Death of Yesterday (2 page)

“Did Morag Merrilea turn up for work yesterday?”

“As a matter of fact, she didn’t. I meant to send someone to check on her on Monday if she was still absent.”

“She left a postcard on the door of her flat saying she had gone to London.”

“Isn’t that just typical of staff these days!” raged Gilchrist. “Well, if you come across her, tell her she’s fired.”

“Did she say anything about going to see a hypnotist?”

“No. A hypnotist? Why?”

Hamish explained about the suspected drugged drink and the missing sketchbook.

“Oh, that? She was complaining about that all over the place. She did drink a fair bit. She was in the habit of making things
up.”

“Is there anyone she was close to?”

“She kept herself to herself.”

Like the whole of bloody Cnothan, thought Hamish.

Dick and Hamish next went to the Highlander pub. Pubs all over Britain had been smartened up with restaurants and pleasant
decor, but the Highlander had been unmoved by time. There was one dim room with scarred tables and rickety chairs. The walls
were still brown with nicotine from the days before the smoking ban. The only food on offer was in a glass case on the counter:
tired-looking sandwiches and a solitary mutton pie.

Hamish recognised the barman and owner, Stolly Maguire. Stolly was polishing a glass with a dirty rag when they approached
him. He was a thickset man with a bald head wearing a tank top strained over a beer belly.

Hamish explained they were trying to find out the whereabouts of Morag Merrilea.

“Thon artist?” said Stolly. “Havenae seen her. Usually comes in Saturday evening.”

“Two Saturdays ago,” said Hamish patiently, “did you notice anyone approaching her table when she went to the toilet?”

“Naw. It was fair busy.”

Hamish turned round and surveyed the customers, a mixture of crofters, shepherds, builders, and the unemployed.

“Which one of them was here two Saturdays ago?”

“I cannae mind,” said Stolly. “Ask them? I saw her collapsing outside the door and phoned for an ambulance.”

So Hamish and Dick went from table to table to receive surly answers to the effect that they had seen her on that Saturday
but hadn’t noticed anyone taking her sketchbook or putting something in her drink.

But a youth with greasy hair said he had noticed a stranger. “Can you describe him?” asked Hamish. “What is your name?”

“Fergus McQueen.”

“Well, Fergus, what did he look like?”

“Hard tae tell. He had wan o’ thae baseball caps pulled right down. Small and skinny.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Black T-shirt, black jeans.”

“The cap. Did it have a logo on it?”

“Naw. It was dark green with an orange stripe.”

“Give me your address. We may want you to come to Strathbane and help a police artist make a sketch.”

Back at Lochdubh, Hamish sat down at the computer in the police station office and sent over a report. He felt uneasy. It
was too much of a coincidence that she should disappear when she had an appointment with the hypnotist.

To his amazement, he got a call from Detective Sergeant Jimmy Anderson later that day. “Blair’s decided to look into it,”
he said.

“Why? I thought he’d delight in shooting the whole thing down,” said Hamish.

“I think he feels if there is a crime, then he wants to be the one to solve it. You’ve stolen his glory too many times.”

“I’d better get back to Cnothan and join him.”

“He says you’re to sit tight and look after your sheep and leave it to the experts.”

Hamish groaned. He knew that Blair’s blustering, bullying tactics would make the locals clam up even more.

Hamish waited gloomily for the inevitable. Sure enough it came later with an e-mail from Blair telling him it was a wild goose
chase and to stop wasting police time and, furthermore, never again try to employ the hypnotist without first getting clearance.

But undeterred, Hamish went back to Cnothan, knocking on doors, questioning one after the other without success.

He was furious when he returned to Lochdubh to receive a phone call from Superintendent Daviot. The locals in Cnothan had
complained of police harassment. Blair had found nothing. Hamish was to leave it all alone.

The weather continued to be unusually hot. Three weeks after the disappearance of Morag Merrilea, two men were loading bales
of T-shirts onto a lorry outside Shopmark Fashions when they suddenly stopped their work.

“Thon’s an awfy smell from that bale,” said one, “and it’s heavy, too.”

“Better cut it open,” said his companion. “There’s maybe a dead animal inside.”

They sliced the twine that held the bale and unrolled it.

The dead and decomposing body of Morag Merrilea rolled out and lay lifeless under the eye of the glaring sun.

“You would think,” said Hamish Macbeth angrily, “that such a horror would get folks’ tongues wagging, but they’re all more
closemouthed than ever.”

Blair had given Dick and Hamish the task of knocking at doors in Cnothan to interrogate the villagers. Tired of looking into
blank secretive faces and getting curt nonhelpful replies, they retreated to the café in the main street to console themselves
with cups of bad coffee.

“See, it’s like this,” said Dick. “There was a village here that was supposed to be right friendly but along came the Hydro
Electric Board, built the dam and made the loch, and the old village was drowned. So folks say there’s a curse on the place.”

“Havers!” said Hamish. “They were all rehoused. No one was drowned to come back and haunt the place.”

“Aye, but the church was buried in the water. They say when doom is coming, you can hear the old bells.”

“My mother remembers the old village,” said Hamish, “and she said they were a right lot of bastards. I hate being sidelined.”

“Jimmy Anderson will fill you in. I just this minute saw him heading up the main street to the pub.”

“Right! Let’s go and see if he’s got anything.”

Jimmy was seated in a corner of the Highlander pub, drinking a double whisky.

“Any luck, Hamish?” he asked.

“What do you think,” said Hamish crossly. “I feel like arresting the whole village and charging them with obstructing the
police in their enquiries.”

“While you’re at it, you can charge the whole factory as well,” said Jimmy. “Sit down and have a drink.”

“I’ll get the drinks,” said Dick. “Fancy another, sir?”

“That’d be grand.”

“What will you be having, Hamish, er…sir?”

“Tomato juice.”

“Blair’s furious,” said Jimmy, his foxy face and bloodshot blue eyes alight with amusement. “‘I wouldnae put it past Hamish
to murder the lassie himself just tae upset me’ is one of his choicest remarks.”

“I’ve got to find a young man called Fergus McQueen,” said Hamish. “He saw a youth in the pub the evening Morag’s sketchbook
was stolen. He lives in a room up on the brae. I called there but got no reply.”

“Try his work?”

“He’s unemployed.”

Dick came back with the drinks. “I think I should go back up there,” said Hamish, “and get a look at his room.”

“You’ll need a search warrant.”

“The landlord might let us in. We could aye say that someone told us there was a smell o’ gas.”

“Wait till I finish this drink,” said Jimmy, “and then we may as well go. We’ve got nothing else.”

Up above the village, near where Morag had lived, stood a tall Scottish Georgian building with some of the windows still bricked
up, dating from the days when house owners wanted to avoid the window tax.

As they entered the gloomy entrance hall, Jimmy remarked that he bet not much had been done to renovate the old building except
to split the large rooms with thin partitions into smaller ones.

Although the day was warm outside, the inside was cold. The landlord was English, a small, wiry man called Jason Clement,
who, to their surprise, seemed delighted to show them Fergus’s room. “He’s a good lad,” he said, leading the way upstairs.
“Always pays his rent on the nail.”

“You can’t charge that much,” said Hamish, “unless he’s working off the books somewhere.”

“Don’t ask as long as I get paid,” said Jason. “Here we are.” He unlocked a door on the second landing and flung it open.

It was a very small room with half a window, the other half presumably belonging to the room next door. It was simply furnished
with a small table, three chairs, a narrow bed, and a desk. A curtained alcove served as a wardrobe.

“No kitchen or bathroom,” commented Hamish.

“My guests use the bathroom on the first floor and the kitchen on the ground floor,” said Jason.

“What brought you up from England?” asked Hamish.

“Quality of life.”

“What! In Cnothan?”

“It’s beautiful round here. I do a bit of fishing. Suits me.”

Jimmy drew back the curtain of the “wardrobe.” “Clothes are all here,” he said, “and a suitcase.” He opened the suitcase.
“Empty.”

Outside, a cloud passed over the sun and Hamish repressed a shiver. “I don’t like this, Jimmy,” he said. “I think me and Dick
ought to stay here and see if he comes back. He’s by way of being the only witness we’ve got.”

“Suit yourself.” Jimmy’s phone rang. He glanced at it. “Blair on the warpath,” he said. “I’m not answering it, but I’d better
get back down to the factory.”

Hamish sat down on a hard chair and looked around the room. It did not look like a young man’s room. There was no computer,
no posters to brighten the walls. He wished now that he had asked Fergus more about himself. The door opened but it was only
Dick, who had opted to stay outside and had become bored.

“I’ve just thought o’ something,” said Hamish. “I can’t remember seeing any sketchbooks at all in Morag’s flat. She might
have had a sketch of Fergus.”

“Maybe she took them with her when she left,” said Dick.

“But she didnae leave,” exclaimed Hamish, exasperated.

“We going to sit here all day?” asked Dick.

“If that’s what it takes.”

Dick sat down opposite Hamish on another hard chair. He closed his eyes, folded his plump hands over his stomach, and fell
asleep.

The hours dragged past. A seagull screamed harshly outside the window. Somewhere a dog barked. Sounds of cooking filtered
from downstairs.

“I’ll go and interview the other tenants,” said Hamish.

Dick gave a gentle snore.

“Useless,” muttered Hamish and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

Three men were seated at the table, eating bacon, eggs, and fried haggis. “I want to ask you about Fergus McQueen,” said Hamish,
taking out his notebook. “When did you last see him?”

A burly man with thinning grey hair and dazzlingly white dentures said, “Cannae mind. Quiet wee soul. Us three work at the
forestry. Fergus just mooches around.”

“Hamish!”

Hamish swung round. Jimmy was standing in the doorway. “Come outside. I’ve got something.”

Hamish followed him outside the house. “It’s like this,” said Jimmy. “Our Fergus has a wee police record. Petty theft. His
parents live in Dingwall. He might have gone there.”

“Give me the address and I’ll get over there,” said Hamish.

“No point. Dingwall police have got it covered.”

“Jimmy, Morag was aye sketching folk. But I can’t remember seeing any sketchbooks in her flat.”

“When the murderer put that card on her door,” said Jimmy patiently, “it stands to reason he went in and took away anything
incriminating. There wasn’t a mobile phone or a computer in the place. There’s something else. A preliminary examination of
the body shows she was strangled with a scarf. Also, she was three months’ pregnant. The local doctor finally coughed up,
after the usual complaints about patient confidentiality, that she had been consulting him about it.”

“That means she was having an affair,” said Hamish. “Surely someone knew who the man was?”

“Maybe. But by the time Blair had finished shouting and yelling, I doubt if anyone wanted to confide in him.”

“Where is Blair now?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Stormed off, threatening to return in the morning.”

“I’m going to ask around the place now he’s gone. Is the factory shut up for the evening?”

“There’s a late shift.”

“I’ll get down there,”

“See you tomorrow,” said Jimmy.

In his eagerness to find out something—anything—to break the case, Hamish forgot about Dick.

The lights from the factory were reflected in the black waters of the loch. He could hear the clatter of sewing machines.
He was somehow surprised that sewing machines were still used, having imagined that some computer technology might have taken
over.

It was a small enterprise, he had learned, helped by government funding to bring work to this part of the Highlands. There
were eight women busy at the sewing machines while a supervisor walked up and down, checking their work.

Hamish approached her. He guessed she was in her fifties with a pouchy raddled face and piggy eyes.

“No’ the polis again!” she shouted above the clattering of the machines.

Hamish gave her a charming smile. “I’m sure these ladies can look after themselves for a bit while we have a dram in the pub.”

“Aye, weel, I wouldnae say no.”

To Hamish’s relief, the pub on the waterfront that the staff used, the Loaming, was fairly quiet. The supervisor, who had
introduced herself as Maisie Moffat, asked for a vodka and Red Bull. Hamish got a tonic water for himself and guided her to
a table in the corner.

She took a swig of her drink and then said, “I suppose ye want to know about the dead lassie.”

“She was pregnant,” said Hamish. “Three months. Might you have an idea who the man might be?”

“When herself arrived three months ago, I mind she was stepping out wi’ Geordie Fleming. I wouldnae tell that cheil, Blair.
Nasty bully. Geordie’s a wee meek creature. It waud be the virgin birth if he had anything tae dae wi’ it. God, I’m gasping
for a fag. Bloody nanny state. Can I have another?”

“Sure,” said Hamish. He made his way to the bar, hoping he could get the drinks on expenses.

When he returned to join her, he asked, “Where does Geordie live?”

“Big hoose along on your left called Ben Cruachan. Cannae miss it. Got wan o’ thae big monkey puzzle trees outside.”

“And what’s his job in the factory?”

“He’s an accountant. Works in a wee office next to where Morag worked.”

“And how long did their relationship last?”

“Och, they went to the films in Strathbane once. Morag was a snotty, nasty piece o’ work. Considered herself too good for
the rest of us. I think she dumped Geordie after a week.”

“Did she have any female friends?”

“Maybe the one. Freda Crichton, works in design. Another snobby bitch.”

“Where does she live?”

“Up the main street. Cottage next tae the post office stores.”

Geordie Fleming’s house was not big. It was a trim bungalow. Hamish looked up at the monkey puzzle tree, wondering if it had
been there before the house was built. It must have been, he decided, to grow to such a size.

He pressed the doorbell and waited.

It never really gets dark at night in the far north of Scotland, more a sort of pearly gloaming, when—so the old people still
believe—the fairies come out to lead unwary highlanders astray.

The door opened and a young woman stood there, looking up at the tall figure of Hamish. She was a highland beauty. She had
a pale white face and brown-gold eyes like peat water. Her thick, black glossy hair fell almost to her waist. She was wearing
a thin cambric blouson over brief shorts and low-heeled strapped sandals.

Hamish whipped off his cap. “Is Mr. Fleming at home?”

“My brother is in the shower. What is this about?”

“I am investigating the death of Morag Merrilea.”

“You’d better come in.”

She led the way into the living room. “Take a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Hamish looked around. It was such a plain, ordinary-looking room to house such a goddess. There was a three-piece suite in
brown cord. A low coffee table held a few fashion magazines. The carpet was brown with swirls of red and yellow. A small television
stood on its metal stand in a corner. There were no photographs, books, or paintings. The room was dimly lit with one standard
lamp in the corner.

Hamish was about to sit down when she returned. He got to his feet. She surveyed the tall policeman with the hazel eyes and
flaming red hair. “Geordie will be with you shortly.”

“I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Sergeant Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh.”

“I’m Hannah Fleming. I’m up from Glasgow.” Her voice had a pleasant lilt. “Do sit down.”

Hamish sat down in one of the armchairs, and she perched on the edge of another.

“Are you here on holiday?”

“Just a short visit,” said Hannah.

“And what do you do in Glasgow, Miss Fleming. It is ‘miss’?”

“Yes. I work as public relations officer for Dollyton Fashions in the arcade in Buchanan Street. Oh, here’s Geordie. I’ll
leave you to it.”

Hamish guessed that Geordie Fleming was possibly in his thirties, although his stooped shoulders and thinning black hair made
him look older. It was hard to believe he was the brother of such a beauty. He was wearing a dressing gown over his pyjamas
and had a pair of battered carpet slippers on his feet.

“I’ve been interviewed already by your boss,” said Geordie crossly. “Is it necessary to go over the whole thing again?”