Death of a Dreamer (20 page)

He heated up two hot-water bottles and put them in his bed. He took a hot shower and then, followed by his pets, climbed wearily into bed. His last waking thought was that there should be some
woman around to look after him.

Caro opened the door to Jimmy Anderson and a policewoman. ‘What now?’ she asked in alarm.

‘I think we’d better go inside,’ said Jimmy.

The policewoman sat in a chair in the corner of the room and took out her notebook.

‘Now, Miss Garrard,’ began Jimmy, ‘you knew Jock Fleming before, didn’t you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘We have proof that you knew him in Brighton,’ lied Jimmy.

Her eyes dilated with fright, and then she said, ‘I didn’t want to say anything about it. It would look so suspicious.’

‘Let’s have the real story.’

‘I have a gallery in Brighton where I sell my stuff. He came in one day, and we got talking. Effie wasn’t there. She was already up here. I had two postcards from her pinned up
behind my desk. They were scenic views of Lochdubh. He said it looked like a beautiful place and where was it? I told him Lochdubh in Sutherland. He took me out for a drink.’

‘You had an affair with him,’ said Jimmy flatly.

She hung her head. ‘It was a one-night stand. He left Brighton the next day.’

‘And have you seen him since you have been up here?’

‘I phoned him at the hotel. He shouted at me. He said he wished he’d never set eyes on my sister. He told me to leave him alone. He said he’d kill me if I told the police about
our fling because they suspected him already and he didn’t want them knowing anything else.’

‘I should charge you with withholding information,’ said Jimmy heavily. ‘Is there anything else you haven’t been telling us?’

‘No.’

‘And there’s no way Effie could have known you had an affair with Jock?’

‘No. I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Effie was always jealous of me. I felt it would only make her obsession worse if I told her. She would go mad trying to prove to me that she had succeeded where I had failed.’

‘I want you to stay in Lochdubh and hold yourself ready for further questioning. PC Ettrick here will type up your statement. Report to the police unit in the morning and sign
it.’

Betty Barnard was walking along the waterfront in the morning when she saw Dr Brodie leaving the police station. She stopped him. ‘Is Hamish ill?’

‘He’s had a bit of a concussion, but I think he’ll be all right if he takes things easy.’

Betty let herself into the police station. She walked into the bedroom. ‘How did you get concussed, Hamish?’

‘I slipped and struck my head on the bath.’

‘I tell you what, that bed looks uncomfortable. Get up and sit in a chair in your living room, and I’ll clean the sheets for you. Do you have a washing machine?’

‘It’s in a cupboard in the living room. It’s one o’ the kind you wheel up to the kitchen sink and put a hose on the tap, but don’t bother. I’m fine. You
shouldnae be here.’

‘Nonsense. You look dreadful. Up you get.’

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 washing 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 butter, 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. God, 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 bitch, 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
gratitude for Betty’s kindness.

I’m tired of being single, he thought. I am damn 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 with 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. Nobody 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
passions. Hamish began to wonder why Jock’s marriage had really broken up. Apart from his general womanizing, Jock liked whores. Hamish was willing to bet that Jock knew Dora was a prostitute
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 space 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 ‘Scotland 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 glasses.
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, discreetly 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 fistfight. 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 other 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 then 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 fishing 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 fishing 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, thought
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 time, 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.

‘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 album. 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?’