Death of a Village (17 page)

‘No, not a one. Wait a bit, though. Away back at the beginning of the war . . .’

‘World War II?’

‘Aye, that’s the one. I mind the days when you talked about the war and everyone knew which one you were talking about. After I was demobbed and came back, my father told me two
Germans were found on the beach near the harbour. One was dead and the other didn’t live long. The one that lived a bit wouldn’t say whether he was off a ship or what.’

‘And when would this be?’

‘I can’t remember exactly, but it was sometime at the beginning of the war.’

Hamish sighed. He would need to wait for a report from the Secretary of State’s office. He had put in his request that morning before he had left to visit Mr Gorrie. He hoped the
government office would send the reports directly to him as requested and not send them to Strathbane.

He realized with a start that Mr Gorrie was talking. ‘. . . like Napoleon,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hamish. ‘I suddenly thought of something else. What about Napoleon?’

‘Russia. I hate to think what would have happened if Russia had stayed allied to Germany. But they didn’t, and it was Hitler deciding to attack Russia that weakened him. Napoleon did
the same, see? Lost thousands of men. Man, there’s nothing in the world can fight a battle better than a Russian winter.’

They talked for some time about general things and Hamish promised to call on him more regularly.

You might end up like that, he told himself. One day you might be old and living on your own. He remembered his rosy dreams of marrying Priscilla and starting a family. And now Priscilla would
be marrying someone else. Why? he wondered. She was never much interested in sex. Maybe her fiancé had lit some spark in her that he had been unable to do.

His mind turned back to Stoyre. All those years ago, two sailors had been washed ashore, one dead and one dying. They must have come from somewhere, some vessel.

Well, there was nothing he could do but wait for that report.

Two days later Hamish received a long fax from the Secretary of State’s office. He grabbed it out of the fax machine and read it eagerly, then threw it down in disgust.
‘Nothing!’ he said to Lugs. ‘Not a thing. No record of a wreck near Stoyre at any time in history. Now what?’

If there had been a report of some wreck containing a possibly valuable cargo, then he could have reopened the case with Strathbane.

He phoned Elspeth and told her about the report. ‘What now?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Hamish, feeling helpless. ‘I swear something or someone frightened poor Annie Docherty to death. It would have been dark when she got there. I wonder
if they would try to frighten me.’

‘They’ve tried to kill you twice before. They might not bother leaping out of the bushes and saying boo, or whatever it was they did to Mrs Docherty I think you ought to tell
Strathbane about that cave and the new mooring.’

‘And what happens when they find there is no mooring? They may have moved on. Then if I do get some proof, the police will be reluctant to do anything about it.’

Mr Jefferson sat in Annie’s cottage and stared blindly through a haze of cigarette smoke. There must be something he could do. If something had prompted this odd
spiritual revival in Stoyre, then there might be a clue in the manse. He could wait until they were all in the church and break into the manse.

He phoned Hamish Macbeth. ‘What’s the name of the man who runs the pub in Stoyre?’

‘Andy Crummack. Why?’

‘That’s the name. I might have run into him before.’

‘Look here, Mr Jefferson, I think Stoyre is a very dangerous place. You are not to go there.’

‘Of course not,’ said Mr Jefferson. ‘I gave you my promise, didn’t I?’

He said goodbye and rang off and then looked up the number of the Fisherman’s Arms in the phone book and dialled. A man answered and Mr Jefferson asked, ‘Is that Andy
Crummack?’

‘Yes, who are you?’

‘Just a tourist. I wanted to have a look at your church. When is the next service?’

‘Tomorrow at eleven.’

Mr Jefferson thanked him and rang off. If they were prepared to give the time of the service to an outsider, then nothing was going on inside the church itself that they were worried about
anyone finding out about.

He would arrive in Stoyre in the morning, just when he was sure they were all in the church, and get into the manse and see what he could find out. He owed it to Annie.

Mr Jefferson set out the following morning, feeling excited and rejuvenated to be doing something at last. He timed his arrival in the village to ten minutes past eleven. The
place looked deserted. He hurried up to the manse and went round to the kitchen door at the back. He tried the door and found it was open. He walked inside and went through the kitchen, looking for
the minister’s study. He came to a locked door and took out his skeleton keys and opened it. Eagerly he hurried in and went straight to the desk. He began to riffle through the papers.

Sermons and parish business, nothing of interest. He slid open the drawers on the right. Nothing of interest there either: just reams of paper, bank statements and old sermons. He opened the
desk drawers on the left. In the top drawer was a print of a painting. He turned it over. On the back it said: ‘Josephe, Bishop of Sarras and son of Joseph of Arimathea, promises to entrust
the Holy Grail when he dies to Alain, who kneels in prayer. From
History of the Holy Grail,
French manuscript, early 14th century.’

Was this anything? he wondered. Was this the reason for the religious revival in Stoyre? Had the superstitious locals been persuaded that someone was going to give them the Holy Grail?

He heard a slight movement behind him and turned round too late. A bag was thrown over his head and his arms were pinned to his sides.

For the next two days, Hamish had to leave speculations about Stoyre alone. A seven-year-old child, Tommy Gilchrist, had gone missing from his home in Braikie. Police combed
Braikie and the area around it. Detective Chief Inspector Blair was in charge of the investigation, and when not holding press conferences, he was making sure that Hamish did not go anywhere near
the parents. He wanted the glory of solving this case all to himself.

Hamish had to rely on snatched conversations with Jimmy Anderson to get news of the background. ‘They seem pretty simple folk,’ said Jimmy. ‘Ian and Morag Gilchrist had the
child late. To my mind, maybe they were a bit strict with the boy. I saw his room. No posters or games or anything you might expect.’

‘What about relatives?’ asked Hamish.

‘An aunt and uncle in Strathbane, nothing there.’

‘Any of his clothes missing?’

‘The things he was wearing to school when he disappeared, that’s all.’

‘Any food or money missing from the house?’

‘I don’t think anyone asked them that. Why?’

‘The wee lad might have done a runner,’ said Hamish.

‘It’s getting on two days. I think maybe he’s had an accident. Oh, here’s Daviot. Run off and knock on some more doors.’

‘Macbeth!’ called Daviot. At the same time as Hamish approached his boss, the squat and sweating figure of Blair came hurrying up. ‘We don’t seem to be getting
anywhere,’ said Daviot.

‘We’re doing our best,’ growled Blair. ‘Go about your duties, Macbeth’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Daviot. ‘Have you had a word with the parents?’ he asked Hamish.

‘No.’

‘No, what?’ barked Blair.

‘No, sir.’

‘I think perhaps you should talk to them.’

‘I don’t see . . .’ began Blair wrathfully, but the superintendent held up his hand. ‘Macbeth knows the people here. He might get something out of the parents that
you’ve missed. Get along and see them.’

Hamish went speedily off to where the Gilchrists lived on a council estate on the edge of town. He explained to the policeman on guard at the door that he had been ordered to speak to the
parents.

He removed his hat and sat down in a chair facing the parents, who were sitting side by side on a sofa, and studied them. They were middle-aged and remarkably alike with their round, chubby
figures and round, impassive faces. Mrs Gilchrist’s rather doughy face showed no traces of weeping. Hamish was uneasily reminded of the villagers of Stoyre. There was a secrecy here, he
thought, his Highland radar sharpening – and righteousness.

‘Just a few questions,’ he said soothingly. ‘You say the boy set out for school as usual but the teachers report he never got there.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Gilchrist, his voice grating and rusty, like the voice of a man who did not speak much.

‘Had Tommy been unhappy?’

‘He had no reason to be unhappy,’ said Mrs Gilchrist. ‘We give him everything.’

‘I notice in the reports there is nothing from his school friends. Did he have a particular friend?’

They looked at each other. Then Mr Gilchrist said, ‘Not that we know of.’

‘But you must be friendly with some of the parents. Mrs Gilchrist?’

‘We keep ourselves to ourselves.’

‘May I see the boy’s room?’

Mrs Gilchrist rose heavily and moved to the door. Hamish followed her. She walked upstairs and pushed open a door.

Jimmy never said it was as bad as this, thought Hamish.

The room had a narrow bed, a thin tall wardrobe, a hard chair and a desk. There was a bedside table with a copy of the Bible on it. Hamish stood very still, sensing the air around him.

‘Let’s go downstairs again,’ he said. ‘Just a few more questions.’

He sat down again and faced Mrs Gilchrist as she sank down on to the sofa. ‘Did Tommy go the kirk?’

‘Aye,’ said Mr Gilchrist proudly. ‘Every Sabbath without fail. He goes with us to the kirk in the morning and then Bible class in the afternoon and Bible reading in the
evening.’

‘That’s an awfy lot of religion for a wee boy.’

‘There’s never enough religion,’ said Mr Gilchrist, his eyes burning.

‘Do you mind? I’ll just have a look outside at your back garden.’

They said nothing, just sat and stared at him. Hamish went through the kitchen at the back, opened the door and banged it shut with himself on the inside. He slid open various drawers until he
found one with a number of keys in it. He selected a small silver one. As quietly as a cat, he tiptoed back to where he had seen a padlocked cupboard under the stairs when he had come down from
Tommy’s room. He slid the key into the padlock and opened the door. Two terrified eyes stared up at him. Tommy Gilchrist was bound and gagged.

Hamish rushed to the front door and flung it open and shouted, ‘He’s here!’

Then he ran back in and lifted the boy out as police erupted into the house and crowded round him. The boy began to cry. Hamish untied him and removed the gag and, lifting him gently in his
arms, carried him outside. From the living room came the angry voice of Jimmy Anderson charging the parents with cruelty and neglect.

‘We’ve rung for an ambulance,’ said the policewoman. ‘Poor wee man. His parents must be monsters.’

‘I think they’re religious fanatics,’ said Hamish grimly. ‘But, hush, no more talking in front of the boy.’

Camera flashes were going off in Hamish’s face. The press had arrived. Hamish turned to the policewoman and whispered, ‘He’s fouled himself bad. They didn’t even let him
get to the toilet. Get in there and get pyjamas and clean clothes.’

The ambulance didn’t take long to arrive, but it seemed like an age to Hamish. He lifted the boy tenderly inside. The policewoman, carrying a small suitcase with Tommy’s clothes, got
in and Hamish handed her the boy.

Blair, seated in the local pub at the bar and cradling a large whisky, was just saying to the barman, ‘It’s a waste o’ police time, if you ask me. He’s
probably fallen off a rock or into a tarn up on the moors.’

Then he heard the sound of a siren speeding past the pub. He gulped down his drink and rushed out. The first thing he saw was the crowd outside the Gilchrists’ house and Mr and Mrs
Gilchrist being led out to a police car.

He grabbed hold of Jimmy Anderson after brutally shoving his way to the front of the crowd. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Hamish found Tommy tied up in a cupboard under the stairs. Man, we didnae even think to search the house.’ Jimmy added maliciously, ‘Ye should ha’ been here. The press
got some right fine pictures of Macbeth carrying the wee boy.’

‘What prompted those parents to do such a dreadful thing?’ Hamish asked Jimmy when they were sitting that evening in the police station in Lochdubh.

‘They found a copy o’
Playboy
magazine under his mattress. They said the devil had got into him and it was up to them to starve it out of him.’

‘They’re the devils. What’s going to happen to the boy?’

‘The aunt and uncle are at the hospital, Mr and Mrs Clair. They’re regular folks and seem right fond of the boy. I hope they get the care of him. Daviot’s had us all on the
carpet. Why didn’t we search the house? Well, for God’s sake, how did you think of that? I mean, when a child goes missing and the parents have reported it, you don’t think to
search their house.’

‘I saw the boy’s room. The mother hadn’t been crying. I saw the Bible by the bed. But why did they report him missing?’

‘They didn’t. There’s a young schoolteacher who teaches Tommy. When he didn’t show, she went round to the house. The parents said he had set out for school and that was
that. So she began to ask questions around the town and then she phoned the police.’

‘Can I come in?’ called Elspeth, opening the kitchen door.

Before Hamish could reply, she walked in and sat down with them. ‘You’re the hero of the hour,’ she said to Hamish. ‘You’ll get that promotion yet, like it or not.
But I’ve another mystery for you.’

‘Like what?’

‘No one’s seen Mr Jefferson about the place and the car’s missing. I’ve just been up to his cottage. The door was locked, but I found a window at the back and climbed
in.’