Death of a Dreamer (8 page)

‘Who is Hal Addenfest?’

‘Some American tourist. I believe he took Effie out for a meal a couple of times.’

Hamish began to wonder seriously why no one in the village was gossiping to him any more.

He told Caro he would keep in touch with her. After she had left, he phoned Priscilla. ‘What’s this about some American called Hal Addenfest dating Effie?’

‘Oh, him. The locals call him the Ugly American. He’s like an old-fashioned stereotype, bragging and thinking anyone outside the States is determined to cheat him.’

‘Priscilla, I didn’t know until today of his existence. Why is no one telling me anything any more?’

‘It started one day when Angela was wearing a brief pair of shorts. The Currie sisters called on you to tell you that you should do something about it. You told them you were sick of
gossip and sent them off. They told everyone in the village not to gossip to you because it was making you furious.’

‘I’ve just seen Effie’s sister. She said Effie phoned her the night she was murdered saying she had a note from Jock asking her to meet him at Geordie’s Cleft. It was
left with that bottle of wine.’

‘So why aren’t the police all over the place investigating a murder?’

‘Because they – probably Blair – insist that Effie was mad and never told the truth. I’ll need to investigate it on my own. I’ll be up at the hotel
tomorrow.’

Hal Addenfest went out for his usual constitutional walk the following morning, taking in great lungfuls of clear air. He was a retired businessman who had been chairman of a
company. Because of the power of his situation, he had never known just how unpopular he was. When he retired, his wife left him, declaring she couldn’t stand having him around all day.

He had fought the divorce case savagely, hiring the best lawyers, so that his wife ended up with very little. He was a little man, just under five feet tall, with a leathery face and small,
suspicious eyes. But deep down in him was a romantic streak.
An American in Paris
had been one of the favourite films of his youth. So he had first relocated to Paris. He found the French
standoffish and cold, particularly when he frequently snarled at them, ‘We pulled your chestnuts out of the fire in World War II.’

His other favourite film had been
Brigadoon.
He turned his calculating eyes to the Scottish Highlands.

He found the hotel beautiful and the food excellent, but the locals baffled him, quite unaware that he baffled them. The village was occasionally visited by American tourists, courteous and
polite. Hal was a type they had not met before.

Two days after his arrival, he had said to the hotel manager, Mr Johnson, ‘How do I get to meet the highlanders?’

Surprised, the manager said, ‘They’re all around you.’

‘But,’ Hal protested, ‘where is this famous highland hospitality? They should be inviting me into their cottages for whisky and those things – bannocks.’

‘You’ll need to make friends here, just as you made friends in the States,’ Mr Johnson said.

But Hal had not made friends in the States. All his life he had been too busy clawing his small way up the corporate ladder. Once on top, he had been surrounded by enough sycophants to give him
an illusion of popularity.

He was returning to the hotel when he noticed the tall figure of a policeman standing outside.

He went to walk past but found himself being hailed.

‘Mr Addenfest?’

‘Yes?’

‘I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth. I’d like a wee word with you.’

‘What about?’

‘Effie Garrard. Do you mind if we go inside?’

They went into the hotel lounge. ‘So what do you want to know?’ demanded Hal.

‘I believe you took her out a couple of times.’

‘So?’

They were interrupted by a maid placing a tray with coffee and biscuits in front of them.

‘What’s this?’ demanded Hal angrily. ‘I didn’t order anything.’

‘It’s on the house,’ said the maid. ‘Mr Johnson knows Hamish likes his coffee.’

‘I hope she doesn’t expect a tip,’ grumbled Hal when the maid went off and stood by the door. ‘Yeah, Effie Garrard. I saw her stuff in the gift shop. It’s good. I
met her there, and we got talking. I took her out a couple of times. Expensive restaurants. Cost me nearly . . . Wait a bit.’ He took a small leather-bound notebook from his jacket
pocket.

‘Never mind,’ interrupted Hamish. ‘I want to know about Effie herself. Coffee?’

‘Sure they aren’t going to charge me for it?’

‘No!’

‘Keep your shirt on. Yes, Effie. Well, she was good company. She’s had a very colourful life. She and her sister were brought up in an orphanage in Perth. Caro was adopted first, but
they didn’t want Effie. She was finally adopted by a family in Inverness. She said the woman beat her and the husband sexually abused her.’

‘What was the name of the people who adopted Effie?’

He took out his notebook again.

‘Man, ye surely didn’t sit taking notes while she was talking!’ exclaimed Hamish.

‘Afterwards. I’m going to write a book.’

‘We had an author over at Cnothan,’ said Hamish. ‘Someone murdered him.’

‘Here we are!’ said Hal, ignoring Hamish’s last remark. ‘Cullen, that was the name. George and Martha Cullen.’

‘And where in Inverness did they live?’

‘Somewhere out on the Bewley Road.’

‘Did she give you the name of the orphanage?’

‘Sorry.’

‘So what else did she say?’

‘If what I tell you leads to the capture of someone, will I get a reward?’

‘No.’

Hal closed the notebook again. ‘Well, that’s all, folks. You are wasting my valuable time. I’ve nothing more to say to you.’

‘What if I arrest you for impeding a police investigation?’

Hal grinned. ‘And what if I tell you what I know? The police have decided it’s suicide. Case closed. So unless I hear differently, I’ll keep any information about Effie I have
to myself. You wanna know any more? Tell your bosses to phone me.’

Hal got to his feet and, picking up the plate of biscuits, headed off for the stairs.

Priscilla came and sat down opposite Hamish. ‘How did you get on?’

‘Horrible wee man.’

‘He’s a one-off. We’ve got an American family staying here, and they run when they see him.’

Hamish eyed her speculatively. ‘Hal wrote down everything Effie told him in a notebook. She told him she was brought up in an orphanage in Perth and subsequently adopted by a couple in
Inverness who abused her. You couldn’t charm some more information out of him?’

‘I’ll think about it.’

Hamish returned to the police station. He found a George Cullen at an address in Sutherland Terrace which he remembered being off the Bewley Road. He phoned. When a man
answered, Hamish introduced himself and asked, ‘Mr George Cullen?’

‘Aye, that’s me.’

‘Did you adopt an Effie Garrard a long time ago?’

‘We fostered her for a bit.’

‘May I come and talk to you?’

‘Aye, any time. I’m long retired. Sad thing about her death.’

‘I’ll leave now,’ said Hamish, ‘and be with you in just under an hour.’

The Cullens’ house was a small, granite Victorian villa. Hamish rang the bell, and an old stooped man answered the door.

‘Mr Cullen?’

‘That’s me. Come ben.’

The living room into which Mr Cullen ushered Hamish was dark and cold and strangely barren. No pictures, photographs, or books. A square table with upright chairs stood by the window. There was
an armchair next to the two-bar electric fire. The carpet was old and faded.

‘Sit down,’ said Mr Cullen, indicating a chair at the table. He saw Hamish looking around and said, ‘The wife died last year. I got rid of nearly everything. All those things
did were to remind me of her, and I was tired of grieving. How can I help you?’

‘You fostered Effie Garrard?’

‘Yes, that’s right. She was twelve at the time. We couldn’t cope. We had to get rid of her after a year.’

‘Why was that?’

‘She was a congenital liar. She walked into a police station and said my wife was beating her and I was sexually abusing her. Oh, the scandal. Thank God it didn’t get into the
papers. The police medical examiner found she was still a virgin and hadn’t a mark on her. We couldn’t bear to have her in the house after that.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

‘No, and I didn’t want to know.’

‘What was the name of the orphanage you got her from?’

‘It wasn’t an orphanage. We got her through the social services.’

‘Did you think Effie had mental troubles?’

‘To be frank, I’m surprised she killed herself. I always thought
she
would kill someone.’

‘Why?’

‘At the beginning, my wife doted on Effie. She wasn’t a pretty child, but seemed cute and clever. Then my wife began to get vomiting attacks. One day I thought I saw Effie put
something in my wife’s tea. I told her and said she wasn’t to eat or drink anything that Effie had been near. She protested but did as I said, and the attacks stopped. Then there was
the sexual abuse business. That was enough.’

‘What about her real parents?’

‘I remember being told the mother was dead and the father was an abusive drunk, which is why the girls had been taken away from him.’

Hamish thanked him and left. He decided it would be a good idea to visit Caro, but when he arrived at the police station, it was to find Archie Macleod, the fisherman, waiting for him.

‘What brings you?’ asked Hamish. ‘Just a chat?’

‘No. Now, I know it’s been going around that you don’t like gossip . . .’

‘I’ve just learned the Currie sisters have been warning everyone off. For heaven’s sake, tell everyone I’m interested in every bit of gossip. I couldnae do my job
otherwise. Come in and sit down and tell me what you know.’

Archie went into the kitchen, patted Lugs, eyed Sonsie warily, and sat down. ‘I heard tell you’re interested in a wee bit o’ gossip now. It’s like this. Henry, the
gamekeeper, was up on the hill the evening Effie we suppose disappeared. He had his binoculars to his eyes, scanning for poachers. He saw Jock going into Effie’s cottage. A few minutes later,
he came out. You know how sound carries up on the moors. He couldn’t hear the words, but Jock was shouting and he looked to be in a right rage.

‘Then half an hour later, that wee blonde woman that was married to Jock turned up. Henry was curious because we all knew about Effie making up all that stuff about her engagement and
pregnancy. Mrs Fleming wasn’t allowed in, but she stood on the doorstep until Effie slammed the door in her face. Henry was real interested in the show, so he kept his glasses on the cottage.
He was just losing interest when he saw another wee woman drive up. At first, he thought he was seeing things because she looked a good bit like Effie. Well, that woman didn’t reappear after
Effie let her in, so Henry got bored and went back to work.’

‘Thanks, Archie. I’d better see the sister and the ex-wife again. I mean, for one thing, the sister was supposed to have arrived
after
Effie’s death. Surely it
couldn’t have been her. The police contacted her in Brighton.’

After Archie had left, Hamish phoned Jimmy Anderson on his mobile. ‘Jimmy,’ said Hamish, ‘could you do me a favour and find out if the police contacted Caro
Garrard, Effie’s sister, or if she got in touch with them?’

‘Trying to turn a suicide into a murder?’

‘Just checking everything. Where are you?’

‘Walking into police headquarters. I’ll call you back.’

After a quarter of an hour, Jimmy phoned. ‘Caro Garrard phoned the police at Strathbane and said she was Effie’s sister. That was after the death appeared in the newspapers. She said
she was in Brighton and would be travelling up.’

Hamish thanked him and then walked out of the police station and along to the school-house, where Matthew Campbell, the reporter, lived with his wife, Freda.

Matthew and Freda gave him a warm welcome. ‘It’s a duty call,’ said Hamish. ‘Did the story about Effie Garrard’s death get into the nationals?’

‘No,’ said Matthew. ‘Well, there was a bit in the Glasgow editions, but nothing got south. Why?’

‘Can’t tell you at the moment, but I think I’m on to something.’

‘If it’s a good story, don’t keep me in the dark, Hamish.’

‘You’ll be the first to know.’

Hamish drove up to Effie’s cottage, his brain in a turmoil. Jock had given the impression that he and Effie had parted amicably. And the sister, Caro? She could easily
have phoned from somewhere near Lochdubh after visiting Effie and pretended she was still in Brighton. But if she were guilty of anything, why would she have pressed him to find out if her sister
had been murdered?

She answered the door to him. The room looked more welcoming in the glow of several oil lamps than when he had last visited it.

Hamish was momentarily diverted. ‘Where did you get the lamps?’ he asked. ‘I thought they were hard to come by now.’

‘I got them at an auction in Inverness. They didn’t cost much.’

‘You were lucky. When electricity came to the Highlands, the Hydro Electric Board led people to believe that electricity was going to be cheap. So they got rid of all the old oil lamps,
and now collectors are looking for them. Isn’t the electricity working?’

‘It’s supplied here by a generator. I like the light from oil lamps.’

She probably had antifreeze for the generator, thought Hamish. He removed his peaked cap, sat down at the table, and ran his long fingers through his fiery red hair. ‘I have a
problem,’ he said.

Caro sat down next to him. She was wearing a long Indian gown of crushed velvet decorated with little pieces of sparkling mirror. Her perfume smelled like sandalwood.

‘What problem?’

‘You were seen the evening afore Effie disappeared calling here at the cottage. Henry, the gamekeeper, was up on the hill scanning the area with a pair of binoculars looking for poachers,
and he saw you arrive.’

She bent her head. ‘I didn’t like to tell you.’

‘Why? If you want me to find out whether your sister was killed or not, I need every bit of information I can get. Now, let’s have the truth.’