Death of Yesterday (14 page)

It was agreed to interview Sean in the morning after they had both got a few hours’ sleep.

Hamish took a bed in the sickroom and fell immediately asleep without bothering to undress.

He was awakened roughly in the morning by Jimmy. “Get up, man. The wee bugger’s topped himself.”

“He can’t have!” exclaimed Hamish, struggling awake. “Didn’t the custody sergeant take away his belt and shoelaces?”

“Aye, but he didnae take away what Sean said were his high blood pressure pills. They were in the right sort of box wi’ the
pharmacist’s label and all. Some sort of lethal drug. Won’t know till the autopsy. Daviot’s in and wants to see us.”

“Sir,” said Hamish, after they had given their report to Daviot, “we’ll need a search warrant for Gilchrist’s house. And he
should be brought in for questioning immediately.”

“I cannot see what a respectable man like Harry Gilchrist has got to do with any of this,” said Daviot.

“Sean was working for him,” said Jimmy patiently. “He had that box full of money. Okay, suppose Gilchrist is innocent. We
still need to ask him all he knows about Sean.”

“We need to use tact here. I’ll send Mr. Blair.”

“But, sir…,” began Jimmy.

“No, those are my orders. Macbeth, I suggest you get a shave. And there are bits of bush sticking to your sweater.”

“That’s blown it,” said Hamish as he wearily took his leave of Jimmy after typing out a long report of the arrest of Sean
Carmichael. “Blair crawls to folk like Gilchrist. He’ll toddle back to Daviot with a report that the man is as pure as the
snow on the top o’ Ben Nevis.”

Hamish drove wearily back to the police station. He was welcomed at the kitchen door by Dick. “Where were you?” asked Dick.
“You might have phoned. I was worried about you.”

“Get out of my way,” said Hamish crossly. “We’re not married.”

But as he slumped down at the kitchen table, he mumbled thanks as Dick put a cup of his excellent coffee in front of him.
Hamish roused himself to tell Dick what had been happening.

“They should ha’ got that search warrant,” said Dick. “Mark my words, Gilchrist will make a run for it.”

“So you think he’s guilty?”

“Of course,” said Dick, leaning one fat hip against the kitchen counter. “Iffy stuff about the wife, his creature Sean kills
himself, he’s bound to be behind it all.”

“Damn Daviot and his cronies,” said Hamish. “It seems that all a murderer needs is a veneer of respectability and a membership
of the Strathbane Lodge to be thought innocent.”

The phone in the office rang. Hamish went to answer it. Jimmy’s agitated voice came down the line. “No one can find Gilchrist.
He hasn’t been at work today. Daviot’s cracked and is getting a search warrant.”

“I’m coming over right away,” said Hamish. He went back to the kitchen. “Get your uniform on, Dick. We’re getting a search
warrant for Gilchrist’s home.”

Nessie and Jessie Currie turned on the waterfront to watch the police Land Rover racing off out of the village.

“Our lazy policeman seems to be working at last,” said Nessie, and then, ignoring the echoing voice of her sister, she said
uneasily, “I shouldnae have reported that business about him spending the night wi’ Hannah Fleming to his bosses. He hasnae
spoken to me since.”

“It was a spiteful thing to do,” said her twin. “I always thought so.”

“You didnae say anything at the time.”

And, quarrelling, they made their way to Patel’s grocery store.

“Where’s Blair?” asked Hamish when they arrived at Gilchrist’s villa.

“After he phoned Daviot with the bad news, he went to the Loaming for a refresher, tripped on the doorstep, came down like
a ton o’ bricks.”

“Some good news anyway,” said Hamish heartlessly.

An unmarked car drove up and Daviot climbed out. “I have the search warrant,” he said.

“Right,” said Jimmy. He shouted to three policemen standing by the door of the villa, “Go ahead.”

One policeman took out his truncheon and smashed the stained-glass panel on the front door, reached inside, and unlocked it.

“Come on, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “Let’s see if the bastard is inside.”

“Perhaps the forensic team should go in first,” said Daviot.

“We’ll let them in if he’s not there,” said Jimmy.

Hamish and Jimmy drew on latex gloves and entered the shadowy hall, picking their way gingerly over broken shards of glass.
Jimmy pushed open a door off the hall. “This is his office,” he said. “I’ll go through the papers while you and the men make
sure he’s not at home.”

While police fanned out through the house, Hamish stood in the hall looking around.

“I wonder if this place has a basement,” he murmured.

At the back of the hall, he found a stout wooden door, heavily padlocked.

He went outside. Dick was sitting in a canvas chair on the drive with the dog and cat at his feet.

“Get me bolt cutters,” shouted Hamish.

When Dick had produced the bolt cutters from the back of the Land Rover, Hamish went back into the house and cut the padlock
on the basement door.

He found a light switch and turned it on. Steep stone steps led downwards.

There was nothing in the basement but one large cabin trunk. Hamish smashed the lock with the bolt cutters and swung back
the lid. It was full of women’s clothes, shoes, and underwear. He carefully searched through the contents.

Then he turned and looked around. The floor was flat, even cement. The walls were brick. But one wall over on the right had
new bricks in it.

Hamish took out a stout clasp knife and scraped away at the plaster around one of the bricks. It had been an amateur job of
bricklaying, for the brick came out easily. He prised out another and another until he had made a square hole. A ghastly sweetish
smell was emanating from the hole. He unclipped a flashlight from his belt and shone it into the aperture. A horrible decomposing
face stared back at him.

Hamish backed away.

He sprinted up the stairs and told Jimmy what he had found. Jimmy followed him down the stairs.

“If I’m not mistaken,” said Hamish, “that will turn out to be Brenda Gilchrist with her own sister masquerading as her somewhere
abroad.”

Daviot looked appalled at the news. He sent in the forensic team and then said he would hurry back to headquarters to coordinate
a search for the missing Gilchrist and contact Interpol to pick up anyone using Brenda Gilchrist’s passport.

“What now?” asked Dick.

“We wait and see what more the forensic team comes up with,” said Jimmy.

Dick heaved himself out of his chair. “It’s a good thing I’m prepared,” he said. He heaved a large picnic basket out of the
Land Rover. “Something I made earlier,” he said with a grin.

Under Jimmy’s bemused stare, Dick took out flasks of coffee and wrapped packets of sandwiches.

“That’s a right good wife you’ve got there,” said Jimmy.

“Shut up,” said Hamish.

“It’s shut up,
sir
. Know your place,” said Jimmy.

Hamish had that longing again to get his police station back to himself. There should be a woman looking after him, some pretty
woman, some wife instead of a middle-aged policeman.

“These are grand sandwiches,” said Jimmy. “Got anything to drink?”

“You’ve got coffee,” said Dick.

“I mean a proper drink.”

Dick fished in the depths of the basket and produced a bottle of beer.

“Man, you’re the best,” said Jimmy. “Hamish, you are one lucky man. He’s even got your terrifying beasties behaving themselves.”

Who will rid me of this domesticated copper? wondered Hamish.

Outside the entrance to the drive and kept at bay by two policemen were the press. It seemed their numbers were growing in
size every moment.

“How do they find out so quickly?” marvelled Jimmy.

“Easy,” said Hamish. “An all-points bulletin about Gilchrist has probably already been on the radio and flashed on all the
television channels.”

“The man must be mad,” said Jimmy.

“It’s loss of respectability,” said Hamish. “He’s a pillar of the community. Morag probably told him the baby was his. He
may have paid Sean to get rid of her.”

“But why drug her that time instead of bumping her off?”

“He may have been keeping his wife drugged. Maybe she staggered out and looked in the window of the pub. That was when Morag
might have sketched her. Then Morag goes around saying she’s going to a hypnotist and that’s when Gilchrist took action. Then
it all snowballed. He must have been romancing the sister and they both wanted Brenda’s money.”

“But he couldnae have gone on and on pretending his wife was abroad,” protested Jimmy.

“They’d have thought of something. Maybe the fake Brenda could file for divorce claiming to be the guilty party. She settles
a sum of money on Gilchrist, waits a bit, he sells the now profitable factory, and the pair of them go off hand in hand into
the sunset of some foreign beach. I think she’s the mover and shaker behind all this.”

“But why would Sean commit suicide? It’s not as if we have the death penalty.”

“What if…just what if…Sean really had high blood pressure? What if poison was substituted for his regular pills? Think about
it. He’s under strain after his arrest. So he takes a couple of what he thinks are high blood pressure pills and gets poisoned.”

“Well, we’ll know when the results of the autopsy come through,” said Jimmy. “In the meantime, Hamish, why don’t you and Dick
go and see the doctor in Cnothan.” He consulted his notes. “The pills were prescribed by a Dr. Stanley. The surgery is in
the High Street.”

Dr. Stanley confirmed that he had prescribed high blood pressure pills for Sean. Hamish and Dick returned to give Jimmy the
news.

“Now all we have to do is wait and see if Gilchrist can be found,” said Jimmy. He suddenly wanted rid of Hamish before Daviot
came back. Blair was getting increasingly accident-prone. Jimmy coveted his job. He didn’t want Hamish around stealing his
thunder.

“You and Dick had better just go back to Lochdubh,” he said. “I’ll keep you informed.”

“But…”

“That’s an order,” said Jimmy.

Hamish sat in the police station office. He leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head. Where would Gilchrist run
to?

And that barman, Stolly, should be brought in for questioning. He was hovering near their table in the pub when they were
talking about going to see Sean.

If Gilchrist was tipped off through Stolly, he might go straight to Sean and somehow manage to substitute the poison—if it
should turn out to be poison—for the blood pressure pills.

He frowned. He was sure that the woman he’d met in Tallinn was Heather, and she had been a forceful character. Maybe the mover
and shaker. Maybe Sean was paid to do the murders so that Gilchrist would always have the perfect alibi.

He was sure Gilchrist was panicked into it all by the thought of losing his position in the community.

Mairie Torrich had tried to kill herself because she thought she had lost her good name.

What if Gilchrist had fled somewhere to put an end to himself? Where would he go? All the hotels would be checked. Would he
go abroad for a last farewell to Heather? But he would know that all the airports would be watched along with the ferries
and train stations.

Where would the hunted animal that was Gilchrist go to earth?

He suddenly jumped to his feet, ran out of the police station, and got into the Land Rover.

Down in Glasgow, Elspeth Grant was summoned by her boss, Barry Dalrymple.

“Take a seat, Elspeth,” said Barry.

They surveyed each other with the embarrassment of a couple who have once been engaged and shared a bed.

“You’ve heard what’s been happening up in the Highlands?” began Barry.

“Yes, I announced the search for Harry Gilchrist on the midday news.”

“It’s like this. No one knows that area better than you, and you’ve got an in with that weird copper, what’s his name?”

“Hamish Macbeth.”

“Yes, him. We’d like you to go up there and file a report.”

Elspeth looked at him cynically. “What bit of totty have you found to replace me while I’m up there?”

“Now, Elspeth, we all know now that Hannah was a mistake. James Garden will fill in for you. You must admit he’s no competition.
It should only take you a couple of days.”

“Oh, all right,” conceded Elspeth. “When do I start?”

“What about right now?”

Hamish drove to the small Church of Scotland, St. Andrew’s, in Cnothan. He tried the door, but it was locked.

He went to the manse next door. When the minister, John Gordon, opened the door, Hamish said, “I’d like to get into the church.
It’s urgent.”

Mr. Gordon smiled. “We do not take confessions in the Church of Scotland, but if there’s anything I can help or advise…”

“I need the key,” said Hamish. “Did Harry Gilchrist have a key?”

“Yes, he does. But…”

“I need it now. He may be in there.”

Mr. Gordon retreated into the manse and shortly returned with a large key. Hamish seized it and ran into the church, followed
by the minister.

He unlocked the door and swung it open.

Thin light shone through the plain glass latticed windows.

“There’s no one here,” said Mr. Gordon.

Hamish strode down the church, bending down and looking in all the pews. He finally straightened up and looked around.

“The bell,” he said. “Where do you ring the bell?”

“It’s the room over there on your left, next to the vestry.”

Hamish went over and swung open the door. Unlike some other churches, St. Andrew’s had only one bell.

Hanging from the bell rope, his face hideously distorted, was Harry Gilchrist.

Behind him, Mr. Gordon exclaimed, “This is horrible. I’ll get a knife and we’ll cut him down.”

“No,” said Hamish. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until the Scenes of Crimes Operatives have gone over the place thoroughly.
I’m sure he’s committed suicide, but we have to be sure.”

The minister retreated to the church, sank down in a pew, and began to pray.

Hamish took out his phone.

An hour later, Hamish, Jimmy, and Daviot waited outside the church while white-coated figures did their business inside. At
last, one of them came out and handed Daviot a sealed envelope. “This was in his pocket, sir. It’s addressed to you.”

Jimmy handed his boss a pair of latex gloves. Daviot put them on and opened the envelope. He read the contents slowly and
then handed the letter that was inside to Jimmy.

Hamish crowded forward to read it over his shoulder. “I am sorry,” Gilchrist had written. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I
leave the factory and all my possessions to my dear wife, Brenda.” There was a scrawl of a signature at the bottom.

“Are we sure yet that the woman bricked up is his wife?” asked Daviot. “The results have yet to come through. I mean, all
we have at the moment is your speculations, Macbeth. We’re waiting for the DNA results.”

“There is one way to find out, sir,” said Hamish.

“What’s that?”

“I’m sure you have already done it,” said Hamish who was pretty sure they hadn’t. “Freeze all bank accounts and credit cards
in the name of Brenda Gilchrist.”

“I’m sure Mr. Blair will have seen to that.”

“I don’t think he’ll have been able to,” said Jimmy, taking out his phone. “I’ll get them on to it right away.”

“How on earth did you guess he would come here?” asked Daviot, walking a little way away through the gravestones with Hamish.
“I thought I knew him. He and his wife have been to my home for dinner. He seemed a pillar of the community.”

“He was suffering from a combination of greed and respectability,” said Hamish. “He could not bear the thought of going on
trial and the world knowing exactly what he was like. But if Heather is masquerading as his wife, I feel she might have been
the one who drove him on.”

They turned round as the body was wheeled out of the church. Jimmy had finished his phone call and had talked to the head
of the forensics team. “It does seem he topped himself,” he said. “That letter is pretty much a confession. But they’re still
dusting for fingerprints to make sure he was alone.”

Daviot turned to Hamish. He felt irritated with this lanky police sergeant. He did not trust Hamish’s unorthodox leaps of
the imagination and always found it hard to give him credit for anything.

“Get back to your station, Macbeth,” he ordered, “and file a full report. Anderson and I will handle the press.”

And take all the credit as usual, thought Hamish cynically.

He drove slowly back to Lochdubh. The day was warm. The early frosts had not yet arrived. The landscape dreamt under a benign
sun. A stag up on a brae above the road looked down on him.

What a blundering murderer Gilchrist had been—if he had done any of the murders himself. Or had he paid Sean? Well, he supposed
he would find out after all the forensic reports were in.

Dick was asleep on a deck chair in the garden, his moustache gently rising and falling as he snored.

Sonsie and Lugs were lying at his feet. They opened their eyes as Hamish looked over the hedge and then went back to sleep.
Hamish remembered how not so long ago they would have come running to welcome him.

With a sigh, he went into the station, into his office, switched on the computer, and began to type.

He finished an hour later, collected his pets from the garden, and walked along the waterfront. A thin mist was settling down
on the forest trees across the loch. The loch itself was still and quiet. Sounds of clattering dishes and snatches of television
reached his ears as Lochdubh prepared for high tea—dinner in most other places.

Hamish saw the Currie sisters approaching and stared fixedly at the loch. From behind him came Nessie’s voice.

“I’m right sorry, Hamish.”

“Sorry,” echoed her sister.

“I should never have reported ye. I don’t know what came over me.”

I do, you jealous, shrivelled-up old bitch, thought Hamish. You can’t bear to think of anyone having it off.

But he turned round and smiled down at her. “That’s all right. Let’s forget it.”

Jessie held out a box. “We brought you some of our scones,” said Nessie.

“Scones,” said her sister.

The Currie sisters’ scones were as light as feathers.

“Thank you,” said Hamish, taking the box.

They both bobbed their heads to him and went on their way.

Every time I think of Hannah, I feel vicious with shame, thought Hamish. How could I have fallen for just good looks? But
he had done exactly that on his last case. He had nearly become besotted by a certain Mary Leinster who had turned out to
be a nasty piece of work.

He turned and walked slowly back to the police station. Dick was in the kitchen, preparing a steak and kidney pie. “I heard
the news on the telly,” said Dick, rolling pastry. “So that’s all wrapped up.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Hamish, putting the box of scones on the table. “We’ve still to find Heather. We’re waiting for the DNA
report to make sure that it’s definitely her sister we found murdered.”

Heather Camford finished a meal in an oyster bar on the Boulevard St. Germain in Paris. She did not watch television and did
not know that Interpol was searching for her. She called for the bill and took out one of Brenda’s credit cards.

Heather then looked up startled when the waiter said apologetically that the card was not working. She had two more credit
cards and two debit cards. She tried them all without success.

“I’ll get the manager,” said the waiter.

Heather thought quickly. It was a warm evening and she had selected a table on the pavement so she could smoke. She fled down
the street, slowing her pace when she reached the bottom of the Rue Dante. She turned along Rue Lagrange and down Rue Maitre
Albert to her hotel. She was about to go in when she saw two policemen at the desk.

She hurried on down towards the Seine. What had gone wrong? Hurrying over the bridge, she went into the park below Notre Dame.
She took out her mobile phone and tried to call Gilchrist. A man answered. She knew immediately the voice on the other end
was not that of Harry Gilchrist. She switched it off.

Heather was possessed of a sort of mulish stupidity allied to greed and arrogance. She could hardly believe they had been
found out. She had, however, been clever enough to buy a fake passport and driving licence in Barcelona, and it was on this
passport that she had paid a flying visit to Scotland, arriving in time to hear Harry Gilchrist’s warning that Hannah Fleming
was about to talk. He had given her the name of the hotel. When Hannah had appeared, she had called out, “It’s me, Brenda
Gilchrist. Want a lift?”

The silly bitch hadn’t died and so Harry had to pay Sean to finish the work.

She opened her wallet. She had 450 euros left. With luck, she had hired a car with the fake driving licence. It was in the
underground car park in Rue Lagrange. She must get to it and drive…where? Back to Cnothan was the answer. That was the last
place they would look for her. She had a key to the factory and knew the code of the burglar alarm. And she also knew the
combination to the safe. With enough money, she could disappear again.

Hamish was just finishing his dinner when Jimmy arrived. “There was a cosh thrown in beside the body. It’s got Heather’s fingerprints
on it. They’re rushing the DNA, but we’re pretty sure that the dead body is Brenda. Has wifie got anything to drink?”

Dick scowled but produced a bottle of whisky and three glasses.

“How could they get away with so much murder and mayhem?” asked Jimmy.

“A combination of cunning, fear, stupidity, and incredible luck,” said Hamish. “A clever murderer would never have picked
up Hannah at that hotel, fearing CCTV cameras. I think we may have three murderers. I think Heather killed Brenda and maybe
Hannah, Gilchrist killed Fergus and Geordie, and maybe Sean finished off Hannah. What was in Sean’s pills?”

“Oblivon. Used by vets. Instant and deadly.”

“I thought that was a liquid.”

“It is. But the medicine was in capsules. All someone had to do was inject the capsules with the stuff. It takes very little.”

Jimmy’s phone rang. He listened and then snapped, “Make sure all the ports and airports are watched. And pay special attention
to the Eurostar.”

When he rang off, he said, “Heather’s been spotted in Paris. She tried to use Brenda’s cards and when they wouldn’t work,
she fled.”

There was a knock at the kitchen door. Hamish went to answer it and found Elspeth Grant smiling up at him.

“Come ben,” said Hamish.

“I’m off,” said Jimmy, draining his glass. “I’ll keep you posted.”