Death of a Dreamer
Page 21
“How’s that?” asked Phil.
“You see, Blair is a verra modest man. Let me tell you about him.” Hamish outlined several famous murder cases which he himself had solved but had let Blair take the credit for. He ended up by saying, “I’m just a local bobby. There’s no colour for you there. But Blair! Man, he'll take you to the worst parts of Strathbane. You'll be witnesses to drug raids and violence.”
Their eyes gleamed with the excitement of the naive who have never really been exposed to anything nasty.
When Blair was told later that he was to be the subject of the documentary, rage warred with vanity in his fat breast, but vanity won.
Hamish whistled cheerfully as he drove back to Lochdubh. Mrs. Gillespie could wait until the next morning.
Elspeth Grant was having lunch with Luke Teviot, another reporter. She found Luke attractive. Although a good reporter, he cultivated an easygoing manner. He had thick fair hair and a rather dissipated face. He was very tall.
“So you're off on your holidays,” said Luke. “Where?”
“Back to Lochdubh.”
“You got a good story out of there last time.”
“It’s normally the sleepiest, most laid-back place in the world,” said Elspeth. “Just what I need.”
“I’ve never been to the Highlands,” said Luke.
“What! You're a Scot, a Glaswegian.”
“You know how it is, Elspeth. I mean the real Highlands. The furthest I ever get is covering people stranded in Glencoe in the winter. I’ve never been further north than Perth. When the holidays come along, I head abroad for the sun. I’ve got holidays owing. Mind if I come with you?”
“You're joking.”
“Not a bit of it.”
“But why? It’s not as if we're an item.”
“Don’t have to be. I hate taking holidays on my own.”
“Never been married?”
“Twice. Didn’t work out. Mind you, I was lucky. Both women were rich and were so glad to get rid of me, they didn’t want any money.”
“Why were they glad to get rid of you?”
“You know what reporting’s like, Elspeth. I was hardly ever home. Come on. Let’s go together. It would be fun. I could do with some clean air to fumigate my lungs.”
“How many do you smoke?”
“Sixty a day.”
“You could stop, stay in Glasgow, and get clean lungs that way.”
“Think about it. You could at least have company on that long drive.”
Elspeth thought about Hamish. It would be rather pleasant to turn up accompanied by Luke and show him she really didn’t care.
“All right,” she said. “You're on.”
Hamish set out for Braikie the following morning. Braikie was not Hamish’s favourite town, although it was miles better than Strathbane, and much smaller. The posher locals referred to it as “the village.” It had some fine Victorian villas at the north end, a depressing housing estate of grey houses all looking the same at the south end, and a main street of small dark shops with flats above them stretching out on either side of the town hall and library. A few brave souls lived in bungalows on the shore road facing the Atlantic. They often had to be rescued when November gales sent giant waves crashing into their homes. The main town, however, was huddled several damp fields away, out of the sight and sound of the sea.
Mrs. Gillespie lived in the housing estate. When Hamish called at her home, he noticed to his surprise that she had bought her house. He could see this because she had had picture windows installed, and householders who rented their homes from the council were not allowed to change the buildings. House prices, even this far north, were rising steeply, and he wondered how she could have afforded the purchase price.
Now that he was actually on her doorstep, he could feel his courage waning. He reminded himself sharply that it was high time someone put Mrs. Gillespie in her place.
He rang the bell. The door was answered by a little gnome of a man wearing a cardigan. He had a bald, freckled scalp. “Mr. Gillespie?” ventured Hamish. He had always assumed Mrs. Gillespie to be a widow.
“Aye, that’s me.”
“Is your wife at home?”
“No, she up at the professor’s. What’s up?”
“Nothing important. I just want a wee word with her. I’ll be off to the professor’s.”
Professor Sander was retired. He lived in a large Victorian villa in the better part of town. It was isolated from its neighbours at the end of a cul-de-sac. Hamish could see Mrs. Gillespie’s car parked on the road outside. He parked as well and walked to the garden entrance, which was flanked on one side by a magnificent rowan tree, weighed down with red berries, and on the other by an old-fashioned pump.
He was about to walk up the short drive when he stopped. There had been something he had seen out of the corner of his eye.
He turned and looked.
Mavis Gillespie lay huddled at the foot of the pump. He went up to her and bent down and felt for a pulse. There was none. Her bucket and mop lay beside her. Blood flowed from a wound on her head, and he noticed a stain of blood on the bucket.
He stood up and took out his telephone and called police headquarters. Then he went to his Land Rover and found a pair of latex gloves and put them on. Mrs. Gillespie’s handbag was lying beside her on the ground. It looked as if she had been struck down just as she was leaving.
He opened the handbag and looked inside.
The first thing he saw was that crumpled letter from Elspeth. He gingerly took it out and put it in his pocket.
Then he waited for reinforcements to arrive.
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A DREAM OF DYING
In the Highlands village of Lochdubh, every season has its special flavor. Lanky, red-haired constable Hamish Macbeth relishes them all, but spring is the grandest. Now the winter storms have blown out to sea, the loch is smooth as glass, and Macbeth is content with his dog, cat, and cup of tea…until his quiet life is shattered by a shocking death. High up in the mountains, the body of eccentric dreamer Effie Garrard has been found. The authorities are quick to close the case as a suicide—yet Macbeth thinks she was murdered. But after several of his ex-girlfriends come to town, the constable becomes very distracted in his investigation of Effie’s demise. And now in danger of dreaming too much himself, Macbeth may miss a very real killer who will give him the nightmare of his life…
“MASTERFUL…INTRICATE AND ABSORBING…A TREAT.” —Booklist (starred review)
“SUPERB ENTERTAINMENT, AS RICH AND WARMING AS A FINE MALT WHISKY, AND EVERY BIT AS ADDICTIVE.” —Houston Chronicle
M. C. BEATON is the author of the Hamish Macbeth mystery series, as well as the acclaimed Agatha Raisin series.