Death of a Village (9 page)

The weather was not perfect. There had been two days of rain. But by the end of the week, the sun shone again. Purple heather blazed on the flanks of the two mountains above Lochdubh. Not a
ripple disturbed the glassy water of the sea loch. It was hard to even think of violence as Hamish lounged in his deck chair in the front garden under the blue lamp with Lugs lying on his back at
his feet, his paws in the air.

His peace was disturbed by Jimmy Anderson, who had come looking for the remains of that bottle of whisky. Hamish collected another deck chair, the bottle and glasses, and Jimmy sat down with a
sigh of pleasure.

‘How are things at Stoyre?’ asked Hamish.

Jimmy held up his glass, admiring the colour of the whisky in the sunlight, before taking a hearty swig of it. ‘Nothing,’ said Jimmy laconically. ‘Same old business.
Tight-lipped locals. The powers-that-be are pretty sure it was one o’ them.’

‘I wonder why. I mean a fertilizer bomb probably takes a bit of knowledge of chemistry.’

‘The fact is they don’t think all that much was used. Bit of newspaper, bit of fertilizer, fuel and cotton, light it, chuck it inside, and run like hell. Leave the major’s
Calor gas tanks to do the rest.’

‘Still, it takes some knowledge.’

‘Anyone could get the instructions how to make it off the Internet.’

‘I wouldnae think anyone in Stoyre had a computer!’

‘Anyone could go to the cyber café in Strathbane.’

Hamish eyed the detective shrewdly. ‘But they checked with the café and couldn’t find anyone who had been accessing the information.’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’m thinking of taking a bit of a holiday and going and staying there,’ said Hamish.

‘Waste of time off, if you ask me. Does Blair know about this?’

‘No! And don’t breathe a word.’

‘I won’t.’

‘So nothing’s happening in Stoyre?’

‘All quiet. They had a Burns reading o’ Tam o’ Shanter at the kirk there last night.’

‘Exciting stuff.’

‘Read by some woman with a reedy voice. What’s tippenny?’

‘Oh, the stuff that makes you fear no evil. Twopenny ale.’

‘And usquebae?’

‘Whisky The water of life. Don’t tell me you didn’t know?’

‘Never could get my tongue around the Gaelic. That bomb was probably some nasty bit of anti-Englishness. Blair suggested as much to the major and then had to back-pedal, as the good major
was threatening to take the whole village to the Race Relations Board.’

‘You know, there probably was never a people like the Scots to know so little about their own history. Do you know where the Scots came from, Jimmy?’

‘I thought they were always here.’

‘They came from Northern Ireland and proceeded to wipe out the Celts and the Picts in one of the biggest acts o’ genocide in history. The trouble’s always caused by the
Low-landers, not us. They live in a Gaelic twilight with tartan fringes. Anyway, to get back to Stoyre, what’s the mood like? Are the folks scared?’

‘No. There’s an odd atmosphere there. A sort of suppressed excitement, like kids before Christmas.’

‘That’s verra interesting. I can’t wait to get there now. But I’ll keep clear until the authorities have gone.’

‘Shouldn’t be long now. If it had been a big professional bomb, they’d have been there for a long time. But everything now points to the locals.’

The garden gate creaked and Elspeth walked in. She was wearing a near-transparent Indian blouse covered in what looked like little bits of mirror. Her shorts were very short, showing strong
tanned legs ending in her usual clumpy boots.

‘What about having that dinner this evening?’ she asked Hamish.

‘All right. I’ll see you at the Italian’s at eight.’

Elspeth smiled at Jimmy. ‘See you there, Hamish,’ she said.

‘Man,’ breathed Jimmy when she had left. ‘You are one lucky man. What a smasher!’

‘Elspeth? She’s just the local reporter.’

‘I know. I’ve met her before, remember? I didn’t know she was keen on you.’

‘We are chust friends,’ said Hamish stiffly.

‘Wish I had a friend like that,’ leered Jimmy.

‘She does wear weird clothes.’

‘Move with the times. You’re getting old-fashioned, Hamish.’

Hamish found Elspeth waiting for him when he arrived at the restaurant that evening. She was wearing a brightly coloured jacket made of diamond-cut pieces of coloured velvet
over a faded black T-shirt and a long black chiffon skirt. And the boots.

He had a sudden picture of Priscilla sitting there, impeccably dressed and without a hair out of place, and felt a dark sadness. Elspeth’s hair was no longer aubergine but it stood out all
over her head as if she had stuck her finger in an electric socket. He noticed as he sat down that her fingernails were painted black.

Hamish had made a promise to himself never to refer to any part of Elspeth’s appearance again – after all, how she looked or what she wore was none of his business – but he
found himself saying sharply, ‘What have you done wi’ your nails? They make your hands look as if you’d shut them in a car door.’

‘Sit down, shut up, and choose something to eat,’ said Elspeth amiably. ‘I’m starving.’

Willie Lamont, the waiter, who had been a policeman until he married a relative of the restaurant owner, came up to take their order. ‘What’ll it be, Hamish?’ he asked.

‘Why don’t you ask the lady first what she wants?’ chided Hamish.

‘Right. Michty me, lassie, your nails are black.’

‘And michty me, the service in here is rotten. Do you usually make personal remarks to your customers?’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Willie. ‘What’s it to be?’

‘Caesar salad first and then lasagne.’

‘I’ll have a mixed salad and then the penne wi’ the basil sauce. And bring us a bottle of the house wine,’ said Hamish.

Willie wrote down their order and then lingered, moving from foot to foot.

‘What?’ demanded Hamish.

‘Funny business ower at Stoyre,’ said Willie.

‘Know anything about it?’

‘No, but I’m keeping my ear to the ground.’

‘Grand. Now, how’s about getting us the food?’

‘Lucia wonders when you’re coming to see wee Hamish, your godchild.’

‘Tell her I’ll be along soon.’

‘He’s taking his first steps and you havenae been there to see it.’

‘Willie! Food!’

Elspeth watched Willie retreat to the kitchen with their orders. ‘What does Lucia see in him?’ she asked.

‘He cleans. He’s mad about cleaning. He does all the housework. That’s why Lucia adores him.’

‘So what’s been happening about Stoyre?’ asked Elspeth. ‘I’ve just been over there.’

‘You’ll know more about it than I do. Find out anything?’

‘No, but something bad’s going on.’

‘How?’

‘I sense it.’

‘I’m going to do something more practical about finding out,’ said Hamish. He told her about his planned holiday there.

‘I’ve some leave owing,’ said Elspeth. ‘I could come with you.’

‘And where would you stay?’

‘Wherever you’re staying, of course.’

‘That would antagonize that God-fearing community no end. They would say we were living in sin.’

‘Well, I’ll drop over and see you.’

Hamish began to feel hunted. ‘Chust leave me be to get on wi’ my investigation,’ he said quietly.

Elspeth turned a little pink and looked relieved when Willie arrived with the wine.

‘So what’s been going on in Lochdubh that I don’t know about?’ asked Hamish to break the awkward silence which had followed his last remark.

‘Maybe there’s something you could do to help,’ said Elspeth. ‘Do you know old Mrs Docherty?’

‘Of course. I havenae seen her for a while.’

‘She’s all alone. She needs professional care. She’s rambling in her mind and should really be in a nursing home.’

‘Has she any relatives?’

‘Just a daughter down in Glasgow. Mrs Wellington has written to her several times but she never replies.’

‘What nursing home could she go into?’

‘There’s a new one just outside Braikie.’

‘I’d forgotten about that one. It’s called The Pines.’

‘Maybe you could call on her and persuade her to go there. Mind you, it would mean selling her cottage.’

They talked together amicably and Hamish had to admit to himself afterwards that he had enjoyed the evening.

Hamish called on Mrs Docherty the following day. The front door was standing open so he put his head round it and called, ‘Mrs Docherty! It’s me, Hamish.’

‘Come in,’ called a surprisingly strong voice.

He walked into a small cluttered parlour. Mrs Docherty looked as hale and hearty as the last time he had seen her. Her grey hair was thick and her large figure was not stooped. Her face was
criss-crossed with a multitude of wrinkles and her faded grey eyes were alert.

‘Sit down, Hamish,’ she said. ‘You can make us a cup of tea after you explain why you’ve called.’

‘It’s a social visit,’ said Hamish awkwardly.

Her intelligent eyes surveyed him with amusement.

‘Och, I heard you were getting senile,’ Hamish blurted out, and then turned dark red with embarrassment.

She laughed. ‘Don’t look so upset. Most people weary me. I have my books and my computer to keep me amused. So when people I don’t like call round, I mumble and drool. Maybe
I’d better stop it or they’ll be dragging me off to some nursing home.’

‘I hear there’s a new one outside Braikie.’

‘Not all that new. It’s been there for a year. I wouldn’t go there even if I was on my last legs.’

‘Why?’

‘I think they kill people,’ she sad.

‘Och, come on. I’d have heard about it.’

‘I had a good friend over in Braikie,’ she said. ‘Maisie Freeman. She got very frail and her family persuaded her to go into The Pines. It’s a private nursing home, but
if you sign over your house to them, they promise the best care and medical attention until the day you die. She only had her married daughter to look after her, Aileen, and Aileen is a selfish
cow. Her husband’s pretty well off so the loss of Maisie’s house when she did die wasn’t going to bother them. They just wanted rid of Maisie. She was, like I said, a bit frail
but she had all her faculties. I visited her. I didn’t like the staff much, very creepy and smarmy. Anyway, Maisie lasted only four weeks.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She fell down a flight of steps and broke her neck. Now, the rooms are all on the ground floor and the offices upstairs. She had no reason to go upstairs.’

‘Maybe she wanted to complain to the manager.’

‘Then she would have sent for him. She had rheumatoid arthritis. She’d no more have tackled those stairs than she would have thought of climbing Everest.’

‘What did the nursing home say?’

‘They said Maisie’s mind had gone and she must have wandered upstairs not knowing where she was and lost her footing. I visited her two days before her death and she was as bright as
a button. But you know how it is. People think the very old are a waste of space anyway. You know what I think will happen in the future? I think they’ll find a way to extend life for a very
long time and keep people young-looking. The criminal element amongst the young will hate all these oldies hanging on to jobs and taking up space on the planet. Someone will start issuing dates of
birth on the Internet and they’ll start bumping all the oldies off.’

‘I tell you what,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll go over there and have a talk to them.’

‘I don’t see how you can find anything out. I’ve a good bit of money put by. People don’t know that. I’m tempted to check myself in there and see what
happens.’

‘If what you think is true, it could be dangerous.’

‘Not if I pretend to be senile. I mean not all the time, because I’d need to look as if I had my wits about me some days to check in.’

‘It would mean signing your cottage over to them.’

‘It would be a risk and a bit of excitement for me.’

‘Hold on,’ said Hamish. ‘I mean houses in the Highlands don’t command that much money on the market. If patients started dropping like flies soon after they were
admitted, there’d be an inquiry.’

‘I think they’d be clever about it. I mean it’s only old people on their last legs who go into nursing homes.’

‘I’ll go over there anyway and look around. I’ll say it’s a private visit. I’ve got an elderly relative who might be interested.’

‘You could get that reporter lassie to check the obituaries of people in Braikie who died within the last year,’ she said.

‘Let me have a look around first.’

‘Very well. Go and make the tea.’

Hamish called in at the newspaper office after he had left Mrs Docherty’s. Elspeth had a pencil stuck through her hair and was scowling at her computer. ‘I’m
wasted here,’ she said when she saw Hamish. ‘How can I put a bit of drama into the latest Mothers’ Union meeting?’

‘Why don’t you apply for a job on one of the Glasgow papers?’

‘I’ll think about it. Why are you here?’

‘I want a favour. Could you check up your obituary files and give me the names of old people who died in The Pines during the last year?’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t you chust do it, lassie?’

‘I’m a reporter, remember? What’s happening? Someone going in for euthanasia?’

‘Could be. It’s an idea of Mrs Docherty’s.’

‘I thought she was gaga.’

‘It’s an act, but don’t tell anyone. She uses it to get rid of people who bore her.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Elspeth crossly. ‘She pulled that one on me. I went to do a piece on Lochdubh in the old days and she just stared at me vacantly.’

‘Some people don’t like reporters.’

‘Okay, I’ll do it if you promise to let me know if there’s a story.’

Hamish drove over to Braikie that afternoon. The Pines was situated far back from the road at the end of a long drive. Hamish now remembered reading a year ago about it being
built. The pine forest from which it took its name stretched all around him. Sunlight flickered down through the trees as he drove steadily towards the house. At last it came into view, a long
two-storey building. He parked in front of it and entered the main door. A dark-skinned male nurse came forward to meet him. Hamish tried to guess his nationality. Indian? Pakistani?