Death of a Liar Read online

  “Are you going to be in there all day?” shouted Peter.

  “Coming!” She heaved herself to her feet.

  They were just about to leave when there was a knock at the door.

  “Open it and get rid of whoever it is,” whispered Peter.

  Annie opened the door. A small dark man stood there, little more than a dwarf. He had blue tattoos on his cheeks and thick black hair. His eyes were as black as coals. In an odd accent, he shouted, “Peter!”

  Peter emerged. “Come with me,” said the little man, and without a backwards glance, Peter walked off with him.

  Annie rushed back into the house. She had no doubt at all that her prayer had been heard and that the King of the Fairies had sent a messenger to get rid of the horrible man.

  Two days later, Mrs. Mackay in Cromish said to Dick, “There’s a real odd story going around about the fairies rescuing a woman.”

  Dick loved a gossip, so he leaned up against the counter of the shop and prepared to listen. “It’s this old woman, Annie MacDougal, lives way up in the hills between there and Cromish. Never usually talks to a soul. But yesterday, she was a bit tipsy and she speaks to her nearest neighbour for the first time in years. She says a man held her up with a gun and said he was going to stay with her, so she prayed to the King o’ the Fairies for deliverance and he sent a wee man to take the villain away.”

  Dick thought about the story later and phoned Hamish. “What do you think?” he asked when he had finished.

  “I was always worried that our missing Peter Gaunt would try to hole up somewhere remote,” said Hamish. “I’ll take a run up there and talk to her.”

  Hamish cursed the long, dark winter nights as he stood outside Annie’s cottage and looked around. Although it was only three in the afternoon, it was already dark. Huge boulders left behind when the glaciers had retreated stood in the fields like so many humpbacked men. The wind moaned through the heather.

  He knew that a belief in fairies existed in the Highlands and islands. The Macdonalds of Dunvegan still claimed that their flag had been given to them by the fairies. The fairies were reported to be an erratic people, sometimes helping in time of need but often stealing children from cradles and playing malicious tricks. They lived underground in grassy knolls.

  He knocked at the door. Annie opened it and looked him up and down, noticing his uniform, and thinking bleakly that the last time a policeman had called it was to tell her of the death of her children.

  Hamish removed his cap. “May I come in? There’s nothing wrong. I just happened to hear your story of a gunman.”

  Annie nodded her head and stood aside to let him enter. She wished now that she had not spent some of that money on whisky and so told the tale to her neighbour.

  They sat down in hard-backed chairs on either side of the peat fire.

  “I don’t know that I should talk about it,” she said. “The fairies might not want me to say anything.”

  Hamish thought, with some amusement, that Annie was lucky he was highland. Blair, who hailed from Glasgow, would have damned her as certifiable.

  “I’m sure they won’t mind,” he said soothingly. “It must have been an awful experience.”

  But she began to talk about all the things that had happened to her in her life, all the tragedies and how God had not listened to her prayers. Everything was so quick these days, thought Hamish. Annie belonged to the pre-television era when everyone told long stories and everyone else listened. The asthmatic old clock on the mantel had chimed out the passing of an hour before Annie got to the visit of the gunman.

  Hamish interrupted to ask for a description. It sounded like Peter Gaunt. When she got to the bit about her prayer to the King of the Fairies, her sharp eyes scanned his face looking for signs of ridicule, but found none. When she got to the visit from the “fairy,” Hamish longed to ask her what nationality she thought the man might be, and then realised it would be useless. If he took her to Strathbane to use a sketch artist or the new identikit programme on the computer, he would be asked to report what he was doing.

  Then he remembered there was a clever artist in Lochinver called Malcolm Douglas. Malcolm mostly painted landscapes, but in the summer he augmented his income by drawing portraits of the tourists.

  Hamish explained carefully how he would like to get a likeness of the gunman. At first she protested.

  “Come on,” said Hamish. “It would be the grand outing and I will take you for dinner in Lochinver.” Annie could barely remember the last time she had been out for dinner. She at last agreed and Hamish had to wait until she took an old fur coat out of its wrappings so that she would be “suitably” dressed.

  Hamish went outside to wait for her. His boot caught the saucer of milk outside the door and tipped it over. He phoned Malcolm Douglas, who agreed to try to make pictures of Annie’s visitors. Hamish warned him not to laugh at any mention of fairies.

  Annie came out and locked the door behind her. She saw the spilled milk and let out an exclamation of dismay. “It’s a bad omen,” she cried. “They’ve never rejected my milk afore.”

  Hamish somehow did not want to admit having knocked the milk over. “Probably the wind,” he said. “Let’s get going.”

  In Lochinver, at Malcolm’s studio, Annie turned out to be a good witness, for Peter Gaunt’s appearance was burnt into her brain. Hamish surveyed the drawing with satisfaction. Now, he thought, for the difficult bit.

  “The wee man who came for the gunman. Can you describe him?” he asked.

  “I do not think that would be right,” she said primly.

  “They do the best duck breast at The Caberfeidh,” crooned Hamish. “Melts in your mouth, it does.”

  Annie’s diet before the recent windfall had been food in discounted bashed tins.

  She thought of the spilled milk. It was a sign that they would come for her. Nothing mattered now.

  She gave an accurate description. Hamish studied the result. He thought the fairy could be Mexican or even North African.

  He then took Annie out for dinner, hoping he could put the meal down on expenses.

  Annie ate heartily but regaled Hamish again with all her miseries. “I’ll call on you tomorrow and get you to make a signed statement.”

  “I will not be there.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “The fairies will have taken me. I must pay my debt.”

  People talk about someone being away with the fairies, thought Hamish angrily, but this is ridiculous. He persuaded the restaurant to let him use their computer and printer. He hastily typed out a statement, ran off three copies, and got Annie to sign them.

  He was relieved when he dropped her off. Still, he thought as he drove away, people up here living in areas not even as remote as Annie’s start to go round the bend.

  She decided to write her will. She had little to leave, just a couple of thousand. Annie thought hard. She had no one to leave the money to.

  At last, she left her cottage, money, and belongings to Sergeant Hamish Macbeth of Lochdubh with the request that he build a granite monument to the fairies outside the cottage.

  She then walked to her neighbours and got them to sign her will.

  Annie was panting by the time she got home, and a pain was shooting down her arm. She had just got over the threshold when she suffered a massive heart attack and died.

  Hamish had driven straight to headquarters in Strathbane. He left the sketches and statements for Jimmy before making his weary way back to Lochdubh.

  He was roused early in the morning by Jimmy. “Get back to that auld woman,” said Jimmy, “and see what more you can get out of her. Police Scotland are fed up with us. They are getting together a special team to take over the investigation. Blair is screaming it’s not necessary but word has gone down from that new police commissioner that we’re not getting anywhere.”

  Hamish took his time getting to Annie’s cottage. It was a rare fine day, one of those days in
the north when, even in winter, a balmy breeze blew in from the Gulf Stream and the sky above the mountains was pale blue.

  He stopped on the way there, let the dog and cat out to play, unwrapped a breakfast consisting of a bacon bap, and opened up a flask of coffee. Hamish thought wryly that if Dick had still been with him, a table would have been set and Dick would have been frying up a full breakfast on his camping stove.

  When he was finished, he reluctantly whistled for Sonsie and Lugs, put them into the back of the Land Rover again. He felt guilty at not having told Annie that it had been he who had knocked over that saucer of milk. Odd that this belief in fairies should persist. Some thought of them as tiny creatures, dressed in green; others like Annie believed they were more like elves.

  The first thing he saw with a sinking heart was Annie’s two brogued feet sticking out of her open front door. He stopped the Land Rover and ran to her. There was no pulse, and her face was twisted in a death rictus of agony.

  Hamish felt a superstitious shudder go through him. Black clouds were racing in from the west, and a rising wind keened in the heather.

  He phoned for an ambulance and then phoned police headquarters to report a death that might be suspicious. He dared not go further into the house for fear of disturbing what might turn out to be a crime scene.

  Hamish reflected later that he had never seen so many people at a death scene. A helicopter was the first to arrive with Daviot and a tall, thin grey man with a great beak of a nose overshadowing a small mouth.

  “Sergeant Macbeth,” said Daviot in a cold voice, “this is Detective Chief Superintendent Ross Douglas.”

  “Begin at the beginning,” said Douglas.

  Hamish told him about Annie’s adventures and how he had to take a statement from her at the restaurant because she was sure the fairies would come for her during the night. Cars and vans screeched to a halt as the full force of the law arrived.

  Jimmy joined them, ushering forward a thickset man. “This is Miss MacDougal’s neighbour. He said that Annie called on him late last night so that he and his wife could witness her will.”

  “Your name?” demanded Douglas.

  “Ulysses MacSporran.”

  Douglas went up in Hamish’s estimation. Blair would have jeered at the name.

  “And, Mr. MacSporran, who benefits?”

  “A police sergeant called Hamish Macbeth.”

  Douglas turned cold eyes on Hamish. “Did you know of this?”

  “No, I did not, sir. If there are any living relatives, they are welcome to contest that will. She was a wee bit off her head with this fairy business. She said she was going to die during the night.”

  “Did she fear the men would come back? In that case, Sergeant, you should not have left her alone.”

  Patiently Hamish explained about the spilled milk and said that Annie thought the fairies would come for her.

  “Strange,” commented Douglas. “We will await the results of the autopsy. In the meantime, Macbeth, you are suspended from duty. If it turns out to be murder, we might think you did it, knowing she was going to leave everything to you.”

  “But, sir…”

  “Off with you. And wait in your police station for further instructions.”

  Hamish spent the next three days anxiously waiting. Normally, he would have called at the hotel to see Priscilla, but he was too worried. He dusted and cleaned the police station, attended to his sheep and hens, and then took his rod up to the River Anstey to see if he could poach a salmon.

  He caught four trout instead and was just about to go into the station when he heard himself being hailed. He turned round. The tall figure of Douglas was just getting out of the back of a car.

  “Sir?”

  “Inside, Macbeth.”

  Hamish went into the kitchen, followed by his dog and cat.

  Douglas sat down wearily at the kitchen table. “You will be glad to know that Miss MacDougal died of a massive heart attack. According to the procurator fiscal, it could have happened at any time.”

  Douglas had an almost accentless voice with faint Glaswegian undertones.

  “It was right good of ye to call in person to tell me, sir,” said Hamish. “Would you like a dram?”

  “Why not? My driver can wait.”

  Hamish took down a bottle and two glasses. “The neighbours and local people report that Mrs. MacDougal, as far as they know, had no living relatives. Do you want to pay for the funeral?”

  “Of course,” said Hamish. “Did she say what kind of funeral she wanted?”

  “She wanted to be cremated.”

  “When the body is released, I’ll arrange it,” said Hamish.

  “And will you build that monument to the fairies?”

  “I suppose I am honour-bound to do so.”

  Douglas eyed the dog and cat, who were now sleeping by the stove.

  “Is that a wild cat?”

  “No,” said Hamish sharply. Wild cats were so rare in Scotland that he always feared Sonsie would be taken away from him. “It iss chust a verra big cat.”

  The sibilance of Hamish’s accent showed he was nervous.

  Douglas sipped his whisky and looked around at all the gleaming appliances in the kitchen, from the espresso machine to the dishwasher.

  “You do well for yourself here,” he commented.

  “Only for a short period now, sir,” said Hamish. “Dick Fraser won all these gadgets on television quizzes. He is leaving the force to set up as a baker and he will be soon taking all this with him.”

  “I am amazed that there is still a police station here,” said the superintendent.

  “It is because nothing in policing beats a man on the ground. If not me, who would check on the old people? Sutherland is vast, and many people are isolated.”

  “I have been checking up on you.” Douglas looked at Hamish curiously. “Surely a bright man like you would want some advancement?”

  “I consider the quality of life more important than any advancement, sir.”

  “You are a maverick, and I don’t like mavericks. A good police force is like the army. I like men who obey orders and I like ambitious men.”

  “Meaning you don’t like me.”

  “I feel that remark is impertinent.”

  Hamish sighed. “If I may say so, sir, this could be valuable time spent discussing the case, rather than my character. I have fresh trout just caught. Perhaps you would like to stay for dinner?”

  There was a long silence. The fire crackled in the stove.

  Douglas rose to his feet. “I’ll tell my driver to come back in an hour and a half.”

  As he fried the trout dipped in oatmeal and boiled potatoes, Hamish told the superintendent about Heather Green. “I wished I could have taken some of that money and given it to her.”

  “Peter Gaunt is an evil man. We’ve had more reports about him. He is also wanted by the Florida police for fraud. But all his criminal activities have been conning money out of vulnerable people. We have not made public the finding of the money, and we are keeping watch on the church in case he comes back for it.”

  Hamish opened a bottle of wine. “The murders, the tortures. I feel there is even bigger money involved. It’s my belief that the Southerns were used to get something valuable out of Canada. They did not go where they were meant to go but tried to disappear in the Highlands. But how Liz Bentley comes into this, I do not know. There is no record of her having given money to Gaunt, although she attended his church.”

  He suddenly stopped talking and gazed vacantly at the superintendent. Then he said, “I’ve missed something important.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Thon church was by way of being a social club, dances and all. In these days of digital cameras and mobile phones, I bet there are photos around. I would like to see if there is some evidence of some man or other besides Gaunt romancing Liz.”

  Douglas rose to his feet. “I’ll get on to it right away. Why did no
one think of this before?”

  “Why didn’t I?” said Hamish, furious with himself.

  “That was a grand supper. Thank you.”

  “Sir, when you collect photos, may I see them?”

  “Yes, I will let you know.”

  In the next few days, Blair, who was smarting over being excluded from the special investigative team, learned that this superintendent was crediting none other than Hamish Macbeth with the idea of collecting the photographs. Racked with spite and jealousy, he waited until the superintendent was leaving police headquarters and waylaid him.

  “Sir, a word in your ear.”

  “And you are?”

  “Chief Detective Inspector Blair.”

  “So what information do you have, Blair?”

  “I just wanted tae warn ye about Macbeth.”

  “Why?”

  “He disnae obey orders and he’s not quite right in the head, if you ask me.”

  Douglas looked down at Blair, noticing the ravages of drink on his swollen face.

  “There is no shame these days, Blair,” he said evenly, “in admitting to being an alcoholic. There are excellent rehabs around. I suggest you check into one.”

  He turned and strode off.

  In that moment, Blair could have killed Hamish Macbeth. It was Macbeth that was responsible for all his humiliations. It must have been Macbeth who had told Douglas that he, Blair, was an alcoholic. This time it was open war. He’d get that damn highlander off the force if it was the last thing he could do.

  The sketches of Peter Gaunt and the “fairy” appeared in all the newspapers and television channels. Then Hamish was summoned to Strathbane by Douglas to look over a selection of photographs.

  To Blair’s fury, he learned that the conference room was to be allocated to Hamish. The photographs were spread out on the long table there.

  Hamish had left the dog and cat behind as they could get in and out through the large flap on the door. He had asked Angela to look after them, but she had refused. She said they terrified her cats. Hamish guessed both pets would head along to the Italian restaurant and mooch for food at the kitchen door. He was worried about them getting overweight.