Death of a Liar (5 page)

“Anyone contacted the Polish police?”

“Haven't had time. I'll get on it when I get back.”

“There are Polish people all over the north,” said Hamish. “There are the lot who settled after World War Two. Then, thanks to the European Union, the latest influx is so large that the
Inverness Courier
now has an insert in Polish and the Catholic Church had to fly a priest in from Poland. There's the Inverness Polish Association in Albyn House in Union Street. I might drop by tomorrow.”

Hamish managed to get two hours' sleep at the station before heading north. It was ten in the morning and a flat disk of a sun had risen low in the sky as if it saw no reason to climb any further, since it would start going down in four hours' time. The previous night's frost was still glittering white on the leaves of the ferns bordering the road. Smoke from chimneys rose straight up into the air.

Hamish's conscience began to trouble him. There had been many opportunities to get married before Dick had moved into the police station. If he really loved Elspeth Grant, then he would move to Glasgow. But, corrected a nasty little voice in his brain, if she loved you, then she would move to the Highlands. Or was it nothing at all to do with Dick, but the fact that there was always part of him that hankered after Priscilla, despite knowing that her sexual coldness would sabotage any hope of a happy marriage?

He thought of Anka and put his foot down on the accelerator. What a beauty! And she could bake!

It was only as Cromish hove into view that he realised he should have been worrying about the murder of Liz.

There was no tent on the beach. He asked Mrs. Mackay if she had seen Dick and was told he had taken a room at the doctor's house. He walked up to Dr. Williams's villa and knocked at the door.

A plump woman with a scarf tied around her head opened the door. “You'll be looking for your colleague,” she said. “He's ben the hoose, in the kitchen. Doctor's at his surgery if ye'll be wanting him. It's that extension at the side.”

“I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth, and you are…?”

“Mrs. Malwhinney. I clean for the doctor.”

“Did you know Liz Bentley?”

“Of course. It's a wee village.”

“What did you make of her?”

“Poor wee soul.”

“You didn't dislike her because o' her lies?”

“I don't think the woman could help it. I got a sister like that ower in Lairg. If she says the sun is shining, I look out o' the window to make sure. Come in. You'll freeze out there.”

Hamish removed his cap and followed her into a kitchen that looked as if it had not been changed much since the 1950s. It was stone-flagged with a very high ceiling from which hung a wooden pulley with men's underwear hung up to dry. Shelves with various unmatched plates covered one wall. There was a Belfast sink by the window beside an old green enamelled gas cooker.

“I'll get back to my cleaning,” said Mrs. Malwhinney.

Dick, with his sleeves rolled up and wearing a flowered pinafore, was mixing something in a bowl. He looked up when Hamish entered. “I think she's been lying to me,” he said.

“Who?”

“Thon Anka. I cannae get my baps to turn out like hers.”

“Dick, we've got a murder to solve, or had you forgotten?”

“I thocht I'd wait until you came,” said Dick sulkily.

“Well, get your pinny off. We've got work to do. But first, get me a coffee and I'll tell you what happened last night.”

“It's instant,” said Dick.

“Doesn't matter.”

“Right.”

While Dick made two mugs of coffee, Hamish told him about the arrest of the drug dealers and how Wayne had admitted that Cameron had told him to “make his bones” by killing Hamish.

“I think Cameron samples too much of his own product, which includes crystal meth. He had a laboratory in that flat of his. We'll need to begin at the beginning,” said Hamish. “Now, in Liz's documents, there was a will. Her brother, the minister, gets the lot. But he's got an alibi. What are the usual reasons for murder? Money, obsession, revenge, blackmail. She was tortured. So that means she had something or knew something that her killer wanted.”

“Christine Dalray is still up at the house,” said Dick.

“We'd better get up there,” said Hamish. “Let's go.”

He and Dick found a policeman wrapping up the police tape. “I've been ordered back to Strathbane,” he said.

They went on into the house. Christine was sitting in the kitchen, gazing into space. She turned her head when they entered. “I keep hoping I'll just find something,” she said, “but I can't find anything at all. If it weren't for all these crime documentaries on TV, telling villains how to avoid forensic detection, I would say this was a professional hit. Anyway, I've got to get back on to the Leigh murder.”

“I'm surprised you didn't give that one priority,” said Hamish.

“I'm a woman, right? And the chauvinist pigs down there don't want me getting any glory. I complained to Daviot so I'm about to pack up here and get back to the Leighs' case.”

“I've been thinking,” said Hamish, “that if she was tortured, she must have had something the killer wanted. Where would she hide something in this wee cottage?”

“Can't think of anywhere. We looked in the ice trays in the freezer, even in the cereal packets and the sugar. Nothing. Well, I'm off. Good luck. When you're next in Strathbane, give me a ring.”

She's very attractive, thought Hamish, watching her leave. But I must see Anka again. There was a niggling question in the back of his brain as to what a beauty like Anka was really doing in this remote spot. The Polish Association was open in the evenings in Inverness. Perhaps he might go there later.

“Let's get started,” he said to Dick.

“What are we looking for?” asked Dick, sulky at having been dragged out of the kitchen at the doctor's.

“Anything worth torturing the poor woman for.”

“She was a liar, right?” said Dick. “What if she talked about having money under the mattress or jewels hidden away or a stash o' drugs? Someone takes her seriously. She cannae tell the beast anything because she's made it all up. I mean, she had a car. She could ha' taken trips to Strathbane.”

“And so she could,” agreed Hamish. “But we're going to search this place anyway. You take the downstairs and I'll take the upstairs. Where are Sonsie and Lugs?”

“Chasing seagulls on the beach. Do you want me to…?”

“No. They'll be fine. Get to work.”

Although the cottage was only one storey, there were two bedrooms in the attics. One looked unused and was small in size. The other was obviously where Liz had slept.

It was a low-ceilinged room with a double bed and two bedside tables. There was a large Bible on the left-hand table. On the wall was a wooden crucifix depicting Jesus on the cross. Hamish stared at it curiously. Liz's brother would not approve, he thought, the Presbyterians considering all “graven images” beyond the pale. Had she adopted another religion? He opened the Bible. There was a dedication. “To my dear Liz. Walk in the footsteps of Jesus. Barney.”

Who was Barney? Hamish made a mental note to phone Liz's brother. There was nothing else in either bedside table, all papers and documents having been taken off to Strathbane. The floor was covered in slippery green linoleum and two violently coloured crocheted rugs. Against one wall was a wardrobe. It contained some drab-looking dresses, an anorak, and a tweed coat.

On the top shelf of the wardrobe were several depressing-looking hats. He took them down and shook them out in the hope that something might fall out, but there was nothing at all. Beside the wardrobe was a chest of drawers containing underwear and tights. The underwear was of the serviceable kind. Nothing exotic. No hint that Liz might have been hoping for an affair.

There was no sign that the house had been searched, the murderer obviously having fled after he had killed Liz. Christine had been looking for anything that might give her DNA. Hamish wondered if it was worth slitting the mattress or taking up the linoleum.

He felt he should ask her brother for his permission. He went outside to get a better signal and called Donald Bentley. He explained the reason for his search.

“If you feel you must,” said the minister. “I really feel I did not know my sister at all well. She was always strange.”

“Did she attend any other church? Had she found any other religion?”

“I do not know. I assumed she would go to the kirk in Kinlochbervie. Why do you ask?”

“There is a crucifix on the wall of her bedroom.”

“What? I find that hard to believe. I am coming up to Cromish tomorrow morning. Her things will need to be cleared out and I will need to see when I can put the house on the market.”

“Did she have any close friends in Perth she might have confided in?”

“She had a few friends in my congregation at one time, but they all shrank from her finally because of her behaviour and her lies.”

“Did she have a mobile phone?”

“That I do not know.”

“There is a Bible presented to her from someone called Barney. Do you know of anyone of that name?”

“No.”

Hamish thanked him and rang off. He then phoned Jimmy and asked for a copy of Liz's recent phone calls from the landline to be sent to his iPad before returning to his search.

He tossed aside the duvet and slit the mattress. It turned out to be a waste of time. The linoleum came next. He was able to roll it up without too much effort but underneath there was no sign of anything being hidden under the floorboards.

He put the linoleum back and threw the duvet back on top of the ruined mattress.

He went downstairs and out into the garden. A thick white mist had rolled in from the sea, deadening all sound, blotting out the landscape. He remembered there was a shed at the end of the garden. Inside were the usual garden tools and a wheelbarrow. He searched every nook and cranny, every flower pack. He tipped out a sack of fertiliser and a bin of compost.

At last he gave up. Through the grimy shed window, he could see the mist rolling away. He went out and was about to shut the door when a ray of sunlight shone into the shed. Something up on the low roof glinted and sparkled. He went back in and reached up. Something had been stuck up there with a piece of plasticine. Something was glittering at the edge of it. Putting on his latex gloves, he pulled down the plasticine and carefully cleaned it off.

It was an engagement ring. He took out a magnifying glass. The inscription read,
YOURS IN CHRIST
.

Hamish carefully put the ring in a forensic bag and went in search of Dick. He found him kneeling on the kitchen floor with his head in a cupboard.

“I've found something,” said Hamish. “Come out and hae a look. Put on a pair o' gloves first.”

Dick backed out and stood up. Hamish handed him the magnifying glass. “Have a look at the inscription.”

Dick whistled. “Now, here's a thing. Do you think she wanted tae be a nun? Bride o' Christ and all that?”

“I don't know much about it but I don't think convents go around presenting women with diamond engagement rings.”

He went outside and phoned Donald Bentley again and told him about the ring. “I've never heard of such rubbish,” raged the minister. “This smacks of popery. She must have gone mad.”

“That's what we hope to find out. You have no idea?”

“Not one. But I will ask my parishioners and let you know tomorrow if I find out anything.”

Hamish got his iPad out of the Land Rover and Googled churches in Inverness. He scrolled through them all until he came to one, The Church of the Chosen. He noticed that there was to be Scottish country dancing that evening at eight o'clock.

He phoned up a detective he knew on the Inverness police, Mungo Davidson, and asked him what he knew about the church.

“Not much,” was the reply. “Happy-clappy by all reports. Run by a Mr. Alex Brough, Canadian. Never any trouble. Claims he has visions and that the world is going to end next May the first at twelve noon precisely.”

“Can't have much of a congregation,” said Hamish.

“On the contrary, it's a full house. Services on Sunday, but during the week there are dances and film shows, quizzes, things like that.”

Hamish thanked him, rang off, and told Dick about the new church, adding that he would go to Inverness that evening and see what it looked like.

He found the church out on the banks of Loch Ness. It did not look like a church, being a large square wooden hut with the name
THE CHURCH OF THE CHOSEN
in pink neon lights outside.

Hamish opened the door and walked in as people were being urged to take their partners for an Eightsome Reel.

“Hey, you!” called a man. “Queenie here hasnae got a partner.”

Hamish smiled and joined the set just as the band struck up. The band consisted of two accordionists, two fiddlers, and a man on the drums. They were very good indeed.

When it came Hamish's turn to dance in the middle, he felt quite carried away. He kicked up his lanky legs and shouted, “Hooch!” at the top of his voice. Suddenly the band stopped playing, the dancers stopped dancing.

“What's up?” asked Hamish.

A small, round man in a business suit approached him. He had a round head and very small feet. His brown eyes were sunk in pads of fat, and he was completely bald.

“You are new to us, brother,” he said in a Canadian accent. “We only cry with joy when we are praising the Lord, and we dance decorously.”

“Are you Mr. Brough?” asked Hamish.

“That I am. But finish the dance and I will explain further.”

He gave a signal, and the band struck up again. It was the quietest Eightsome Reel Hamish had ever taken part in. When it was over and the next dance, the Petronella, was announced, Hamish approached Alex Brough.

“Before you begin to explain the workings of your church,” said Hamish, “I would like to tell you I am a police sergeant from Lochdubh, and I am investigating the murder of Liz Bentley.”

“Let us go outside,” said the preacher. “I don't like shouting over the music.”

The night was still and very dark. Pink reflections from the neon sign rippled on the black waters of the loch.

“Liz was a valued member of our congregation,” said Mr. Brough. “She lived such a distance away but she always attended on the Sabbath. What has her murder to do with me or any of us?”

“She had a copy of the Bible with a note in the flyleaf saying it was from someone called Barney. Do you have anyone of that name amongst your members?”

“We had a Barney Mailer, but he left us a few months ago to go to a job in London.”

“Liz also had an engagement ring with the inscription, ‘Yours in Christ.' Ring any bells?”

“None whatsoever,” said Alex. Something in the firmness of his reply told Hamish he might be lying.

“Now, I gather that you preach that the world is going to end on May the first. What gave you that idea?”

“I saw it in a vision.”

“What sort of a vision?”

“A voice came out of a tree.”

“And where was this tree?”

“I was here on holiday and I had been walking. Do you see that rowan tree by the loch?”

“Yes.”

“I was weary and leaned against it. A voice said, ‘Be prepared, I am coming for all of you on May the first.' I saw in a blinding flash that this was where I should set up my church, that this was where I should prepare as many as I could for the afterlife.”

“And if May the first comes and goes and we're all here, what do you do then?”

Alex's pitying smile gleamed pink in the light from the neon sign. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he said.

“That's me,” said Hamish. “I will be checking into your background. And I will be back here on May the first to make sure you aren't planning another Jonestown massacre.”

Alex raised his pudgy hands as if in blessing. “I forgive you, my son, for your lack of faith.”

“Aye, well, I'm going back indoors to hae a wee word with some folk and see what they think o' this load o' havers.”

As Hamish turned away, he could have sworn the preacher mumbled something about putting his views where the sun didn't shine.

When he entered the hall it was to find there was a tea break. People were clustered around a long table laden with sandwiches and cakes. He spotted Queenie, his partner in the Eightsome Reel, and approached her. He introduced himself and asked if he could have a word with her.

Queenie said she was Queenie Macpherson from Inverness. They moved to a corner of the hall, Queenie clutching a cup of tea and a plate of pink iced cakes. She was a woman in her fifties with dyed black hair and thick glasses, wearing a flowered dress over her plump figure.

“Do you believe that the world is going to end next May?” asked Hamish.

Queenie looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I don't,” she said. “But the services are fun. I've a good voice and I'm sometimes asked to do a solo. You should hear me sing ‘Amazing Grace.' I think most of us come for the fun. The regular kirks are a bit dreary.”

“And is it all free?”

She looked awkward. “Well, it's a right successful church and to join, you pay one hundred pounds a year and get a share certificate. Mr. Brough promises to pay out bonuses.”

Hamish scanned the hall. “One hundred pounds is a fair bit o' money. Is there a collection on Sundays?”

“Aye, but it's the church, see. You aye give something.”

“Can you point me out someone who actually believes this rubbish?”

“Don't tell her I gave you her name! But you should have a talk to Josie Alexander ower there. The tall drip o' nothing showing her tits.”

And there's one nice Christian description, thought Hamish cynically.

He made his way to Josie, who was standing a little away from the others. She had lank brown hair worn in two pigtails. She was wearing a spangled white top with a plunging neckline and a black velvet skirt. She had slightly protruding eyes in a sallow face and a small pursed mouth.

Hamish introduced himself and, as he saw the band was about to strike up again, asked her if she would step outside for a minute with him. She picked up a mohair stole from a chair, wrapped it around her thin figure, and followed him outside. The wind had got up and the sky above had cleared. Starlight danced in the choppy waters of Loch Ness.

“Do you believe the world is going to end next May?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Brough has said so. He had a vision.”

“Look here, lassie,” said Hamish gently, “haven't you read stories in the newspapers about preachers forecasting the end of the world on such and such a date and then nothing happens?”

“I don't read the newspapers.”

“Did you know Liz Bentley?”

“The murdered woman? I talked to her a bit. She was a believer as well.”

“She had a ring with the inscription, ‘Yours in Christ.' Know anything about that?”

“No!”

“Look here, take my advice and don't give any more money to this crackpot religion.”

Josie gave a little gasp and turned and ran back into the church.

Hamish phoned Mungo Davidson. “You'd better get onto this,” he said. “I don't want to poach on your patch but listen to this.” He told him rapidly all he had learned. “He's conning money out of folk,” said Hamish, “and I bet if you look into his background, he's done the same thing before.”

“We'll get a search warrant for his accounts,” said Mungo, “and yes, we'll check up on him. Do you think it has anything to do with your murder?”

“It could be, if Liz promised money to the church and changed her mind. She liked attention and would tell lies to get it. Maybe she promised to leave everything in her will to the church, changed her mind, and got killed because of it.”

“I'll let you know what we find out,” said Mungo.

Hamish went to police headquarters, where he typed out a report and left the Bible and ring in the evidence lockers. Then he set out on the long road back to Cromish. It was too late to call in at the Polish Association. He fretted that he should really be in Lochdubh, trying to find out more about the murder of the Leighs. It was on his patch. But somehow his intuition told him that there was a thread connecting Liz's death to the Leighs. He would give it two more days in Cromish.

It was eleven o'clock when he reached the doctor's house. There was a light on in the kitchen, and that was where he found Dick, busy over a mixing bowl.

“You're supposed to be detecting,” said Hamish crossly. “Not baking.”

“Aye, well, I'm just going to do some scones for the shop. I promised Anka,” said Dick.

Hamish felt a pang of jealousy and then told himself he was being silly as he looked at the tubby figure of Dick with his grey moustache and grey hair.

“Also, I found out a good bit about Anka,” said Dick. “She's older than she looks. She's forty.”

“You're kidding. The lassie hasnae a line on her face.”

“No, it's true. And she's been married. She got married to get away from her brute of a father and found she was married to a brute of a husband. She got a divorce, but he wouldnae leave her alone, which is why she fled the country.”

“I know. She told me all that.”

“I have been doing a bit o' detective work,” said Dick. “She went to get me a drink and left her handbag open. I saw her passport and had a wee peek. She's forty, all right.”

And I'm thirty-three, thought Hamish. But what does a few years' difference matter?

He told Dick about his visit to the church.

Dick slid a tray of scones into the oven. “Like a coffee?”

“Aye.”

“It's instant.”

“That'll do fine,” said Hamish. “Where are Sonsie and Lugs?”

“They had a big supper at Anka's and they've gone to sleep in my room.” I'm losing my pets, thought Hamish. Will I never be rid of this wee man?

“I wouldnae think a kirk like that would give out diamond rings,” said Dick. “Here's your coffee.”

“That's grand. I don't usually drink coffee this late. But I'm so tired, I'll sleep like the dead.”

Dick placed a mug of coffee in front of him. Outside, the wind was beginning to rise again.

“I'm surprised you don't want to go back home,” said Dick. “Not like you to leave an unsolved murder on your patch.”

“Apart from the fact that Blair would make my life hell, I'd like to give it a couple more days up here, Dick. Let's see what we can find out tomorrow.”

But the next morning as he went around the village followed by the dog and cat, it was to find people were thoroughly irritated at being questioned over again. He longed to call on Anka, but knew she would be asleep. His phone rang. It was Jimmy. “We're getting nowhere with the Leighs. Daviot wants you back in Lochdubh, pronto. He's had complaints from the villagers about Blair's bullying. You can leave Dick up there.”

After he had rung off, Hamish walked to the thin spit of land beyond the tiny harbour which protected the village from the full force of the Atlantic. Enormous waves were crashing on the shore and seagulls swooped and dived, their calls adding to the restless clamour of the waves.

He realised he had quickly become used to this noise. Lochdubh was protected by its long sea loch and high headland. In the middle of all this tumult and uproar, he thought, no one would hear a car arriving at Liz's cottage, or even a shot.

He went to the village shop and asked Mrs. Mackay if she could remember what the weather had been like on the night Liz was murdered.

“It was right windy during the night,” she said. “But you know how quickly the weather changes. It was as calm as anything by the morning.”

“How can you remember so clearly?”

“Don't be daft! We don't get murders up here. None of us is likely to forget that night.”

Hamish walked out of the shop and made his way back to the doctor's. He roused Dick, who was still asleep, and gave him the news.

“I'm sorry to leave you stranded here,” said Hamish.