Death of a Liar (7 page)

“I've not decided,” said Hamish. “There's been awful weather before. I watched a documentary on the great storm of seventeen hundred and three. Thousands killed and a hurricane that lasted several days. That was followed by a mini ice age.”

“It's grim up here in winter,” said Christine. “Don't you ever get weary of it?”

“No, never,” said Hamish.

They ate and talked companionably, Hamish mourning the changed days of policing.

“I always seem to be fighting to keep my police station,” he said. “They think they could run it from Strathbane, but who would look after the old people in the winter and make sure they had enough fuel and food? That's nearly as important as tracking down criminals.”

“Morale is pretty low in Strathbane,” said Christine. “Police are being encouraged to spy on each other. Harry Wilkins, one of the old coppers, was with a new chap and they pulled over a man for having a broken taillight. Now, normally, Harry would have told the man to drive to a garage in the morning and get it fixed, but the new chap is one of Blair's creeps, so he had to tell the man his car was being impounded.”

“What a waste of police time,” mourned Hamish. “They look on me as a sort of dinosaur.”

Christine smiled at him and reached across the table and took his hand. “Not you, Hamish.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Neither had noticed Jimmy Anderson coming into the restaurant. Christine snatched her hand back.

Jimmy pulled up a chair. “Hey, Willie!” he shouted. “A double whisky.”

“Not if you're driving,” called Willie.

“I'm staying the night at the police station, so hop to it.”

In an odd way, Hamish was glad of the interruption to what had seemed, moments ago, the beginning of a romantic evening. His thoughts flew to Anka. Lucky Dick to be up there where he could visit her.

“There have been big developments,” said Jimmy. “You can call Dick back.”

“I'll do that. What's new?”

“A full report from the Mounties in Toronto. Alex Brough skipped Canada before he could be charged with fraud. But there's more. His real name is Peter Gaunt. His partners in crime were a Bert and Bessie Southern, real names of the Leighs, all of them English. They had conned five wealthy residents out of their life savings. The children and relatives of the ones who were cheated have all been checked, and not one of them has left Canada in the past year.”

“So what does Peter Gaunt have to say for himself?” asked Hamish.

“He's disappeared. Somehow he must have got involved in something bigger than cheating his congregation or he would have run for it after the murder of the Southerns.”

“Unless he was the one who murdered them,” said Hamish. “Why were the police so slow at picking him up?”

“They were still going through the church's books when this report from Canada arrived. They sent a squad to the church to find it empty.”

“They all must have been into something very big,” said Christine.

“Say some big gang had a heist and wanted it out of Canada,” suggested Hamish. “There's Gaunt with a false passport and a way to get out of the country and over here. He and the Southerns split up and they take the loot. They disappear. Maybe they've told some villains that they are going to South America—anywhere but the wilds of Scotland.

“But some gang catches up with the Southerns and tortures them to try to find out where the goods are.”

“But what about Liz Bentley?” asked Christine.

“I'm slipping,” mourned Hamish. “I should have shown her photograph to members of the congregation. There was that ring hidden in her shed. Those rings were maybe a way of anyone involved to identify each other.”

“I'll get Inverness police working on that in the morning,” said Jimmy, stifling a yawn.

The wind shrieked outside, and there was a crash as a loose piece of board struck the window outside.

“You can't sleep at the police station tonight,” said Hamish. “Christine can't drive back in a storm like this.”

“It's all right,” said Christine. “I've got a sleeping bag in my car and the keys to the Leighs' place. I still think of them as the Leighs. I can bed down there for the night.”

“Won't do,” said Hamish. “There's a sofa in the living room. Jimmy can sleep in the cell and you can take the sofa.”

“I'll be okay,” said Christine. She knew there was still water and electricity in the old schoolhouse and she did not want Hamish to see her in her serviceable pyjamas and without her make-up on.

Despite Hamish's protests, Christine insisted on staying at the schoolhouse.

Back at the police station, Hamish phoned Dick and told him the latest news.

“I should stay here,” protested Dick. “What about the Bentley murder?”

“Wait a minute.” Hamish turned to Jimmy. “Dick thinks he ought to stay up there and keep looking into Liz's murder.”

“Oh, all right. Tell him to give it a few more days,” said Jimmy.

“You can stay on for a bit,” said Hamish. He then told Dick about the report from the Mounties. “Liz must have known someone connected with the church or gone there herself,” said Hamish. “See what you can find out.”

“What was that about?” asked Anka when Dick had rung off. He told her and then said ruefully, “I've been working more at the baking than the policing.”

They were working in Anka's kitchen, preparing the bakery for the morning.

Anka looked at Dick with affection. He had a dab of flour on his nose, and his tubby figure was wrapped in one of her large white aprons.

“I don't think you're cut out for the police force,” she said. “I think you would rather be doing this.”

I'd rather be doing anything with you than anything else in the whole wide world, thought Dick, but he just smiled and said, “I think our scones are ready.”

“Maybe I should have a look around Liz's cottage,” said Anka. “I might just see something you missed.”

“I'm sure it's against regulations,” said Dick cautiously. “But her brother will be up here soon again to check on things now the place is up for sale. It would be grand if we could find just one clue.”

“Good. That's settled. We will go tomorrow afternoon. We must have our beauty sleep.”

Christine tossed and turned in her sleeping bag, amazed at how frightened of the storm she had become. The noise had moved from a high eldritch screech to a deep bang, bang, bang as if giants up in the sky were slamming doors. She crawled out of her sleeping bag and switched on the light. Nothing happened. Must be a power cut, she thought miserably. I am not brave, but I'm brave enough to admit it. I'm going to the nice safe sofa in Hamish's police station.

She had not bothered to undress. Christine put on her coat and opened the front door, which was nearly whipped out of her hand by the force of the gale.

By dint of hanging on to garden fences, she made her way to the station and banged on the kitchen door.

It was doubtful whether Hamish would have heard her had not Lugs awakened him by barking sharply. Sonsie slid off the bed and went to the kitchen door and stood on guard, fur raised.

Hamish opened the door and let Christine in. “I've decided your sofa would be better. Wait a bit. You've got electricity. There's a power cut at the schoolhouse.”

“I'll make you up a bed on the sofa,” said Hamish. “Maybe I'd better go to the schoolhouse and have a look.”

“If you bring my sleeping bag, it'll save you looking out bedding,” said Christine. “I'll make myself a cup of tea and wait for you.”

The roaring wind at Hamish's back propelled him along to the schoolhouse. The front door was swinging open, banging against the outside wall.

He unhitched a powerful torch from his belt and made his way to the living room.

He shone the torch on the sleeping bag and then backed off with an exclamation of alarm. What had been Christine's sleeping bag was shot to ribbons.

There was no sleep for anyone that night as the whole forensic team headed by Daviot and Blair arrived from Strathbane. It was initially decided that shots from something like a Kalashnikov had ripped into the sleeping bag. Whoever had done it had assumed Christine was still inside.

As usual, Hamish was sidelined by Blair and told to interview the locals. Instead, he went along to the Italian restaurant, knocked at the kitchen door, and asked the beautiful Lucia, Willie Lamont's wife, for a cup of coffee. He then sat down at a table in the empty restaurant to think.

Behind all this was big money that some gang wanted to get its hands on. They wanted to scare any investigation away from the schoolhouse, he thought, and then decided that if that were the case, the shooting had the opposite effect. The police would now take the building apart.

Money came from bank robberies, jewel thefts, drugs, arms, human trafficking, and prostitution. The northwest of Scotland with its many small bays and inlets was ideal territory for smuggling.

The weak link was Liz Bentley. Somehow she had become involved. It might be an idea to go back to Cromish and investigate that end further.

He finished his coffee and went out again to the waterfront to be consulted by Mrs. Wellington, the minister's wife. The storm had died and pale sunlight was glittering on the choppy waters of the sea loch. As usual, Mrs. Wellington was encased in tweed. Even her large hat was made of tweed.

“This place has become Chicago,” she boomed. “And what are you doing about it?”

“What I can,” said Hamish mildly. “Have you heard o' something in Inverness called The Church of the Chosen?”

She sniffed. “That lot. Load of rubbish.”

“How did you hear of it?”

“Ellie Noble, thon silly lassie, went there. Her parents came to Mr. Wellington for help. They were afraid it was some sort of cult.”

“That's the Nobles out on the Braikie road?”

“That's them.”

“And does Ellie live with them?”

“No, she works in First supermarket in Strathbane and I think she shares digs with a couple of girls.”

“Thanks,” said Hamish and hurried to the police station. He fished out a photograph of Liz Bentley that he had in his desk. It was a print of one given to the police by her brother.

He collected the dog and cat and got into the Land Rover. Blair was just emerging from a police unit set up on the waterfront. He shouted something as Hamish drove past.

Hamish drove on, glancing in the rearview mirror as the image of angry Blair dwindled into the distance.

Hamish knew he was poaching on Strathbane's territory, but he did not care. Knocking on doors in Lochdubh to find out if anyone had seen or heard anything was a waste of effort, he knew. The noise of the storm would drown any car arriving in the village in the middle of the night.

Before leaving the police station, he had changed into civilian clothes, not wanting to attract any attention from Strathbane's police force.

In other towns and cities, supermarkets are often large palaces of goods and clothes, but First supermarket in Strathbane was as dismal as the run-down town itself. Very few people seemed to put their shopping trolleys back in the places designated for them, leaving them strewn instead around the car park. A chilly wind with the metallic smell of approaching snow whipped rubbish around Hamish's ankles as he made for the main entrance. It was situated in one of the poorest parts of the town and dubbed by the locals as Salmonella Centre.

Obesity was a bad problem in Strathbane as illustrated by a large woman at the customer services desk. She looked about as welcoming as Jabba the Hutt.

“Whatdeyewant?” she demanded languidly, raising her eyes from a film magazine.

“I would like to speak to Ellie Noble.”

“Ellie Noble! Report to the customer services desk,” she roared into a microphone, and then went back to reading her magazine.

The automatic grimy glass doors behind which Hamish was standing opened and closed, sending in blasts of arctic air. As he watched, little pellets of hard snow began to swirl down outside.

A small girl wearing the green-and-red overalls sported by the staff came hurrying up.

“Police,” said Hamish. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

The spots on her face stood out red. “They were throwing the stuff out anyway,” she said. “I'm no' going to prison for that.”

“I want you to look at a photograph,” said Hamish patiently, “and tell me if you recognise the woman.”

Colour returned to her face. “We can go to the caff ower there,” she said.

Hamish collected cups of coffee for them at the self-service desk in the café and led her to a table by the window.

Ellie had a peculiar figure, thin on top and very broad at the hips.

“It's like this,” began Hamish. “I believe you used to attend The Church of the Chosen.”

“Went to a few dances there wi' ma mates.”

Hamish took out a photo of Liz Bentley. “Do you recognise this woman?”

“That's the one that got herself killt.”

“It is. But do you remember seeing her at the church?”

“Aye, it is her. I said as much to my friend Beryl. She was sweet on the preacher. Oh, I remember now. She was flashing an engagement ring around and saying she'd just got engaged. Someone congratulated Mr. Brough, but he said it wasnae him. He led Liz outside. When she came back, she looked as if she'd been crying and she wasnae wearing the ring. This Liz woman told a lot of lies. She'd already told everyone her great-granny was a Russian princess so we thought it was just another of her stories.”

“Why did young people like you go all the way to this church?”

“The dances were great and there were a lot of fellows from Inverness went there.”

“See any sign of drugs?”

Ellie looked out at the swirling snow. “Maybe,” she said in a small voice.

“I'm not here to arrest you,” said Hamish. “But it would be a great help if you could let me know what you saw.”

“My pal, Beryl Gregg, wanted me to try uppers. Said if you went to the ladies' toilet, you could get them there. I was feart and didnae go.”

“Did your friend?”

“Just the once. Then someone told her that the police had their eye on the place so we never went back.”

“I'd like to speak to Beryl. Where can I find her?”

“I'll get her. She works here. I've got to get back to work. I'll tell her to see you.”

Hamish sat and waited, watching the swirls and eddies of the snow out in the car park where rubbish flew up into the white air. He hoped Beryl would hurry up. He did not want a passing policeman to see his police Land Rover in the car park.

“You wanted to see me?” asked a nervous little voice.

“Sit down, Beryl,” said Hamish. “Now, there's nothing to worry about. I just want some information. It concerns this woman.”

Beryl was plump, her uniform strained across large breasts. She had a round pasty face and pale-grey eyes. She looked at the photograph of Lizzie and nodded. “That's her.”

“I am not interested in drugs,” said Hamish, “only in this woman. Did you ever talk to her?”

“Just the once. I was feeling low and I'm always on a diet, see, and someone said that uppers made you lively and you would lose a lot of weight. You're not going to arrest me!”

“No. Go on. You are being very helpful.”

“A lad told me you could get drugs in the toilets so I went to the ladies' and waited. Liz came in and asked what I wanted and I told her. She gave me some pills and told me if I ever said something to anyone, they'd come after me. Well, Liz had become a bit of a joke with all her lies and she was acting as if she was some mafia moll. I told her to stuff her drugs up her fat arse.”

“I would like you to make a statement.”

“I cannae!” wailed Beryl. “What will my mum say?”

“Look, all I want you to say is you went to the toilet and Liz offered you drugs and you told her to get lost. Can you do that?”

“I s'ppose so.”

“Get your coat and tell your boss you are off on important police business.”

When the statement was secured, Hamish drove her back to the supermarket. “It's a bad storm,” said Beryl. “I hope they close early.”

Hamish left her at the door of the supermarket and drove off. His pets shifted restlessly in the back. He knew if he let them out for a run, it would mean wasting time picking snowballs off their fur at the police station, a job that Dick would have performed. He wondered how Dick was getting on and envied him being up there with the gorgeous Anka.

“Well, we shifted last night's baking just in time,” said Dick. “But is there any point in doing anything for tomorrow? The roads will be blocked.”

“We can bake a few things for the locals,” said Anka.

They were sitting in Liz Bentley's house after having searched it thoroughly without finding anything of interest.

“Do you ever get tired of policing?” asked Anka.

“Sometimes,” said Dick. “I know Hamish wants the police station to himself.”

“Why?”

“He hopes to get married and he thinks I queer his pitch.”

“Queer?”

“I mean, he thinks I get in the way.”

Anka laughed. “He is worried the ladies prefer you to him.”

“What woman would prefer me to Hamish?” said Dick gloomily.

“Quite a lot, I should think. Kindness and decency are very important.”

Dick blushed. Then he said, “Maybe I'm not cut out for police work. Police work means I'm lazy. I don't like asking people questions and often getting doors slammed in my face.”

“Have you ever thought of becoming a baker?”

“No' really. I'm too old to change.”

“One is never too old,” said Anka. “Now, my dream would be to open a bakery in Inverness. Think of it, Dick. We could be famous.”

“We?”

“Why not? I have some money left to me by an aunt. I have never touched it.”

The wind screeched round the cottage. The trouble with being a policeman, thought Dick, was that you ended up not trusting anyone. Why on earth would this beautiful woman want to go into business with him?

“Why me?” he asked.

“Because like me, you have baking in the blood,” said Anka. “And because we have become very dear friends.”

Outside, the storm raged on, but somewhere deep inside Dick there was a warm glow, like sunshine.

“Just maybe it might work,” he said cautiously. “I've got a fair bit of money put by. I've earned a lot with television quizzes over the years. The last time I won a new car and sold it and kept using my old one.”

“Let's go to my place where it is warm,” said Anka.

At the mobile police unit in Lochdubh, Hamish handed Jimmy a copy of Beryl's statement, glad that Blair was nowhere in sight.

“So that's the tie-up,” said Jimmy. “Say Brough or whatever he calls himself managed to get the drugs out of Canada for some gang with the help of the Southerns, and the gang starts to come after them all.”

“I think Peter Gaunt, alias Brough, must be the kingpin,” said Hamish, “or he would be dead by now.”

“He may be dead for all we know,” said Jimmy. “There's not much any of us can do until this storm is over.”

“Well, I've got to get on my snowshoes and see everyone in the outlying crofts is all right. Coming with me?”

“You must be mad! The funeral's in a couple of days' time.”

“They've released Liz's body?”

“Aye. She's being burnt at the crematorium in Strathbane. Her brother's furious, but Liz left instructions in her will.”

“Odd thing for a fantasist like her,” commented Hamish. “I would have thought she would want the telly-type funeral with the churchyard and all that.”

“No, it's ashes to ashes for our Liz.”

Hamish looked out the window of the mobile home. “It's easing off. I barely made it here from Strathbane.”

Hamish returned to the police station and found to his relief that the phones were working. They often went out of order during a storm. He was therefore able to phone every­one he could think of who might be at risk instead of having to go and visit them.

The police station was cold. He switched on the central heating and lit the stove in the kitchen. As he was cooking up food for Sonsie and Lugs, he reflected that all these little chores were usually done by Dick. When he had fed the animals, he made himself a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee and went through to the living room. The fire was full of cold ashes, and there was a thin layer of dust on the furniture. He retreated to the kitchen and sat down at the table.

He took out his mobile phone and called Jimmy. “I forgot to ask you,” said Hamish, “but is there any chance any of the villagers saw or heard anything?”

“Not a thing. They all say that the wind was so awful, it would block out any noise. I've just had a bollocking from Blair and I am told to keep you out of Strathbane in future.”

“That man's a right misery. He'll probably confront Beryl and Ellie and shout at them so much they'll clam up completely. I suppose it's all right if I turn up at the funeral?” said Hamish.

“I don't see that Blair can object. Liz was murdered on your patch. If Dick hasn't got anything, call him back. The minute the roads are clear, you'll both need to go round the village again just in case someone forgot to tell us something.”

After he had finished the call to Jimmy, Hamish phoned Dick at the doctor's house. The cleaner answered and said, “He's ower at the Polish woman's.”

Hamish found Anka's phone number and rang her. “Is Dick there?” he asked.

“Yes, I'll get him,” said Anka. “Dick, my dear, it's for you.”

My dear, thought Hamish with a stab of jealousy.

When Dick came on the phone, he said, “The storm was so bad I had to spend the night here.”

“Lucky you,” said Hamish tartly. “As soon as the road's clear, you're to come back here.” He told Dick about the attempt on Christine's life and what they had found out about the real identities of Brough and the Leighs.

Dick rang off and said to Anka, “I've been called back.”

“The roads haven't been gritted yet,” said Anka, looking at his downcast face.

“The snow's stopped,” said Dick, “and it's melting. I suppose it's back to the real world.”

“Why?” asked Anka. “What if we pool our resources and open a bakery somewhere. Inverness is expensive. What about Braikie?”

“You mean…you and me?”

“Why not?”

“There is already a bakery in Braikie,” said Dick. “It was bought last year by some woman who's made a bad job of it. Maybe she'd be glad to sell.”

“As soon as we can leave,” said Anka, “we will go to Braikie and see what we can find out.”

“But even if I hand in my notice,” said Dick, “it'll take at least a month until I get my freedom.”

“You are ill, that's it!” cried Anka. “I know, I will appeal to Dr. Williams for a certificate.”

“You'll be asking the man to lie?”

“Why not? He issues sick notes every Monday to the locals complaining of bad backs when he knows there is nothing up with them.”

Hamish was just wondering if his budget would run to a meal at the Italian restaurant when the kitchen door opened and Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walked in.

The first thing she said was, “I see Dick isn't around.”

“Obviously,” said Hamish.

“I mean, no smells of cooking or sounds of television. Dishes in the sink instead of the dishwasher. You look like a man whose wife has just walked out on him.”

“And to think for a moment I was glad to see you,” said Hamish. “I gather the road is clear.”

“Yes, and the snow is melting.”

“How long are you up here for?” asked Hamish.

“Just a few days. Have you eaten yet?”