Death of Yesterday (17 page)

He was just reaching up to the cupboard where he kept a bottle of whisky when, in the roar of the storm, he heard an almighty crack. He swung round in alarm just as the whole tree came crashing down, through the roof and right on top of him, smashing him to the floor in a welter of jagged leaves.

He lost consciousness as pain racked his body. When he recovered his senses he saw that his mobile phone had fallen out of his shirt pocket and was lying a few inches away. He tried to reach it and howled in pain. His arm was broken.

He heard footsteps somewhere in the kitchen and feebly cried, “Help!”

To his horror, the footsteps retreated and he passed out again. Blood from a gash on the back of his head seeped out onto the floor. He briefly came back to consciousness again and muttered one more feeble cry of “Help” before his life ebbed away.

Dick and Hamish took a long time to get back to Lochdubh. Fallen trees and rubble from crashing chimneys had blocked a lot of the way, forcing them to make long detours.

As they headed down the hill to Lochdubh, the storm had rolled away to the east and all that was left was the stormy waves on the loch and knots of villagers, peering anxiously up at their roofs, looking for damage.

Hamish parked in front of the police station and got out. The hill at the end of the village, rising up to the cliffs, had mostly sheltered the station and he was relieved to see there was no sign of any damage.

He went in to the station to a welcome from his pets. The phone in the office was ringing shrilly.

When he picked up the phone, Blair’s gloating voice came down the line. “You can go back to your sheep, laddie. We’ve got our murderer.”

“What! Who?”

“Geordie Fleming, that’s who.”

“That’s ridiculous. He wouldnae kill his own sister.”

“Got his confession.” And infuriatingly, Blair rang off.

Hamish cursed and phoned Jimmy.

“What the hell is this about Geordie Fleming being a murderer?”

“It’s right weird,” said Jimmy. “Forensics are still investigating. Thon big tree in his garden crashed through the roof and killed him. He’d left a typed confession on his computer.”

“For heaven’s sakes, man. Anyone could have done that. What did it say?”

“I’ll fax you over a copy. Stand by.”

Dick walked into the office while Hamish was waiting by the fax machine. “What’s up?”

Hamish told him. “Oh, well, that’s that,” said Dick cheerfully, imagining a return to lazy days.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Hamish furiously. “The man was as meek as a mouse and he wouldnae kill his own sister.”

“Did he confess?”

“That great tree in his garden crashed through the roof and killed him. He left a written confession on his computer.”

“There you are then.”

“There, nothing. Anyone could have written it. They’ve all gone mad.”

The fax machine sprang into life. It spewed out one sheet of paper.

Hamish read: “I, Geordie Fleming, am responsible for the deaths of Morag Merrilea, Fergus McQueen, and my own sister. Morag said I was the father of her child so I had to get rid of her. Fergus was blackmailing me. Hannah knew it was me and said she was going to tell the police. I am very sorry.”

“And that’s all?” raged Hamish. He sat down at his computer and switched it on. He began to scroll through alibis. It was hard to pinpoint when exactly Morag and Fergus had been killed. No one had thought to question Geordie about his whereabouts when Hannah was killed at the hospital.

Hamish picked up the phone, dialled the factory, and asked to speak to Maisie Moffat. When she came on the line, he said, “I have just heard the news that they are saying Geordie Fleming is the murderer. Do you remember where he was, say, the first time Hannah was attacked and I found her body on the Struie Pass?”

“Wait a bit. Let me think.”

There was a long silence while Hamish fretted and chewed his thumbnail.

Then she said, “Well, that’s funny.”

“What is?”

“I ’member that day. He was in his office, I’ll swear, sitting by the phone wi’ a face like clay, waiting to see if she phoned.”

“I’ll be right over for your statement,” said Hamish.

Of that there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.

—W. S. Gilbert

Leaving Dick behind, Hamish raced over to Cnothan and, ignoring the receptionist, ran up the stairs to where Maisie was waiting. A thin, nervous girl with thick glasses was waiting beside her.

“I got better for ye,” crowed Maisie. “This here is Sarah McGowan. Herself was Geordie’s secretary. She stuck with him all that time until Hannah was found up on the Struie. And what’s mair, himself was at his home, ready to set out for the hospital the day his sister was killt.”

Superintendent Daviot gave himself a last glance in the mirror before descending to meet the press who had gathered in front of police headquarters. He had applied a discreet amount of fake tan to his face and felt he was looking at his best.

He was just walking up to a microphone which had been set up on the steps when Jimmy came hurrying up and whispered in his ear.

“Are you sure?” asked Daviot desperately. “But Blair said . . .”

“Well, Blair was wrong,” hissed Jimmy. “Just tell them about the unfortunate death of Geordie and say you’re looking into it.”

Miserably, Daviot cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “I am here to announce the unfortunate death of Geordie Fleming who was killed when a tree in his garden crashed through his house.”

Outraged cries sounded in his ears, voices crying that a report had been sent out to the media saying that Geordie Fleming was a murderer and had confessed.

“We are looking into that,” said Daviot repressively and turned on his heel and hurried indoors.

“Get over to that factory and see what Macbeth is up to,” he said to Jimmy. “And send Blair to my office. And take some men with you and get everyone interviewed all over again.”

“Daviot won’t thank you for this,” said Jimmy when he caught Hamish leaving the factory.

“Did forensic no’ check Geordie’s computer for prints?” asked Hamish.

“Wiped clean.”

“What a bunch of cloth-headed numpties,” said Hamish. “Did that not make you just a wee bit suspicious?”

“Man, Blair was all over the place. I couldn’t get near the evidence until now.”

“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” begged Hamish. “We’ve got to talk about this.”

“Wait here until I give my men their instructions.”

So Hamish waited. It was a balmy day with a pale sun shining through wisps of cloud. It was as if the dreadful storm had never happened.

At last, Jimmy came back to join him.

“Pub,” he said. “You’re driving.” He climbed into the Land Rover.

“Where are your beasties?”

“With Dick Fraser.”

“Well, I must say it’s grand not to feel their hot breath on the back of my neck.”

Once in the pub in the High Street, they settled down at a table in a corner. Jimmy ordered a double whisky for himself and a tomato juice for Hamish.

“This is some amateur as I’ve said before,” said Hamish. “Our killer happened to come by and saw the tree and found Geordie dying and thought of a way to put suspicion on Geordie. I swear we’d have a better chance of getting hold of a professional killer than this lucky sod who blunders around knocking off people. What’s behind it? Sex? Money? Have the books been properly audited?”

“Gone through thoroughly. Despite what they claim, the factory was running at a loss, but Gilchrist’s wife put a big lump of money into the place.”

“When?”

“Must ha’ been a couple of months ago.”

“Wait a bit. I saw Brenda Gilchrist’s brother and he said she refused to give her husband any money and told him he had to stand on his own feet. I went to Estonia to see her.”

“You what? If Daviot hears that one, and I’m sure he will, you’re toast.”

“He has and I nearly got fired over it. There’s more. The brother, Luke, he said sister Heather was travelling with her but Brenda was on her own. And Sean Carmichael, Gilchrist’s odd job man, said he took Brenda to the airport when she started on her travels. He didn’t say anything about Heather.”

“What are you on about?”

“What if the woman I saw was Heather Camford, masquerading as her sister?”

“Why?”

“Say Harry Gilchrist needed money for his factory and the wife wouldn’t give it, but Heather would in exchange for her sister’s money. Brenda got the bulk of the inheritance.”

“But why get rid of Morag? Surely if Morag had known anything, she would have told you she suspected Gilchrist.”

“Maybe, unless she told Gilchrist that the baby was his. Maybe he stood to lose his respectable name and his factory as well. He was supposed to be in Glasgow on the day Hannah was first attacked. Was that properly checked?”

Jimmy flipped open a briefcase, took out an expensive-looking iPad, and began to search. At last he said, “Here we are. Stayed with a certain Jock Anstruther in Hyndland Road. I’ve got his number. I’ll go outside and phone him.”

Hamish waited impatiently.

Jimmy came back, shaking his head. “No, he sticks to his story. He’s a director of Anstruther Fabrics.”

“I’d like to see him face-to-face,” said Hamish. “And we should haul in Sean Carmichael for questioning and then we should get a search warrant for Gilchrist’s place and . . .”

“Wait a minute!” said Jimmy. “Who’s in charge of this case? You or me? We won’t get a search warrant without proof. We can’t go treading on the toes of Strathclyde police. But we will start with Sean . . . What do you want?”

Stolly Maguire was standing by the table. “I jist wanted tae see if you wanted any mair drinks.”

“We don’t,” snapped Jimmy. “Push off!” He turned his attention back to Hamish. “Look! All you’ve got is some pretty mad speculation.”

“Humour me,” said Hamish. “Let’s start off with Sean.”

They drove to the Gilchrists’ villa but there was no sign of Sean. “Daviot’s not going to like this,” said Jimmy, “but we’re going to have to ask Gilchrist where Sean is.”

They were kept waiting at the factory. They were told Mr. Gilchrist was busy.

At last they were ushered in. Gilchrist peered at papers on his desk and, without looking up, said, “How can I help you?”

“We would like to speak to Sean Carmichael,” said Jimmy.

“That will not be possible.”

“Why?”

“He has just left on a much-needed holiday.”

“To where?” demanded Hamish.

“I do not concern myself with the holiday arrangements of the hired help,” said Gilchrist, looking up at last.

Jimmy took out his mobile and phoned headquarters. “Put out an alert for Sean Carmichael, all airports, ports, bus stations, train stations, the lot. Appearance?” He handed the phone to Hamish, who rattled off a description.

“Does he have a car?” Hamish asked Gilchrist.

“Yes, an old Ford Escort.”

“Do you know the registration number?”

“No, I do not! What is this . . . ?”

“It’s an old Ford Escort,” said Hamish into the phone. He looked at Gilchrist. “Colour?”

“Red, but . . .”

“Red,” instructed Hamish.

“Get out of here!” raged Gilchrist. “I am going to complain to Mr. Daviot.”

“What about?” asked Hamish mildly. “You haven’t even asked us why we want to talk to Sean.”

“Get out. Out! Out! Out!”

* * *

As they left his office, Hamish stopped by the secretary’s desk. “Give us Sean Carmichael’s address,” he ordered.

She looked flustered and glanced nervously at her boss’s closed office door.

“Now!” said Jimmy.

She scrolled through her computer, wrote an address on a piece of paper, and handed it to them.

Sean evidently lived in the caravan park just outside Cnothan.

Outside the factory, Jimmy phoned for a search warrant, saying it had to be brought as fast as possible to the caravan park.

The caravan park had a new owner since Hamish had last been there. His name was Gareth Jones, a small, dark Welshman. He said that Sean rented a caravan from him and he could let them in without waiting for the search warrant, as it was his property.

“Have you the registration of his car?” asked Hamish.

“Yes. I’ll get it for you. I always write down the registrations in case they run off without paying.”

Jimmy took a note of the registration and phoned it over to headquarters. Then they followed Gareth to Sean’s caravan, which stood at the end of the park.

The key would not turn in the lock, and a metal bar and padlock had been placed across the door. “That shouldn’t be there,” raged Gareth.

“Have you bolt cutters?” asked Hamish.

“Yes, I’ll get them.”

“And bring a crowbar.”

“I hope to God there’s something incriminating in there,” said Jimmy, “before Daviot gets on our back and Blair comes roaring up.”

Gareth came back with the bolt cutters. He cut the padlock and took down the metal bar. Then he inserted the crowbar in the doorjamb and wrenched until the door sprang open.