Hamish Macbeth 20 (2004) - Death of a Poison Pen (21 page)

In a red mist of rage, he rolled up the window and accelerated off round the police car in front and straight down the A9. Up went the speedometer to 100
mph
and then to 115. Logical thought had left his brain. On he flew, zipping past car after car, several times narrowly missing a crash with a car coming the other way.

He glanced in his rear-view mirror. The blue light was now nowhere in sight. Get off the road, screamed his brain. But his emotions had taken control and they were telling him that he would be all right if only he could leave the Highlands of Scotland behind.

He eased his speed down a little and then gave a gasp of fright. A policeman on a motorbike had crept up on one side and was flagging him down.

Up went Pat’s speed again. He rounded a bend and jammed his foot on the brakes as hard as he could, stopping himself in time from running into several stationary cars in front.

The policeman on the motorbike stopped beside him and rapped on the window. Other policemen were appearing round the cars in front. A roadblock, thought Pat. Of course, they would put up a roadblock. He got out of the car.

“Over the bonnet o’ yer car, and pit yer hands ahint yer back,” roared the policeman. Feeling limp with fright and dismay, Pat meekly did as he was told. He was handcuffed and led to a police van and thrust inside while charges of speeding, not stopping when asked, obstructing police in their enquiries rang in his ears.

Pat sat miserably in the police van. Surely, they would question him and then let him go. He could then drive down to Inverness and get a flight to London.

Sam received a phone call later that day from the police asking him to confirm that Pat had been on his way south for an interview with the
Daily Bugle
. Sam said grimly he knew nothing about it and suggested they phone the news editor of the
Bugle
. When the police rang off, Sam phoned the news editor, Jack Pelting, of the
Bugle
. Jack confirmed that Pat was due for an interview the following morning.

“He’s been taken in by the police for questioning,” said Sam. “His girlfriend’s disappeared. If I were you, I wouldn’t bother about him.”

“Why? He seems a good journalist. That colour piece on Braikie was excellent.”

“That wasn’t his. That was written by Elspeth Grant and he put his own name on it.”

Jack Pelting sighed. “Do me a favour and get a message to him and tell him the interview’s off. What about this Elspeth Grant?”

“Don’t you dare,” said Sam. “I need her.”

Sam then phoned police headquarters in Strathbane and told them to tell Pat Mallone that he was no longer wanted in London.

Pat was being grilled by Detective Chief Inspector Blair. In vain did he keep repeating that he did not know what had happened to Jenny.

Why, then, Blair roared, did he take off like that without even informing his boss on the
Highland Times
that he was going? The questioning went on and on and Pat’s miserable eyes occasionally strayed to the large clock on the wall in the interview room as the hand went slowly round, eating up the precious minutes.

At last it was over and he was bailed to appear at the sheriff’s court in Strathbane. He was told his car was outside in the car park. Just as he was turning away, the duty sergeant handed him a note. “Message for you.”

Pat grabbed it and went out to his car. He was about to drive off when he thought he’d better read the message. It was from Sam. “Jack Pelting has cancelled your interview.”

He thumped the steering wheel in a fury. Then he looked at hfs watch. Six o’clock. Maybe he could just catch Jack. He phoned the
Bugle
and asked to speak to the news editor. He waited impatiently, chewing his knuckles. When Jack came on the phone, he sighed with relief. “It’s Pat Mallone,” he said. “Look, I can still make it. I was taken in by the police because a girl I know has gone missing. But I’ve just been released because it’s got nothing to do with me, so if I get down to Inverness for the plane, I can still make it.”

“Your boss up there tells me that you pinched another reporter’s copy for that piece on Braikie.”

“That was a mix-up.”

“Not the impression I got. Anyway, the interview’s off.”

“But…”

The phone went dead.

Pat sat there for a long time, and then he slowly drove off. To hell with the lot of them. He was going back to Ireland.

Hamish had kept a discreet eye on the Robertses all day. They had gone out twice to the shops and were now inside their villa. He drove back to Lochdubh and changed out of his uniform. He phoned Angela, with whom he had left Lugs earlier, and begged her to keep the dog overnight. Then he phoned Elspeth and asked if he could borrow her car.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I want to keep an eye on the Roberts house without being seen.”

“Only if I can come with you.”

“All right,” said Hamish reluctantly. “If they’ve really got Jenny, they’ll probably make a move to get rid of her during the night.”

He walked along to the newspaper office. Elspeth was just emerging. “You work late,” commented Hamish.

“Well, Pat did do some work, and now that he’s gone, I’m stuck with double the amount of stories as well as the astrology column. Then Mrs. Glennon over in Alness who does the cookery recipes is sick, so I had to do them as well.”

“Wasn’t that difficult? All the measures of stuff and so on?”

“I found an old Scottish cookery book in the office and pinched stuff out of that.”

“Plagiarism, Elspeth?”

“I suppose. It’s an awfully old book. I just hope I don’t get found out.”

Hamish got into Elspeth’s small car and they drove off. It was a cold, blustery evening with great clouds racing across a half moon.

“Do you really think the Robertses are the culprits?” asked Elspeth.

“I can’t think of anyone else. I mean, Jenny was seen leaving the police station.”

“If it was them, they were taking an awful risk, driving her car to the cliffs and sending it over. Any of the neighbours could have seen them driving off.”

“Most of the neighbors would have been asleep. Nobody heard anything, except for one who thought—just thought—he might have heard a car.”

“Let’s say it is them,” said Elspeth. “I wonder who sent that video to the community centre?”

“Aye, that’s the odd part of it.”

They drove on for a bit in silence.

“If I’m wrong about them,” said Hamish at last, “I won’t know where to begin.”

“I checked before I left the office,” said Elspeth. “They haven’t found any body in the sea. Heard from Priscilla?”

“Yes, she was worried because Jenny was claiming to be sick and she said that Jenny is never ill.”

“That’s hit one of my hopes on the head.”

“Which was?”

“That Jenny had got so scared with the murders or that someone had scared her and that she had simply taken off, leaving everything behind.”

“First pushing a car over a cliff?”

“Yes, it does sound stupid. But maybe she abandoned the car with the keys in it and some youths took it for a joyride.”

“Far-fetched.”

“Maybe, but I’m beginning to think our suspicions of the Robertses are far-fetched. To commit two, possibly three, murders and all because you don’t want anyone to know your child isn’t your own!”

“I sometimes think the land up here and the long black winters and the isolation twist people’s minds,” said Hamish. “The soil is thin and the rock is old and there are parts up here where something bad has happened, oh, maybe long ago, and you can feel a malignancy seeping out of the very ground.”

Elspeth gave a nervous laugh. “The old folks would say it’s the little people and give them an offering of iron and salt.”

They reached the coast road, drove past the row of villas where the Robertses lived, and parked at the end.

“What now?” asked Elspeth.

“We wait and hope.”

Jenny blinked in the light as the cupboard door swung open. Cyril Roberts reached in with powerful arms and pulled her out onto the landing. He raised a sharp knife and Jenny’s eyes dilated with terror. But he stooped and cut the rope round her ankles and hoisted her to her feet. “Walk!” he ordered.

Jenny took a few steps, but she was so weak with hunger and from the blow to her head that she would have fallen if he had not held her up.

Mary Roberts appeared. “Help me down the stairs with her,” said Cyril.

“All this effort,” grumbled Mary. “Why are we keeping her alive?”

“Because when we drop her in the quarry, I want her found with water in her lungs from drowning. Then they can maybe think she committed suicide.”

“She smells.”

“She hasn’t been to the toilet. What do you expect?”

Jenny was dragged down to the living room and dumped on a chair, but not before Mary, with housewifely concern for her furniture, had put newspapers down on it first.

“When do we move?” she asked.

“Another hour yet.”

“Look out of the front door and make sure that copper isn’t lurking about.”

Cyril went to the front door, opened it, and looked up and down the road. Elspeth’s small black car was parked under the shadow of a drooping laburnum tree and he did not see it.

He went back in. “All clear,” he said.

Elspeth’s eyes began to droop. Her head slowly fell sideways and rested on Hamish’s shoulder and soon she was asleep. Hamish felt tired himself. The warm weight of Elspeth resting against him was making him feel drowsy. For once there was no wind and the night was quiet.

In his mind, Hamish was suddenly up on the River Anstey on a clear sunny day. Priscilla was walking along beside him, the sunlight glinting on her blonde hair. He felt warm and happy. They were together at last. He heard the sound of a car and frowned in his sleep at the idea of intruders. And then he was awake as the Robertses’ car drove past him.

Hamish shook Elspeth awake. “They’re off and I missed them. I fell asleep. Follow them at a distance, and you’ll need to drive without lights. The minute they stop, cut your engine so they don’t hear ours.”

Elspeth let in the clutch and moved off, praying that whichever one of the Robertses was driving would not look in the driving mirror and spot them. The car in front headed out of Braikie on the Lochdubh Road.

“It’s all twists and turns now,” said Hamish, “so we can keep fairly close without them spotting us.”

“Where do you think they’re going?” asked Elspeth.

“I’m trying to think. If they’ve got Jenny and want rid of her, you’d think the sensible thing would be to take her to the cliffs where the car went over and drop her body in the sea. Then it would be assumed she was in it when it went over.”

“But forensics would surely discover she had been killed later.”

“They’re not magicians. Once a body’s been in the sea for a bit, battered by rocks and eaten by fish, there wouldn’t be much left to say when she was killed.”

Hamish took out his mobile phone. “I’m calling for backup,” he said. “If they haven’t got Jenny, I’ll look a fool, but it’s worth the risk.”

He phoned Strathbane and explianed his suspicions and why he was following the Robertses on the Lochdubh Road. Elspeth turned a bend in the road. “Hamish,” she said, “I’ve a feeling they’ve gone.”

“Stop the car!” Hamish peered out into the darkness. He rolled down the window and listened. “There’s the sound of a car up on the hill to the left. That’s the old quarry, the one that’s filled with water. That’s where they’ve gone.”

“How do I get there?”

“Turn round, then back round the next bend, and you’ll see a road covered with heather on the right.”

Hamish phoned Strathbane again and gave instructions as to how to get to the quarry.

Elspeth found the road and her small car began to bump over the ruts. “Not far now,” said Hamish. “We’ll go the rest of the way on foot. On second thoughts, you stay here. It’ll be dangerous.”

“I want the story,” said Elspeth. “I’m coming.”

“Then keep behind me and don’t do anything daft.” They walked quickly up the old overgrown road, their feet making no sound on the grass and heather that covered it.

Cyril switched off the engine. “Here we are,” he said.

“Are you going to give her another dunt on the head afore you throw her over?” asked Mary.

“No. Don’t want things to look too suspicious. I told you, the sides of the quarry are so steep that even if she had the strength to swim, she’d never have the strength to climb out.”

They both got out of the car. Cyril lifted out his shotgun. “What’s that for?” asked Mary.

“We’ve come this far. Got to make sure no one surprises us. Hold the gun and I’ll open the boot and get her out.”

Hamish and Elspeth crouched down in the heather. The moon raced out from behind the clouds. “He’s got a gun,” said Hamish, his mouth against Elspeth’s ear. “Damn.”

“He wouldn’t be idiotic enough to shoot a policeman, would he?” asked Elspeth.

“That pair are mad enough to do anything.”

“Did you hear something?” asked Mary sharply.

Cyril froze and listened hard. “Nothing,” he said.

Mary shivered. “This place gives me the creeps. It’s haunted, you know.”

“Havers.” Cyril opened the boot. “Help me get her out.”

There was a rustling in the heather beside Hamish. He felt Elspeth moving away and shot out an arm to stop her, but she had gone. He swore under his breath. He would need to confront the Robertses, but he wished he could get to that shotgun first.

He thought the Robertses had really gone mad. He was sure Cyril Roberts would shoot them both and get rid of their bodies even if he told him that reinforcements were on their way.

The Robertses dragged Jenny out and laid her on the heather. “Now, the thing is,” said Cyril, “we roll her to the edge, cut off the ropes, rip off the gag, and push her over. Right?”

“Right,” said Mary. “Hurry up. I feel something here.”

And then they both froze as a silvery, unearthly voice whispered across the heather. “You are wicked and I have come to take you away.” Then there was an eerie laugh.

Mary’s face, already bleached by the moonlight, was now as white as paper. “It’s the wee folk,” she said through dry lips.