Hamish Macbeth - Death Of A Dreamer Part 23

As Betty washed the sheets, she thought that the machine ought to be in a museum. The day was dry and sunny with a fresh breeze. She carried the sheets out into the back where there was a was.h.i.+ng line and pinned them out to dry.

When she came back in to where Hamish was huddled in an armchair, she asked, "Where's your clean linen?"

"In a cupboard in the bedroom."

Betty put clean sheets and pillowslips on the bed and then helped Hamish back into it. "Now, what about breakfast?"

"I couldn't eat anything, Betty. I think I'd like to go to sleep again. Thanks a lot."

She dropped a kiss on his forehead. "You go to sleep, and I'll see you later."

Hamish fell back into a deep sleep and awoke six hours later. He felt much better and ravenously hungry. When he went into the kitchen, he noticed Betty had cleaned up everything and laid the table with two fresh baps-those Scottish bread rolls that everyone always claims are never what they used to be-on a plate along with a pat of b.u.t.ter, a pot of jam, and a thermos of coffee.

He ate the baps and then fried himself a plate of bacon and eggs. Hamish found himself getting very angry indeed at whoever it was who had struck him.

He had just finished eating when Jimmy appeared.

"Is it all right to talk to you?" asked Jimmy anxiously. "I would have called earlier, but Dr. Brodie called in at the unit and said no one was to disturb you."

"I'm better now. How did you get on with Caro?"

Jimmy told him. "If I were Blair," he said, "I would arrest Jock. But we haven't any hard evidence. I think that ex-wife of his and Jock did the murders. I think they're both twisted and sick. G.o.d, I'd like to break them."

"Where are they now?"

"Back here. They got lawyers. Nothing really to hold them on. Oh, I saw that Priscilla of yours."

"She isn't mine. What did she want?"

"She's off back to London."

"Did you tell her I was ill?"

"Yes, she sends her best wishes."

Cold, chilly b.i.t.c.h, thought Hamish with a sudden burst of fury. Didn't even bother to call to see if there was anything she could do for me. His fury was then replaced with a burst of grat.i.tude for Betty's kindness.

I'm tired of being single, he thought. I am d.a.m.n well going to ask Betty to marry me.

"You know," Jimmy was saying, interrupting Hamish's thoughts, "I think if it wasn't Jock or his wife, it could be Caro. She's got a history of mental illness. She was furious widi her sister for having pinched her work. She may have fallen in love with Jock herself. She covered up that she'd met him before. Then Hal told his ex that he was going to marry."

"It's an idea," said Hamish slowly. "I mean, Hal must really have been a very lonely man. n.o.body liked him. He'd be easy prey. Someone wanted that notebook of his."

After Jimmy had left, Hamish brought in his clean sheets, folded them, and put them in the cupboard. Then he dragged an old deck chair into the front garden and settled down with piles of notes he had made on the case.

The murders had been thought out, of that he was sure. But the murderer had been extremely lucky in that no one had seen him-or her. Jock Fleming seemed capable of arousing strong pa.s.sions. Hamish began to wonder why Jock's marriage had really broken up. Apart from his general womanising, Jock liked wh.o.r.es. Hamish was willing to bet that Jock knew Dora was a prost.i.tute before he married her. So why had they divorced?

"Coo-ee!" Hamish looked up from his notes. Gloria Addenfest was standing on the other side of the hedge. "The funeral's tomorrow," she said. "Mr. Wellington's been great. You going to be there? Eleven o'clock."

"Wouldn't miss it," said Hamish.

"See ya." She waggled her fingers at him and walked off.

If there was something Lochdubh liked more than a wedding, it was a funeral, especially when it was the funeral of someone they had not cared about one bit. When Hamish walked along to the church the next morning, black-clad figures were heading towards the church from every direction.

The church bell tolled out across the loch. Outside the church, the band of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders stood, getting their instruments ready, fighting for s.p.a.ce with the television crews.

The church was full to capacity. Hamish found a pew at the back where he could observe the congregation.

In the front pew sat Gloria Addenfest in full Hollywood mourning: black cartwheel hat with thick black veil; black tailored suit.

The organist began to play 'Abide with Me,' and everyone shuffled to their feet as the coffin was carried in. Hymns were sung, a dignified sermon was delivered, there were readings from the Old and New Testaments, and then the small coffin was hoisted up and everyone fell in behind it for the procession up the hill to the graveyard, led by the pipe band playing a dirge.

Mr. Wellington read the words of the burial service. A lone piper played 'Amazing Grace'-what else? thought Hamish. I bet Gloria chose that-as the coffin was slowly lowered into the grave.

Then the whole band struck up 'Scodand the Brave,' and with pipes skirling and kilts swinging, they led the 'mourners' down the hill to the church hall.

The hall was lined with buffet tables with every sort of Scottish delicacy from smoked salmon to grouse in aspic to sherry trifle. A bar at the end was covered in whisky bottles and gla.s.ses. Someone had obviously advised Gloria not to waste her money on fine wines. There were tea urns and coffee urns.

At first, everyone talked in low murmurs, discreedy piling plates with food and taking them off to one of the tables that had been set up around the hall.

Gloria accosted Hamish. "I'm glad you came," she said. She had removed her hat.

"Did anyone warn you this is likely to go on all night?" asked Hamish.

"Why?"

"It's a highland funeral. In some of the outer isles, it can still go on all week."

"They all seem subdued."

"Give them time."

After an hour, the whisky began to flow and the voices got louder. After another two hours, the floor was cleared and the local band of accordion, drums, and fiddle started playing highland reels.

Hamish had drunk nothing but water, but his head began to ache. There was no sign of Betty, Jock, Dora, or Caro. Poor Effie, thought Hamish. No grand send-off for her. Effie had been cremated quietly and quickly in Strathbane.

He went back to the police station and took two aspirin. He was suddenly exhausted again and felt like crying. If only life were like television, he thought crossly, where the hero is tied up and beaten to a pulp, escapes his captors, and manages to still engage in a brutal fist-fight. He sighed. Bruce Willis I am not.

He took his notes to bed with him, searching, always searching, for a clue he felt sure was in there. He fell into a deep sleep, the notes scattered about him in the bed.

He dreamt that Elspeth was calling him from the odier side of the loch. He knew he had to reach her. He waded into the loch and found it was shallow. He continued wading towards her on the other side, and dien his foot slipped and he plunged down into the depths of the loch. He tried to rise to the surface, but something caught him by the ankle and held him down.

He awoke with a start. Elspeth. She had done an awful thing to him and had been punished. But he suddenly wished it had never happened. He remembered the cheque from the newspaper. He had forgotten all about it. He got out of bed and searched in the pockets of the trousers he had worn to Glasgow. The cheque was still there. He laid it out on the bedside table to remind him to put it in the bank in the morning.

He thought again about Betty. What did she really think of him? It would be pleasant to be married to someone easy and kind.

Why had Priscilla gone off so coldly, particularly when she knew he was ill?

Hamish rose early in the morning and went for a walk along the waterfront. He liked rising early in the summer to enjoy the light. The winters were so long and dark and one hardly ever saw the sun.

The loch was like a mirror. He went along to the harbour where the fis.h.i.+ng boats were coming back in. They were now allowed to fish only three days a week. The fishermen were furious because they said European countries did not have to obey such stringent laws. Lochdubh had been a fis.h.i.+ng village since the days of the Highland Clearances in the early nineteenth century. Crofters driven off by landowners who wanted the land for sheep were sometimes forced over to the coast, where they were told they could make a living from seaweed gathering and fish. Lochdubh had been luckier than most other places because the Countess of Sutherland had built a summer home there-now a deserted hotel by the harbour. She arranged for a whole village to be built out of rows of stone whitewashed houses, the houses that still stood there today.

Hamish hailed Archie Macleod. "Good catch?"

"Fair to middling. I'll give ye a wee fish for Sonsie. I'll drop it by the kitchen door."

"Thanks, Archie."

"Lucky we got anything. So many seals around."

Hamish knew that no fisherman in Lochdubh would ever contemplate killing a seal because they believed that seals were human beings who had come back.

He sat down on the harbour wall, warm from the sun. Seals. One of the boys had said something about a seal.

He stiffened. What if Hal had been standing looking up at the waterfront, waiting for someone, but that someone had crept up out of the loch?

He stood up and looked along the waterfront, and then he saw Betty.

He had only seen her wearing trouser suits before, but she was now wearing a pair of shorts. Her legs were very long and surprisingly thin. Must be why she always wears trousers, diought Hamish.

She was standing on a flat stone by the water's edge, her hands behind her back, peering down into the water.

Hamish was suddenly reminded of the heron he had seen with Robin. There was something predatory in Betty's stance, and those long thin legs reminded him of the heron's legs.

For some reason he could not explain to himself at the rime, he moved quickly back from the harbour wall so that she would not see him.

He went back to the police station to look for Harry Wilson's number. He found he was very cold again and put it down to the after-effects of the concussion.

Twelve.

From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Feeds among the reeds and rushes.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Harry," said Hamish, "can I come over and see you? I need your help with something."

"Tell you what, Hamish. I feel like a bit of a drive. I'll nip over and see you. Give me about half an hour or so."

"Have you got any photos of your diving school, that one you went to?"

"I've got some in the family photo alb.u.m. I'll bring the lot."

After Hamish had rung off, Dr. Brodie came by. He shone lights in Hamish's eyes and checked the lump on his head. "I think you'll do," he said. "How are you feeling otherwise? Not too emotional?"

"I cry a bit."

"That happens. Any weakness in the legs?"

"No, they're all right."

"Headaches?"

"I had one at the funeral celebrations."

"You weren't drinking too much?"

"Wasn't drinking at all."

"Good, because Lochdubh is one great hangover, and I'm plagued with the usual: "But, Doctor, I only had two drinks. It must be something I ate." Take care of yourself. I saw your boss, Mr. Daviot, and told him firmly you needed peace and quiet."

When he left, Hamish waited impatiently for Harry's arrival. Harry had said he would arrive in half an hour or so, which by the highland clock could mean as much as two hours. As they say in the Highlands, 'manana' is too urgent a word.

An hour and a half later, Harry arrived. "Sorry, Hamish," he said. "Sheep on the road."

Sheep on the road was another of diose highland lies, like 'I've just had two drinks', lsquo;I've a bad back' and 'I'll fix it for you right away'.

"I've got the coffee on," said Hamish. "Did you bring the photos?"

"Yes, but why do you want to see diem?"

"It's this idea I have diat the murderer of the American could have come out of the loch. Jock Fleming, the artist, is from Glasgow. So is his wife. Maybe one of them took a diving course at one time."

"Here you are." Harry fished a large photo alb.u.m out of a duffel bag and put it on the table.

"The ones of the diving school are at the back."

Hamish opened the leather-bound alb.u.m to the back. There were a lot of photos of scuba divers going into the sea and coming up out of the sea. But he found one of a Christmas party. He eagerly studied the faces, but there was not one single one he recognised.

"Is this all you've got?"

"Pretty much," said Harry.

Hamish sat back in his chair, disappointed. Then he said, "Was it mostly men?"

"Yes, pretty much. We got the occasional woman, but usually they didn't stay the course."

"Remember anyone who did?"

"There was one woman, Sarah Jerome. Middle-aged and quite plump, but she turned out to be a natural. Then a tall thin woman-what was her name? Harriet something or other. She was pretty good."

Hamish sat sunk in thought. Then he said, "Of course, it's a long shot thinking it might have been someone who was there at the same time as you. Could you go into the office and use the phone? Call the diving school and ask one of the instructors if there was any woman who pa.s.sed the course with flying colours. Then ask if Jock Fleming or Dora Fleming was ever a member."

"Right. Where's the office?"