Death of a Dreamer (7 page)

Hamish thanked her, put the receiver down, and stared into space. It was all so neat and tidy, and yet he had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing. He wondered if Jock’s wife was still
in Lochdubh.

Cursing himself for not having tried to speak to her before, he hurried along to Sea View. Mrs Dunne told him that Mrs Fleming had gone out for a walk.

‘Do you know which direction she took?’ asked Hamish.

‘I saw her go in the direction of the bridge.’

‘When did she leave?’

‘Just a few minutes ago.’

Hamish set off in pursuit.

He saw a small blonde woman heading up the road on the other side of the humpback bridge.

He ran after her. ‘Mrs Fleming?’ he called.

She stopped and turned round. She was in her late thirties with dyed-blonde hair in a ponytail. She had small, discontented features and pale blue eyes. She was wearing a multicoloured blouse,
brief khaki shorts and sturdy boots.

‘Yes?’

‘Police Constable Hamish Macbeth, Mrs Fleming. May I talk to you for a moment?’

‘Go ahead, copper. But if it’s aboot that dead wumman, I cannae help ye.’ Her voice was harsh with a Glaswegian accent.

‘Did you know her?’

‘Never heard o’ her till I come here.’

‘Why did you and Jock divorce?’

‘Away wi’ ye, ye nosey copper. That’s ma business.’

She stared at him defiantly, her thin arms folded across her chest. ‘I’ve got naethin’ mair to say to ye.’

‘Well, if you think of anything . . .’

She continued to stare at him defiantly until he walked away.

Hamish went back to the station and put on his climbing boots. He was determined to go up to Geordie’s Cleft and look around.

First he phoned Angela and asked her if she would look after the dog and cat.

‘Can’t,’ she said. ‘Lugs is all right, but that wild cat of yours terrifies my cats. You’ll need to find someone else.’

In desperation, Hamish phoned Priscilla and explained his problem. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said in her calm, even voice. ‘There are no police around any more. We can
take your Land Rover, put the animals in the back. I’ll bring some food, and we’ll drive up as far as we can. We can let them out for a run and then shut them up in the Land Rover while
we climb up to Geordie’s Cleft.’

Hamish said he would pick her up. As he drove to the hotel, he couldn’t help hoping that Betty had returned. He was still puzzled as to why she had left without phoning him.

Priscilla was waiting for him in the forecourt with a large picnic hamper.

‘You were quick getting the food ready,’ said Hamish.

‘A family had ordered it and then decided they didn’t want it. They’re being charged for it anyway, so it’s free food for all of us.’

Hamish drove as near Geordie’s Cleft as he could, the Land Rover bumping over the heather. He stopped, and they got out. Lugs and Sonsie ran off together.

‘They won’t get lost, will they?’ asked Priscilla anxiously.

‘No, they always come back when I call. Anyway, if we eat before we climb, they’ll smell the food and come running.’

‘I hadn’t time to get animal food for them.’

‘They’re spoilt. They’re used to people food.’

Sure enough, Priscilla was just lifting a whole roast chicken out of its container when Sonsie came loping up, followed by Lugs, the dog’s odd, large ears flapping as he tried to keep up
with the cat.

Hamish watched Priscilla as she deftly carved the chicken and separated the pieces out on to paper plates. The sun was shining down on the golden bell of her hair. What did she think? wondered
Hamish. What did she think of him? Did she ever think of their broken engagement?

‘I don’t think your animals will like potato salad,’ said Priscilla. She gave each animal a plate of chicken pieces. ‘There’s a bottle of wine here, or would you
prefer coffee?’

‘Coffee. There’s a long climb ahead, and I need all my wits about me.’

‘So why are you still interested? It’s all around the village that the poor woman committed suicide.’

‘There’s something wrong. The pathologist says she died of a combination of antifreeze and exposure.’

‘The antifreeze having been in the wine bottle?’

‘Yes. But evidently antifreeze tastes sweet, and it was a dessert wine.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Just suppose someone really believes she’s pregnant and that she’s going to marry Jock. Jock calls on her and tells her he never meant to marry her and that she’s
talking rubbish. She’s devastated. Yes, but what if she gets a message supposed to have come from Jock, saying something like, “I’m sorry, Effie. I really do love you”? Say
the message is left outside her door with that bottle of wine. Say the message goes on asking her to bring the wine to Geordie’s Cleft so they can toast their engagement. “If I’m
late, help yourself to a glass before I arrive.”’

‘But how would she even know where Geordie’s Cleft was?’

‘Jock had told her he planned to go up there painting to get a panoramic view. He maybe told other people. So she sets off and climbs up and waits and waits. Decides to have a
glass.’

‘Find the corkscrew?’

‘Damn. That’s another thing I’ve got to look for. So she feels disoriented and drowsy, maybe falls asleep. The killer’s been waiting nearby. She pops that typewritten
suicide note into Effie’s pocket.’

‘She?’

‘The ring finger, cut off. Could be a jealous rage.’

‘Or some man from her past.’

‘Could be.’ Hamish stood up. ‘I won’t eat any more at the moment. The food’s making me feel lazy. I’ll shut up the animals, and we’ll be on our
way.’

They set out on the long climb. The air was full of the scents of bell heather and thyme. Down below them lay the fishing village of Lochdubh with its neat rows of whitewashed Georgian
houses.

A yacht cut a white trail through the calm blue waters of the loch. Smoke rose straight up from chimneys; a lot of the villagers, like Hamish, used the old-fashioned method of heating water.

Hamish suddenly wanted it to be suicide so they could all go on with their safe lives far from the murder, drugs and mayhem of the cities.

‘I’m beginning to dread newcomers,’ he said as they approached the cleft.

‘There may be more in the future.’

‘Why?’

‘With the European Union savagely cutting fishing quotas, a lot of the fishermen are thinking of turning their boats into tourist pleasure craft.’

‘I’m beginning to think no one in the village tells me anything any more,’ said Hamish. ‘First I’ve heard of it. I wonder what else they haven’t been telling
me.’

They walked up to the cleft, then split up and began to search around. Although it was mostly rocky, there were a few stunted gorse bushes.

After an hour, Hamish said, ‘Nothing here. Let’s try further afield. Now, if someone threw something, where would it land?’

‘Maybe right down the slope and into those gorse bushes. Mind you, they’re pretty far below.’

They slithered down. Hamish lost his footing and went straight into the gorse bushes. ‘Ouch,’ he yelled. ‘Help me out of here. I’m all prickles.’

Priscilla took his hand and helped him out. Hamish plucked gorse prickles out of his hair and his clothes.

‘There’s something glinting down in there,’ said Priscilla, peering into the shade of the bushes.

‘Let me try,’ said Hamish. ‘A few more prickles won’t matter.’

She pointed. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves, bent down, and eased a long arm into the bushes. ‘Got it.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a corkscrew.’

‘That solves one problem.’

‘It’s brand new.’

‘Maybe she bought it for the occasion.’

‘I wonder why the forensic boys didn’t find it,’ said Hamish. ‘Mind you, that lot are more interested in drinking and rugby than in finding anything. The lot of them turn
up on jobs with hangovers. Unless it was put there afterwards.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Priscilla. ‘No one would want to be seen near the scene.’

They searched further without finding anything else.

‘I’d like a look at Effie’s cottage,’ said Hamish. ‘Just to see if she had a corkscrew.’

‘Won’t it be locked up?’

‘There are ways of getting in. Come on.’

Effie’s cottage turned out to be locked. ‘It’s just a simple Yale lock,’ said Hamish. He took out a thin piece of steel from one of his many pockets and
popped the lock.

‘What if the sister’s here?’ hissed Priscilla.

‘I don’t think she’s come to Lochdubh yet. Probably making arrangements for the burial.’

Hamish started to look through the kitchen drawers. ‘Here we are!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Not one but two corkscrews.’

‘So maybe she had three,’ said Priscilla. ‘I think we should go.’

They walked outside, pulling the door behind them so that the lock clicked.

‘Any sign of Betty Barnard coming back?’ asked Hamish.

‘I think she’s due back tomorrow.’

Hamish visibly brightened. Why could he not leave things alone and accept the procurator fiscal’s verdict of suicide? Then perhaps he could have a few more days spent in Betty’s
company, driving around the Highlands.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that I’m being over-zealous. Maybe I’d chust better get on with things.’

Priscilla eyed Hamish narrowly. She knew that his accent became more sibilant when he was angry or excited about something.

Hamish dropped Priscilla back at the hotel. Then he drove to the police station. He had not checked the morning’s mail. He threw the usual junk into the waste bin and
then found one from the bank in Braikie. He opened it up. There was a letter from the manager congratulating him on his bravery and a reward cheque for ten thousand pounds. Hamish stared at it in
delight. He would send half the money to his family in Rogart. And with the other half? He had a holiday coming up. He could travel! He could go to New York and visit his cousin in Brooklyn.

To hell with Effie. It had surely been suicide.

There was a tentative knock at the front door. Hamish frowned. The locals always came to the kitchen door. He went through to the front and wrenched the little-used door open.

He stifled a gasp of surprise. A thick sea mist had rolled in, and for one moment, he thought he was looking at the ghost of Effie Garrard. Then the figure addressed him in an all-too-human
voice: ‘Police Constable Macbeth? I am Caro Garrard, Effie’s sister.’

‘Come ben,’ said Hamish. ‘We’ll go into the kitchen. I’ve got the stove on. The mist makes things awfy cold and damp.’

He shut the door behind her and then led the way to the kitchen. Lugs and Sonsie, who had been well fed, both raised their heads and stared at her and then went back to sleep.

‘Sit down,’ said Hamish. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I don’t believe my sister committed suicide. The pathologist said to me that if I had any doubts about her death, perhaps I should talk to you. The police in Strathbane won’t
listen to me.’

Hamish sat down opposite her. He could feel his dream of visiting New York disappearing.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I did not know Effie had been passing my work off as her own. She had a nervous breakdown last year over some man. She’s always wanted to live in the Highlands. We were brought up
in Oban. I said I would help her buy a little place. She then said she could sell some of my work and take a small commission to keep her going. I agreed. Things seemed to be going very well, and
then she phoned me to say she was going to marry some artist called Jock Fleming.

‘I was a bit nervous because before her breakdown, she had been up in court accused of stalking some businessman in Brighton. But she sounded so happy and confident. Then she phoned me to
say he had jilted her. She was crying hard. I said I would get up to see her as soon as I could.

‘But then she phoned me later that night. She sounded elated. She said that she had found a bottle of wine outside her door with a note from Jock asking her to meet him up at
Geordie’s Cleft. He said he really loved her.

‘I tried to tell her that someone was playing a nasty trick on her. A man doesn’t jilt a woman and then a few hours later tell her he loves her. But she wouldn’t
listen.’

‘Did you tell the police at headquarters about this?’

‘They said Effie was mad. All she did was lie. They said her brain had turned and she went up there to commit suicide.’

‘Have you spoken to Jock Fleming?’

‘Yes, earlier today. He was very distressed. He said he’d never proposed marriage to her. He said that she was chasing after him. Remembering Effie’s behaviour in Brighton, I
felt I had to believe him.’

She clasped her hands in front of her. ‘I’m going to stay at Effie’s cottage for a bit. Can you help me?’

O lost New York, swirling away in a grey mist like the mist outside, to be gone forever. Then Hamish brightened. Of course, all he had to do was delay his holiday leave.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said. ‘But I’m short of suspects. Jock’s ex-wife is here. I’ll get to know her a bit better.’

In the kitchen light, he noticed differences between Caro and her sister. Caro’s hair was styled in a smooth bob, and she was wearing light make-up.

‘Are you really sure,’ Hamish went on, ‘that you did not know that your sister was passing off your work as her own?’

‘She wouldn’t do that!’

‘I assure you she did.’

‘I would have been really furious with her if I had known that. I haven’t been to the cottage yet. The police gave me the keys. I really thought she might have started painting a bit
on her own. Hal Addenfest told me she had some stuff in the hotel gift shop.’