Death of a Kingfisher (13 page)

They piled into the Land Rover, Dick still grumbling at having to share the back with Sonsie and Lugs. Hamish could only be glad that they had not created a fuss when he had shut them out of the bedroom.

He whistled happily as he drove over the heathery hills to Braikie. They had almost reached the boys’ home when
Annie’s mobile rang. She answered it and Hamish heard her say, ‘Grand! See you tonight.’

Her voice had been warm and affectionate. Hamish pulled up outside the boys’ home and asked, ‘Who was that?’

‘Oh, that was my husband,’ said Annie cheerfully. ‘He works on the oil rigs but he’ll be home tonight.’

‘Dick,’ said Hamish stiffly, ‘would you mind getting out and letting me have a word in private?’

‘Aye, sure,’ said Dick sadly.

Hamish turned to Annie. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were married?’

‘Last night it didn’t seem important,’ said Annie.

‘So it wass chust a fling?’

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Annie hotly. ‘You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?’

‘Women!’ said Hamish savagely and banged his fist on the steering wheel.

Annie shrugged and got out.

After a few minutes, Hamish followed her.

The boys had little to tell them that was any help at all. They had simply run away after finding the body.

‘Now what?’ asked Annie. ‘The Palfours?’

‘It’s Saturday,’ said Hamish. ‘Maybe you could have a word with the Palfour children, Annie. I’ll drop you and Dick off. I’d like to get back to the station and go through all the alibis again. I’ll pick you up later, Dick.’

Hamish was studying his notes the next day when his phone rang. It was Annie. Hamish was still angry with her but he realized quickly that going on like the rejected lover was a waste of valuable time.

‘I don’t think this means anything,’ said Annie. ‘I was talking to Charles and Olivia in the garden. It was a bit
creepy the way they seemed to be relishing this latest murder. Anyway, Fern Palfour came running down the garden, screaming that I had no right to speak to her
children
without an adult present. Charles grinned and said, “Mummy’s taken up dressmaking.” Fern turns the colour of mud and slaps him across the face. Then she bursts into tears and hugs him and apologizes and then tells me to get the hell out of it. I don’t think there’s anything in it. What could be so awful about dressmaking?’

Hamish thanked her and rang off. He turned over what she had said in his mind but could not make any sense of it.

His phone rang again. ‘Hullo, boss,’ said a deep voice.

‘Who is speaking?’ demanded Hamish.

‘Ginger Stuart. Listen, I’ve got something might interest you.’

‘Where are you?’ demanded Hamish sharply.

‘At home.’

‘Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t open the door to anyone but me. Got it?’

‘Sure, boss,’ said Ginger in a fake American accent.

Hamish rushed out to the Land Rover. The cat and dog scampered after him.

‘No!’ said Hamish. ‘Amuse yourselves for once!’

He raced off in the direction of Braikie.

Ginger opened the door to him. Even his tattoos seemed to be rippling with excitement.

Hamish followed him into a malodorous living room. The windows were open but he could smell pot.

‘What have you got for me?’ he asked.

‘There was a broadcast this morning offering ten thousand pounds for any information leading to the murderers,’ said Ginger.

‘Aye, and I’ll see you get it if …’

‘If I come up with the goods,’ said Ginger. ‘Here’s what I picked up. I was in a bar on the road to Dingwall.’

‘Which one?’

‘Marty’s Mojo.’

‘Thieves’ kitchen,’ commented Hamish, guessing that Ginger had probably gone there to buy drugs.

‘Well, ye ken they have thae old-fashioned booths. There were these two blokes in the one the back o’ me. I think they were a wee bittie stoned because they were giggling. But then one says to the ither, “Maybe we should get out o’ the country. I got friends in Spain.”

‘The ither says, “Spain’s got an extradition treaty.”

‘“I hates foreigners,” says the ither. “They’ll never get back to us, Willy. We’re safe as houses. We’ll keep on lying low, don’t spend the money until it’s safe and then we can splash out a bit.”

‘Then I heard one of them say, “Thon was a rare rocket.” And his pal says, “For Christ’s sake, shut up.” What d’ye think o’ that?’

Hamish’s heart beat hard. ‘Who are these men?’

‘I took a peek afore I left. Thin couple o’ men wi’
baseball
caps pulled down over their eyes. I waited and waited and then I followed them hame. It took me every effort to keep up. They was on a motorbike.’

‘Where did they go?’

‘Here’s the address,’ said Ginger triumphantly. ‘
Twenty-four
Southey’s Lane, Dingwall.’

‘Thanks, I’ll get on to it,’ said Hamish. ‘And yes, if this pans out, you’ll get the award. By the way, cut out the pot smoking.’

Outside, Hamish wondered whether to phone Jimmy and then decided against it. He would feel obliged to tell Blair, and Hamish didn’t want the whole circus to descend on Dingwall and alert the two men. He called at the police
station first and changed into civilian clothes. Then he hired an old Ford from the garage and set off.

The weather was crisp and clear. All thoughts of his night with Annie were lost in a sudden flood of hope and excitement.

Dingwall, perhaps the cleanest town in the Highlands, is blessed with many car parks. The town lies at the head of the Cromarty Firth. The name,
Dingwall
, means ‘parliament field’ in Old Norse, showing the town was an important centre as far back as the arrival of the Vikings in
AD
800.

Hamish walked down to the main street, went into the tourist office, and got a map of the town. Southey’s Lane lay on the outskirts. He returned to the car park and drove off. Somehow he had expected to find a council estate, but Southey’s Lane turned out to be a shabby row of cottages, bordering on ploughed fields.

He parked at the end of the row. Number 24 was in the middle.

Now what do I do? he wondered. If he confronted them, all they had to do was deny everything and then escape. He decided to wait and see if they came out. He fished out his camera and focused it.

An hour passed while he fretted. Then suddenly two men emerged. He shot off a photo. They got on a
motorcycle
and roared off. Hamish set off after them, cursing the old Ford’s lack of speed. He could only hope they were going to Marty’s Mojo as they disappeared in the distance.

Hamish heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the
motorbike
in the bar’s car park. He phoned Jimmy and explained the situation. ‘Don’t bring the whole lot,’ urged Hamish. ‘Just enough plainclothes to help me arrest them. Do you have to tell Blair?’

‘No, he must have had a right bevy last night. The man was fair blootered. You’ve never seen a hangover like it. I’ll get Dingwall police to back you up. Keep an eye on them and don’t lose them. You should have told me immediately you had the news. I’ll be over as fast as I can.’

Hamish kept his eye on the entrance, worrying and
fretting
. Eventually a car drove into the car park, and four men in plainclothes got out and approached Hamish. One flashed a warrant card and said, ‘Dingwall police.’

‘There are two men inside I want to arrest on suspicion of murder,’ said Hamish. ‘Take them back to the station. I’ll show you who they are then I’ll follow you and we’ll wait for the contingent from Strathbane.’

The two men, Terence Rattrey and Philip Windon, were driven from Dingwall police station to Strathbane. To Hamish’s relief, Jimmy said he could sit in on the
interviews
the next morning.

They were an unsavoury-looking pair. Rattrey suited his name, being a rat-like man with beady eyes and a wispy brown moustache. Windon was pasty-faced, pimply, and sullen.

Despite long hours of questioning, all they could get out of the pair was ‘No comment’ and a demand to see their lawyer.

At last, Daviot drew Jimmy and Hamish outside the interviewing room. ‘What do you think? I’ve a mind to let them have their lawyer. He might be able to talk some sense into them. We’re digging up their backgrounds
anyway
. Hear this. Before they got into drugs, they were both in the Royal Engineers. They could have learned the knowledge to make that rocket and soup up the chair’s engine in the forces.’

‘Who is this lawyer?’ asked Hamish.

‘William Lemont. Small time. Dingwall. Doesn’t seem to have handled any criminal cases at all. He wasn’t present when this pair were charged a few years ago with pushing drugs. They got out of jail last year.’

‘It’s up to you,’ said Hamish, ‘but I feel uneasy about it, I don’t know why.’

‘I’m going to phone him,’ said Daviot.

He went to his office and came back after ten minutes. ‘Lemont’s on his way. Now all we can do is wait. Oh, Miss Williams, what is it?’

‘The press have got wind of something and are massed outside, sir, and there’s a minister from Dingwall wants to have a word with the men.’

‘What’s his name?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Mr Sutherland from the Church of St Andrew.’

‘May as well let him see them. Maybe he can soften them up.’

Hamish felt a qualm of unease. ‘I don’t think anyone other than us should see them, sir.’

‘You’ve done enough here, Macbeth,’ said Daviot. ‘Get back to your station. We’ll keep you informed.’ Daviot missed Blair, who was still off sick. Blair never contradicted or queried any of his ideas.

On the road back to Lochdubh, Hamish noticed that the tops of the mountains had their first covering of snow. He felt in his bones it was going to be a hard winter.

When he got back to the police station it was to find Matthew Campbell, editor of the
Highland Times
, waiting for him. ‘I thought I might get more out of you than I’d get out of Strathbane,’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I can only tell you that two men from Dingwall have been arrested on suspicion of murder,’ said Hamish. ‘You know I can’t give you any more than that.’

‘Any little tidbit will do.’

‘Well, they’re saying nothing until their lawyer arrives. A minister is visiting them.’

‘Which minister?’

‘A Mr Sutherland from St Andrew’s in Dingwall.’

‘That’s odd,’ said Matthew.

‘Why?’

‘Sutherland is very old and creaky. Furthermore, he’s an old intellectual. Hardly the type to want to console a
couple of men suspected of murder. Besides, he’s also not the sort to stir himself to arrive so quickly on the scene.’

Hamish gave him an alarmed look. He darted into the office, ignoring Lugs who was banging his feed bowl on the floor, and seized the Highlands and Islands telephone directory. He phoned the reverend’s number.

An old querulous voice answered the phone. ‘Mr
Sutherland
,’ said Hamish, ‘we have had a report that you wish to see two prisoners accused of murder at Strathbane police headquarters.’

‘Now why would I do that? Who is speaking?’

‘Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.’

‘With my arthritis, it is as much as I can do to get up into the pulpit on Sundays. Hello!’

For Hamish had rung off.

He phoned Jimmy and howled, ‘Thon minister’s a fake. Don’t let him see the prisoners!’

‘What’s up, Hamish? The man’s been and gone.’

‘And how are the prisoners?’

‘Left them to sweat.’

‘That minister was an impostor. See that the prisoners are all right.’

Jimmy seemed to be gone a long time. Hamish clutched the phone, hearing agitated voices shouting and yelling.

At last Jimmy came on the telephone again, his voice hoarse with shock.

‘They’re dead, Hamish. Stone dead.’

Hamish returned to Strathbane in the morning. With the men dead, all hope of breaking the case had gone. Someone must have paid them to rig the stair lift, and that someone masqueraded as a minister to make sure they did not talk.

Hamish went straight to the detectives’ room. ‘Anything on CCTV?’ he asked Jimmy.

‘You’re never going to believe this,’ said Jimmy with a groan. ‘Look!’

Hamish leaned over him and studied the CCTV tape. The camera outside police headquarters swung from left to right. Whoever the murderer was, he had timed his entrance exactly for when the camera had swung away from the front door.

‘And the CCTV that covers the car park?’

‘Sprayed with black paint. He thought o’ everything.’

‘What about the CCTV tapes from the surrounding streets?’ asked Hamish.

‘I’m just waiting for them to be collected.’

‘What are you doing here, Macbeth?’ asked Blair,
stomping
up to them.

‘Just making sure no evidence goes missing … again,’ said Hamish.

Blair backed off, muttering, ‘Aye, well, don’t spend all day here.’

‘Where are the Palfours?’ asked Hamish.

‘The cleaners say they’ve gone back to Inverness for the day. We’ve sent someone to the auction rooms. I’ve heard they’re selling off some of the old furniture. Inverness police are looking for them.’

‘Did no one think to search the minister?’

‘It’s Scotland. Ministers are God. No. He was carrying a Bible. He left it behind. The inside had been cut out and there were two empty miniatures of whisky in the cell. They died in agonies. Might be cyanide.’

‘Did no one hear their death throes?’

‘There was a lot of crying and banging but instructions had been given to leave them alone to sweat it out. We seem to be dealing with a gang.’

‘Or someone with enough money to bribe villains,’ said Hamish. ‘Any results from that cigarette end?’

‘Too degraded to get anything.’

Hamish waited patiently, drinking black coffee from cardboard cups until the CCTV tapes were delivered. Jimmy slotted them in and they both studied them.

‘No one seems to be starving on the streets of
Strathbane
,’ murmured Hamish as one obese person after another lurched past on the screen.

‘Shut up and let me concentrate,’ growled Jimmy.

‘So what’s the description of this fake minister?’ asked Hamish. ‘What are we looking for?’

‘He was tall with red hair, a fat face, and thick glasses.’

‘A disguise,’ said Hamish. ‘Pads in the cheeks and a wig.’

‘Probably.’

‘Hold it,’ said Hamish suddenly. ‘Freeze it right there.’

‘What do you see?’

‘That boutique. Hilda’s Fashions. Just going in the door. A tall black figure. It’s black and white but that
hair could be red. Can only see the back of him. I’m going round there.’

Hamish was met at the doorway of the boutique by Hilda Merrilee, a small, fussy woman.

‘Thank goodness you came,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen such a barefaced theft in my life.’

‘What happened?’

‘This man came in …’

‘Description?’

‘Oh, let me see. Tall, soft-spoken, red hair and glasses.’

‘A dog collar?’

‘He was wearing a scarf.’

‘So what exactly happened?’

‘He said he was looking for a dress for his wife. He told me they were going to a wedding but that she was disabled and couldn’t shop for herself. He said she was tall and quite plump. He looked at several gowns and then because we had a few customers, he asked if he could take them into a changing room and study them at his leisure. I showed him into a changing room. Then I had to go into another changing room to help a customer. After a time, I realized he hadn’t come out. I went into the changing room. He had stolen one of our best gowns, a stole, and a big hat.’

‘What did the dress look like?’

‘It was pale blue chiffon, long. The stole was paisley
pattern
, and the hat was a straw cartwheel with red silk rose on it.’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Hamish. He rushed back to police headquarters where he told Jimmy what had
happened
and said, ‘Run the tapes again and look for a tall woman.’

They sat together and studied the CCTV camera that showed the front of the shop.

‘There!’ exclaimed Hamish. It was a grainy picture of a tall figure, face hidden by a large straw hat, wearing a long dress and carrying a large carrier bag.

‘See how loose the dress hangs,’ said Hamish. ‘He
probably
has his minister’s clothes in the bag and the red wig. See if you can track him.’

The figure disappeared into Barry’s Superstore.

‘Let’s get round there,’ said Hamish.

In the security office at Barry’s Superstore, Hamish studied the shop’s security videos.

‘Slow down,’ he ordered. ‘There he goes. Damn! As far as I remember, that’s in the direction of the toilets, and they aren’t covered.’

He turned round and asked the security guard, ‘Is there a door at the back of the store?’

‘A fire door.’

‘Is it locked?’

‘No. Anyone can push down the bar and get out.’

‘Is the area outside covered by a camera?’

‘No,’ said the guard. ‘Only the shop’s rubbish out there.’

‘Come on,’ said Jimmy.

They hurried out through the store. The fire door was slightly open. They went outside. Rows of bins in a small area. Nothing else.

‘I’ll get some men round to go through the bins,’ said Jimmy. ‘He may have discarded the gown and we could get DNA from it.’

‘I think he’ll have thought of that,’ said Hamish. ‘If I were him, I’d put everything in a bag weighted down with a brick and throw it into a peat bog. I think he had a car parked round here.’

Jimmy glared at Hamish in frustration. ‘I think you should start checking the bins until I get some men round here.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Hamish gloomily.

After Jimmy had gone, he half heartedly searched the bins, being pretty sure he wouldn’t find anything. When four policemen arrived, he left them to it.

He went back to police headquarters, hoping to have a look at some CCTV footage of the streets around the store, but Jimmy was now in a flaming temper and ordered him back to Lochdubh.

Back at the police station, he was met by the rumble of the dishwasher and the roar of the television. He marched into his living room where Annie and Dick were cosily ensconced with cups of coffee.

‘Switch that off!’ he roared.

Dick hurriedly clicked off the television. ‘Haven’t you heard the latest?’ demanded Hamish.

‘No,’ said Annie, ‘There seemed to be nothing doing so we came back here.’

Hamish told them what had happened. ‘Now, I want both of you to help me think,’ he said. ‘If only the Palfours didn’t have such cast-iron alibis. They’re the ones with motive. They’re the ones with enough money to get people to do their dirty work.’

‘I’ve got some notes from a friend at the Yard in London,’ said Annie, opening her handbag and pulling out a sheaf of notes. ‘Yes, Ralph Palfour was badly in debt. A second mortgage was taken out on the house in London. There is nothing but family pride to stop Palfour from selling the garden centre. A girl who used to work there said he had many offers to buy the place.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘Estate agents. Oh, and some Russian oligarch who was interested in the place. Wanted to build a mansion.’

‘Name?’

‘Let me see.’ She consulted her notes. ‘Ivan Andronovitch. Made his money in oil. I looked him up. No criminal record.’

‘There we have power and money,’ said Hamish. ‘He could have threatened the Palfours. What was this girl’s impression of Palfour?’

‘She said he was a good boss but weak and fussy. He was often heard saying that if his mother-in-law would just die, then all his troubles would be over.’

‘And did your friend at the Yard say they had found any sinister connection between Palfour and this Russian?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘I’d expect the press to be hammering at the door by now,’ said Dick.

‘They’re all over at Strathbane but some of them will be along here soon. I’ve got to think. I’m going out for a walk.’

‘I’d better get back to Strathbane,’ said Annie.

‘If you hear anything interesting, let me know,’ said Hamish.

Annie left. Dick switched on the television again. Hamish glared at him, stuffed a sheet of notes in his pocket, and then called to the dog and cat and went out to the waterfront.

Hamish went into Patel’s grocery store to buy himself a cup of coffee. Mr Patel was unpacking bales of fabric.

‘What’s this?’ asked Hamish. ‘A new line?’

‘There’s a dressmaking class at the village hall. A lot o’ the women have decided to make their ain clothes,’ said Mr Patel.

Hamish paid for a cup of coffee and went out and sat on a seat facing the loch. It was a grey misty day. The loch was like a sheet of metal. On the other side of the water, the forestry plantation looked ragged and denuded. There had been a decline in the Scottish timber business in recent years with many more trees being felled than were being planted. Critics believed that the environmental opposition to closely planted conifers had led to more emphasis on native woodland.

Two seals surfaced and swam along, breaking the flat
grey of the loch and sending out long ripples of waves on either side. He drank his coffee and stared into space.

‘Dreaming, Hamish?’ came Angela Brodie’s voice from behind him. She walked round and sat down next to him.

Hamish told her of the latest development. ‘This is awful,’ said Angela. ‘I feel as if all the nastiness of the cities has come north to plague us.’

Dressmaking, thought Hamish suddenly. Hadn’t Charles Palfour said his mother had taken up dressmaking?

‘What’s this about a dressmaking class?’ asked Hamish.

Angela looked surprised. ‘There’s one tonight in the
village
hall, if you’re interested. It’s being run by the Currie sisters.’

‘Whit! Thon pair are an example of frump fashion.’

‘They just organize things. There’s a Polish maid from the hotel who’s a wizard.’

‘I might have a look at that,’ said Hamish. ‘What time?’

‘Seven thirty. Planning on tailoring a new uniform?’

‘You never know,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll maybe see you later. I’ve got to walk and think.’

With Angela staring after him, he set off, the dog and cat at his heels.

He walked all the way to the Tommel Castle Hotel,
hoping
suddenly to talk to Priscilla, only to find that she had left without even leaving a message for him.

He felt worried and depressed. Priscilla gone, Elspeth to get married, and all he had to show for a love life was a one-night stand with a married woman.

He scrounged a cup of coffee and took it to a quiet corner of the hotel lounge and began to study his notes, hoping against hope that he could find something he had
previously
missed.

What had Charles Palfour meant by that crack about dressmaking? Why had Fern Palfour been so alarmed that she had slapped him across the face? When Mary had been murdered, the Palfours had been staying in Inverness.
They had been caught on a garage CCTV early the
following
morning as they made their way back to Braikie.

He decided to stay hidden for the rest of the day, out of the way of the press, and then visit the village hall. But he had forgotten that the press would need places to stay. Mr Johnson came in to warn him, and Hamish and his pets escaped by the kitchen door.

He cut across the moors, not wanting to meet any of the press on the road. When he reached the back of the police station, he shoved up the kitchen window and climbed through. Sonsie and Lugs went round to the kitchen door and entered by the cat flap.

Hamish could hear the noise of the television from the living room. He sighed and began to make himself a
fry-up
and cook liver for the dog and cat. He was damned if he was going to cook anything for Dick.

But he should have known that Dick would not go hungry. Patel’s sold mutton pies and when Hamish eventually went into the sitting room and switched off the television, he noticed that Dick had a tray in front of him bearing tea and the remains of two pies.

‘Get your uniform on,’ ordered Hamish. ‘We’re going to the village hall.’

‘Why?’ asked Dick plaintively.

‘Oh, chust dae as you’re told,’ snapped Hamish. ‘You make your way out the front and say “No comment” to the press and meet me at the village hall.’

When Hamish and Dick entered the village hall, Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, approached them. ‘It’s grand to see two gentleman being interested in
dressmaking
,’ she said.

‘Dick, here, is a transvestite,’ said Hamish maliciously.

‘If you are here to make mischief, forget it,’ boomed Mrs Wellington. ‘You may stay if you sit down quietly. She’s about to begin.’

A pretty Polish girl was standing at a long table with a pattern spread out on it.

‘Now, ladies,’ she began, ‘I will first teach you how to follow a pattern.’

She looked up as the door opened. The Currie sisters entered pushing an old-fashioned dressmaker’s dummy on wheels in front of them, their faces red with exertion.

‘This is the grand thing,’ said Nessie.

‘Grand thing,’ echoed the Greek chorus that was her twin. Hamish guessed the dummy was either Edwardian or Victorian. It had a bust like the figurehead on an old schooner and a wasp waist.

‘It is so kind of you,’ said the Polish instructor
diplomatically
, ‘but I don’t think any of us these days has a figure like that.’

‘You mean you can’t use it?’ demanded Nessie.

‘Maybe we’ll try later,’ she said.

Hamish stared at that dummy. His head started racing. The dummy was headless, but, he thought, put some sort of head on it and a wig and a hat, a coat and scarf say, put it in the front seat of a car, and it might show up on the CCTV as a real person. He got up abruptly and with Dick trotting after him returned to the police station.