Death of Yesterday (10 page)

“You have been told she was pregnant?”

“Yes. It was a great shock. The Morag I knew had no interest in men.”

“Would she be tempted by money? Say she came across some rich man.”

“I don’t think so. I know she did want a baby. But she had planned to get one by artificial insemination.”

“Any record of that?”

“No, Scotland Yard checked everywhere.”

“Did she talk about people in the factory?”

“Very dismissively,” said Celia. “She said they were a bunch of morons. But she would enjoy that.”

“Why?”

“I loved Morag but I wasn’t blind to her faults. It was almost as if she was compelled to look down on people to bolster up
her self-worth. She was a good graphic artist, but there are lots of them around and she couldn’t get work. The idea of going
up to the Highlands amused her.”

“Didn’t she mention any men at all?”

“Look, we had a quarrel about a month before she was murdered. I had been getting a bit tired of her high-and-mighty attitude.
I have a prospect of a good job with an advertising company. She went very sour when I told her and said, ‘I don’t think your
work will be up to it. Aren’t you afraid?’ I told her to find somewhere else to live. But she got the job before she found
anything else. I told her not to speak to me again. But she did. She had to brag about the hypnotist and how someone had drugged
her. Did you say your name was Hamish Macbeth?”

“Yes.”

“Morag said you really fancied her.”

“Not even the slightest bit,” said Hamish coldly. “Write down my number and if you can think of any little thing, let me know.”

At the police station, Dick chortled gleefully when Hamish told him of Priscilla’s rescue.

“A grand lassie,” said Dick. “Oh, while you were out, I got a call. A woman over in Southey says her man went out last night
and didnae come home. I told her to wait a bit.”

“What’s his name?”

“Bob Macdonald. A crofter.”

“We’d better get over there and look into it. He could be lying out in his fields.”

“Och, do we have to? He’ll probably be home when we get there.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Hamish curtly. “Get your uniform on. And switch that television off!”

Southey was more of a hamlet than a village, a huddle of houses in front of a curve of white sand. Great Atlantic waves were
crashing on the beach, their tops whipped back by the gale.

The Macdonalds’ croft house was on a rise above the village. As they drove up, a small round woman with greying hair came
out to meet them.

She led the way into a small parlour. The room smelled of furniture polish. It was obviously only used for special occasions.

“When did you last see him?” asked Hamish.

“It would be just afore teatime. About five o’clock. He was just going out to check the fences, but he never came back.”

“Have the locals been out looking for him?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “They won’t move. They don’t like him. Our neighbour, Bella Robertson, left him her house and
croft in her will. Her son and daughter are furious and they’re trying to break the will. Everyone’s sided with them.”

“Would anyone attack him?”

“We’re all God-fearing people here,” she said. “No one would dream of it.”

“What about the sheepdog?”

“Came back on his own. I took the dog back out and searched the fields.”

“We’ll go and have a look.”

Hamish and Dick searched fields high and wide with the sheepdog, Cally, following at their heels.

“He could be anywhere,” groaned Dick, puffing and panting.

“We need a bloodhound,” said Hamish. “You would think Cally would find his master. Let’s try the beach.”

“Can I no’ just sit in the Land Rover?” pleaded Dick. “Your ain beasties will be wanting a bit of air.”

“Oh, go on,” said Hamish impatiently.

He strode over the fields and down onto the beach, his boots sinking in the soft sand. Out to the west, black clouds were
beginning to pile up. Ribbons of white sand blown by the wind snaked in front of him. He walked to where the cliffs began
at the west end of the beach. He climbed up to the top of the cliffs and stood, holding on to his hat, scanning round about
through a pair of binoculars.

And then, on the top of a flat rock, buffeted by the rising tide, he saw what looked at first like a pile of rags. Then with
a lurch in his stomach, he found he was looking at a body.

He started to climb down towards the rock. The large rock was sloping on the shore side, rising to its flat top where a man
lay. Hamish scrambled up. The man had been tied down with ropes held by spikes driven into the rock. Hamish felt for a pulse
and found a faint flicker. The tide was coming in fast and the man’s clothes were soaked. Hamish took out a knife and cut
the ropes. He phoned Dick and shouted that he needed air-sea rescue and a defibrillator out of the Land Rover and warm blankets.
He told him where he was.

The tide was coming in. A great wave crashed against the rock. He gently sledged the man down the slope of the rock and then,
his muscles cracking with the strain, lifted him up and laid him on a flat piece of shingle at the base of the cliffs, out
of the wind and away from the rising tide.

Dick arrived and came scrambling to join him, followed by Mrs. Macdonald. “It’s my man,” she wailed. “Is he dead?”

“I’m trying to keep him alive.” Hamish opened the man’s clothes and applied the pads of the defibrillator.

“He’s still with us,” muttered Hamish. “I hear that helicopter. Get on the beach and signal to them, Dick.”

Hamish sighed with relief as paramedics rushed up with a stretcher. He was carried to the helicopter that had landed on the
beach. His wife followed him into the helicopter.

“Now,” said Hamish, taking out his phone. “Let’s see who was trying to kill him.”

After he had finished calling headquarters and asked them to find out the addresses of Bella Robertson’s son and daughter,
he retreated to the Land Rover and waited.

“This is a bad business,” said Dick. “What’s happened to Sutherland? I’ve got some emergency rations in the back and a flask
of coffee. I don’t know about you, but I could do with something.”

After half an hour, Jimmy phoned to say that he was on the road. Bella Robertson’s son and daughter shared a flat in Braikie.
But Hamish was ordered to wait where he was.

At last Jimmy arrived with three detectives and a squad of policemen followed closely by the forensic van. Hamish took them
to the rock and pointed out the ropes and spikes. They retreated before a great wave as the tide nearly engulfed the rock.

“The idea,” said Hamish, “must have been to leave him until he drowned, then come back and remove the evidence of the spikes
and rope and maybe tip him down the rock so that it would look like natural causes. It’s a miracle the man survived at all.”

Police and detectives then spread out to interview the villagers. Jimmy suggested that he, Hamish, and Dick should go to Braikie
to interview the son and daughter. “Neither of them’s married,” he said. “Dorothy Robertson works in a local café and Ian
Robertson is at home on disability.”

He peered into the back of the Land Rover. “Do you have to take thae beasts with you everywhere, Hamish?”

“They’re not bothering anyone,” said Hamish crossly. “Let’s get on the road.”

The son and daughter lived in a small bungalow on the edge of the town.

Hamish glanced at his watch as Jimmy rang the doorbell. Six o’clock! Would he ever be able to meet Priscilla for dinner?

The door was opened by a scrawny woman in her thirties. Her mouth was turned down at the corners, witness to the highland
curse of getting all one’s teeth removed after the first toothache. She had protruding brown eyes under heavy brows and hair
scraped back from her face.

“Police!” said Jimmy. “May we come in?”

“I was just going out. I’m due to start my shift.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” snapped Jimmy. “If you don’t let us in, we’ll take you to police headquarters.”

She stood back and let them past. She opened the door to a cluttered living room. A man, presumably her brother, Ian, was
sitting in a wheelchair in front of the television.

“What’s this about?” she demanded. Her brother switched off the television and moved his chair round. He had thinning hair
combed in strips over a pink scalp and a long, lugubrious face.

“Bob Macdonald was found tied to a rock on the beach in Southey.”

“That’s awful,” said Dorothy. “But what’s it got to do with us?”

“You are reported as being bitter that Bella Robertson left the croft to Bob Macdonald. You are contesting the will.”

“It wasn’t fair. But what the hell’s it got to do with us?”

“Where were you around five o’clock yesterday afternoon?” asked Jimmy.

“Here! With my brother. He’s disabled as you can see. How could either of us go up to Southey and overpower Bob and tie him
to a rock?”

Jimmy’s phone rang. He went outside to answer it.

“Why are you disabled?” asked Hamish.

“I was working on construction and took a fall,” said Ian.

“And when was this?”

“This time last year, over at the new office building on the other side of the town.”

Jimmy came back. “Bob Macdonald was struck a blow on the head, rendering him unconscious.”

“We were here all the time!” shrieked Dorothy. “Now get out!”

“We’ll be back with a search warrant,” said Jimmy.

Outside, Jimmy said, “I’m going for a drink. They’ll phone me when the search warrant is being brought over. But it cannae
be them. Someone strong had to have moved that body.”

“Ian Robertson’s got powerful arms on him,” said Hamish.

“Aye, but he’s in a wheelchair.”

“Jimmy, I think we ought to wait a bit in case they make a run for it.”

“I need a drink.”

“I’ve a flask of brandy in the back of the vehicle.”

“Oh, well fish it out.”

“We’d better look as if we’re going away,” said Hamish. “We can park round the corner and watch from the end of the street.
Their house is a bit isolated so there’ll be no nosy neighbours to tell them we’re still here.”

Half an hour dragged past. Then the door opened and Dorothy appeared carrying two suitcases, which she put into the back of
a Subaru estate car.

“Wait!” urged Hamish as Jimmy would have run forward. “Wait for the brother.”

The door opened and Ian appeared pushing his wheelchair, which he loaded in the back.

“That’s it!” cried Jimmy. “Let’s get them!”

Ian fought hard until Hamish was able to disable him, bring him down, and clip on a pair of handcuffs. Jimmy charged him with
faking a disability and his sister with enabling him. He called for backup.

When brother and sister were taken away, the search warrant arrived, along with the Scenes of Crime Operatives. Hamish and
Jimmy waited outside. Back at the end of the street, Dick took out a folding canvas chair and sat down, placidly watching
the dog and cat run around.

“Do I have to wait?” asked Hamish, glancing at his watch.

“You’d better,” said Jimmy. “If they don’t find any evidence, we’re stuffed.”

Hamish felt he should phone Priscilla but kept putting it off, hoping he would still have time to get to the restaurant by
eight o’clock.

“It’s a wonder none of the villagers in Southey saw anything,” said Jimmy.

“You would have to stand on the cliff and look down to see that rock,” said Hamish. “They probably knocked Bob on the head
and put him in the wheelchair. You know what teatime in the Highlands is like. Nobody moves outdoors.”

Jimmy’s phone rang again. When he had finished his call, he said, “Good news. Bob Macdonald is going to recover. Thank God
it was a warm night or he’d have surely died of cold and exposure. So that should wrap things up.”

“I’d better get back to the police station and type up my report,” said Hamish.

“All right. Off you go. Oh, wait a bit. They’ve found something.”

Hamish fretted while Jimmy talked to a white-coated figure, carrying a box. “Spikes!” he said, returning to Hamish.

“Great,” said Hamish. “Come along, Dick.”

Hamish raced to Lochdubh. His report would have to wait. He left Dick and his pets at the station and hurried along to the
restaurant, still wearing his uniform.

Priscilla smiled as he joined her at the table. “It must have been something urgent,” she said. “But you’re only about ten
minutes late.”

After they had placed their order and got rid of Willie, who showed a desire to hang over the table, Hamish described the
two cases.

“How did you guess the man in the wheelchair was faking?” she asked.

“They were the likeliest suspects and sooner or later we would have traced them back to the attempted murder. But I got this
feeling about him. Something bad. I wish I could get the same feeling about some of the suspects in the Cnothan murders.”

“Maybe,” suggested Priscilla, “you’ve been looking at them all at once. Say you were to go back and talk to each of your suspects
individually and see if you can sense something about them.”

“I’ll try that,” said Hamish. “I can’t sit back and just let a murderer roam loose. How are things with you?”

“Pretty much the same.”

“Is the recession hitting the hotel?”

“Not at the moment. The whole hotel has been booked up by the executives of the Northern Scottish Bank and their wives.”

“But that’s wicked!” exclaimed Hamish. “The Tommel Castle Hotel is expensive, and that bank’s already had to be bailed out
by the taxpayer.”

“That’s banks for you,” said Priscilla. “They live in a different world. They go on like the French royal family before the
revolution. The press have got wind of it, so there’ll be another scandal. It’s cynical of me, but it will do the hotel no
harm. They’ll photograph everything and exaggerate the luxury. How is Elspeth?”

“I haven’t heard a word.”

They talked amiably through the rest of the meal about people they knew and old murder cases.

After dinner, he escorted her to her car. Overcome by a sudden impulse, he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.
For one glorious moment, he felt her response, and then she went rigid in his arms. He released her.

“Enough of that nonsense, Hamish,” she said. Priscilla got in her car and drove off, leaving him standing miserably on the
waterfront.

He made his way slowly back to the police station.

“What’s up with you?” asked Dick.

“You give your heart to someone,” said Hamish bitterly, “and all they can say is ‘Enough of that nonsense, Hamish.’”

Hamish spent the following morning avoiding the press who wanted details of what they were calling the Wheelchair Murder.
Fortunately, Superintendent Daviot—always keen to appear on television—arrived in Lochdubh to hold a press conference on the
waterfront.

Hamish and Dick drove off to Cnothan with Sonsie and Lugs in the back.

When they arrived at the factory, a busload of tourists was just arriving. Hamish watched them walking in. He suddenly wished
he knew more about Morag’s past. It would be easy for someone to arrive as a tourist, separate from the group, and waylay
her. But the procurator fiscal’s report claimed she had been killed elsewhere. Morag had no immediate family. A second cousin
had seen to the funeral arrangements.

He decided to start with Pete Eskdale. It was nearly lunchtime but he doubted Pete would want to eat in the factory canteen.

While Dick took the animals off for some exercise, Hamish waited by Pete’s car. Promptly at one o’clock he came out. He stiffened
slightly at the sight of Hamish and then arranged his features in a friendly smile.

“Can I help you?”

“Just a wee talk,” said Hamish.

“Join me for lunch? I was just about to drive over to the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

“I doubt if you’ll find a place,” said Hamish. “It’s full of press and bankers.”

“Damn! The food in Cnothan is vile. Oh, well, I suppose it’ll have to be the workers’ canteen. Join me?”

“I’ll have a coffee.”

When they were settled at a table, Hamish studied the personnel officer. His suit, shirt, and silk tie looked expensive. Had
he been fiddling the books? He had claimed that his lottery win had been dissipated by alimony. But Geordie Fleming did the
accounts.

“It’s like this,” began Hamish. “I can’t leave these murders unsolved. Morag’s murder must have been something to do with
her pregnancy. Or maybe she found out something else.”

“No use asking me,” said Pete. “I’ve batted my brains. Look. I know all these people at the factory. I know their backgrounds.
Not one of them is capable of one murder, let alone three.”

“It would surprise you how often innocent-looking people can turn out to be villains.”

Pete nervously smoothed back his ginger hair. He poked a fork into a square of lasagne. “This canteen is good for the figure,”
he said. “Can barely eat the stuff.”

“When you were in London, interviewing Morag, did you sleep with her?”

“No, I did not. And that’s been checked out with about all the staff at the hotel I stayed at. I mean, she thought she was
God’s gift, but she was no looker. I’m not so desperate that I have to get my leg over women who look like Morag Merrilea.”

“What about Hannah Fleming?”

“Never touched her. Thought about it. Took her to lunch. What a bore she turned out to be!”

And I never knew until it was too late, thought Hamish with a sharp pang of guilt.

He remembered Priscilla’s advice. Pete was shifty about something. But people often got nervous and irrationally guilty when
questioned by the police.

“How is the factory doing?” he asked.

“We’re doing great. We’re going to bring out an upmarket line. Freda Crichton’s a genius. We plan to hold a fashion show down
in Inverness in the autumn. I’ve employed a publicist. Wee lassie called Joan Friend. Bags of oomph.”

“Where did you get her from?”

“I spotted her in Inverness. She was hosting a fund-raiser for Scottish soldiers injured in Afghanistan. Real livewire.”

“I would like to meet her,” said Hamish, thinking that a pair of fresh eyes at the factory might have noticed something.

“She doesn’t start until next week.”

“Have you got her address?”

“She’s right here in Cnothan, settling in. You’ll find her at Cairn cottage in the High Street, right opposite the butchers.
What do you want to talk to her about?”

“I’d like her opinion of people in the factory.”

“She hasn’t had time to get to know anyone.”

“You never know.”

“I wish you’d leave us alone,” said Pete, pushing his plate of food away from him. “We’re a great bunch of people.”

“I’m convinced that somewhere in that great bunch of people there is a murderer,” said Hamish. He got up and left, leaving
Pete staring after him.

Once outside, Hamish could not see the Land Rover. He started to walk towards the High Street. It was a steel-grey day. A
light breeze ruffled the pewter-coloured waters of the loch. Long black streamers of cloud were moving across the sky from
the west. Hamish could smell rain.

In the High Street, he could see the Land Rover parked outside the café. Dick was no doubt eating as usual and finding food
for Sonsie and Lugs. He decided to leave him to it, although feeling guilty that he had fallen into the bad habit of treating
Dick more like a convenient animal minder rather than a policeman.

Cairn cottage was actually a thirties-style pebble-dashed two-storey building. It fronted directly onto the street. He rang
the bell and waited.

The door was opened by a small figure with curly black hair and rosy cheeks.

“Miss Friend?”

“That’s me. What’s up?”

“Nothing serious,” said Hamish soothingly. “I heard you were about to start work at the factory. I am investigating the recent
murders.”

“You’d better come in. It’s a mess. I’m still unpacking. Come through to the kitchen.”

The kitchen looked frozen in the early fifties. There was a Belfast sink with brass taps. An old Hoover washing machine, the
kind you emptied by putting a hose in the sink, crouched in one corner. The gas cooker had a door of chipped green enamel.
Wooden shelves painted sulphureous yellow held a variety of dishes, not one of them matching. In the middle of the linoleum-covered
floor was a white plastic-topped table surrounded by four white plastic chairs.

“I’ve taken the place furnished,” said Joan. “It’s all pretty awful. Want coffee? I brought my own machine.”

Hamish studied her while she prepared the coffee. She was wearing a faded blue T-shirt and worn jeans. Her figure was plump.
She had very wide blue eyes and a generous mouth.

When the coffee was ready, they sat down, facing each other. “So what’s it all about?” she asked.

“It’s about these murders,” said Hamish. “You’re new. I was hoping you might be able to find out something about the people
at the factory.”

“Be a police nark?”

“That sounds bad. I’m at my wit’s end. I just want you to keep your eyes open and see if you can
sense
anything about anyone.”

“I suppose I can do that,” she said slowly. “I took the job because the fashions are exciting. It’s an awful thing to say
but the murders won’t do us any harm. It’ll bring more press than would normally be interested in a provincial fashion show.
Is there anyone you want me to take a good look at?”

“No one in particular. I need someone to take a new look at all the people there. Here’s my card. Phone me about the least
little thing you think might be helpful.”

When Hamish walked back down the High Street, he considered joining Dick who was still in the café, but was suddenly overtaken
by a burning resentment towards the man.

How could he, Hamish Macbeth, ever settle down and get married with Dick around, playing housewife? He felt crowded and wanted
his old solitary life back, where he could dream of some woman coming into his life.

Instead, he went back to the factory and asked to speak to Freda Crichton. He was led through to a studio at the back of the
factory.

Freda was working on designs. She hailed him by saying, “I’ve got my own studio now. It’s great. What brings you?”

“Still working on the murders,” said Hamish. He sat down next to her. He decided he could not imagine such as Freda committing
three murders.