,” said Jimmy.

Hamish phoned Jenny’s landlady and asked if her clothes were still in her room. “Aye, I’ve just been up there to clean,” said Mrs. Dunne. “Everything’s there.”

Hamish’s heart sank. For one wild moment, he had hoped Jenny had gone off with Pat and that they had shoved Iain’s car over the cliff out of mischief.

He turned round as the door of the villa opened and the Robertses came out. “Do you mind moving?” shouted Cyril. “You’re blocking the drive and I have to reverse out.”

Hamish moved the Land Rover and watched as the couple got into their car and drove off. He began to follow them.

Pat Mallone was cruising along the A9, whistling to the radio. The tall Grampian mountains soared up on either side of the car. A golden future stretched out in front of him. He realised he was glad to be leaving the Highlands behind, glad to be returning to civilisation. He was just debating whether to go into Aviemore and have a late breakfast when he heard the sound of a police siren behind him. He slowed down to let the police car past, when to his horror, it swung in in front of him and a police hand flapped out of the window indicating that he should stop.

Pat stared at the speedometer as he stopped the car. He hadn’t been going over the limit.

He rolled down the window.

“Yes, Officer? Is it important?” he said to the policeman who was staring down at him.

“Are you Patrick Mallone?”

“Yes, but…”

“You are to accompany us back to Strathbane for questioning.”

“Why?”

“Miss Ogilvie has gone missing.”

“Well, that’s her problem,” said Pat furiously. “Look, I’ve got to get to London.”

“That will not be possible.”

Rage and frustration boiled up in Pat. This Highland idiot of a copper was standing between him and a beautiful future, between this savage world of the north of Scotland and the glitter of London.