Death of a Liar

by M C Beaton

  He gloomily surveyed the photographs. If this were television, he thought, they would be flashed up onto a screen and I would be saying, Hold it right there. Zoom in on that one.

  He sat down and scrutinised photographs of beetle drives, sales of work, dances, and outings. Liz was in several of them. Often she was photographed standing close to Peter Gaunt. In one shot of the church, the statue loomed over the congregation. He peered at it. The things he hadn’t thought of! Where had that giant statue come from? Who had made it?

  He phoned Jimmy and asked him if they had any idea who had made the statue.

  “We checked that,” said Jimmy. “Ordered from a website, churcheffigies.com. They must have altered it when they got it.”

  Hamish thanked him and went back to his work. At last, he focussed on one of the larger photographs. It was of a picnic on the banks of Loch Ness. It was a group photograph. He took out a magnifying glass and scanned the faces. There was Liz Bentley. The man behind her was largely obscured by a taller man in front. Hamish could only make out the side of the man’s face. He could swear it was tattooed. Was this the tattooed man who had taken Peter Gaunt away?

  He diligently searched through the other photographs. He was despairing of ever finding that elusive man again when suddenly there he was. It was a shot of dancers performing the Dashing White Sergeant; through a gap in the dancers, he could see Liz talking earnestly to a small man with tattoos on his face. He was holding her hand.

  He seized the photo and ran downstairs, nearly colliding with Superintendent Douglas, who was coming up accompanied by a group of detectives.

  Douglas stopped. “Anything, Macbeth?”

  Hamish showed him the photograph. “I’m off to the supermarket to interview two girls who attended the church to show them this. It’s the connection I’ve been looking for.”

  “Take Anderson. You’ll find him at his desk.”

  While Jimmy and Hamish waited for the arrival of Beryl and Ellie in the supermarket manager’s office, which he had allowed them to use for the interview, Jimmy said, “I wonder why they didn’t kill Annie MacDougal. I mean, you’d never have got that sketch otherwise.”

  “Maybe he’s just a sidekick and not a killer,” said Hamish.

  The door opened and the girls walked in. Hamish pulled out chairs for them and then handed them the photograph, pointing to the tattooed man. “Do you know him?” he asked.

  Ellie gave a nervous giggle. “He’s the one folk got their drugs from. Scary wee man. Liz was all over him. But she was aye all over anything in trousers that showed a bit o’ interest in her.”

  Beryl said, “He was only around for a month. Then the police came round one night to look for drugs. They couldn’t find anything and the wee man had disappeared. He had a funny sort of accent.”

  “Can you take a guess?”

  But all they would say was that it was sort of foreign, but they didn’t know which foreign.

  They could not add anything more of interest, but Hamish felt elated. Slowly and surely, the threads of investigation were being drawn together.

  Chapter Nine

  “That’s the reason they’re called lessons,” the Gryphon remarked: “because they lessen from day to day.”

  —Lewis Carroll

  But suddenly, the case just died. Detectives hidden outside the church waited and waited but no one came. Winter slowly released its grip on the Highlands.

  Hamish dealt with petty crimes and sheep dip papers. Priscilla had left a long time ago. The Frenchman had left shortly afterwards. Hamish often wondered if he had followed her to London, where Priscilla worked as a computer expert for a bank in the City.

  He occasionally visited Ellie and Beryl again in the hope that they could remember something they might have forgotten, but without success.

  He had commissioned a monument to the fairies to be built and had had a copper plaque inserted on it, saying IN MEMORY OF ANNIE MACDOUGAL, TAKEN BY THE FAIRIES. He had put the house up for sale, but he was not expecting to find a buyer for such a remote croft house with no land attached.

  To his delight, it was bought as a holiday home by a pair of aged hippies who believed in fairies. Hamish transferred the money from the sale to his family in Rogart. His overjoyed mother had promptly begun arrangements to take the whole family—her husband and Hamish’s two small brothers—on a cruise.

  If, he calculated, the villains had decided all that money was not worth collecting, then it stood to reason they were after something greater.

  He often wondered, also, about the odd partnership of Anka and Dick. They had established their bakery in Braikie and it was a great success. They had been written up in several newspapers and had even appeared on Grampian television. Hamish had tried to ask Anka out on a date but she had only smiled—while Dick had glared—and said she was too busy.

  He then had taken Christine, the forensic expert, out for dinner. But the failure of the investigation hung over them, and the date was not successful for either of them.

  Usually he would have been happy with his quiet life, but he could not settle down. Surely some clue to the mystery could be found.

  April arrived with the usual depressing “lambing blizzard,” briefly turning the countryside white again. But after a few days, balmy breezes blew in from the Gulf Stream.

  Superintendent Douglas had never contacted Hamish again, and he learned from Jimmy that the special team had moved their headquarters to Glasgow.

  He suddenly decided to visit that church again. He had found the money when no one else had.

  The police tape was gone and the church crouched in the evening gloaming beside the dark waters of Loch Ness. So far, the recent police watch had saved the building from vandals. The door was securely padlocked; it took Hamish almost three-quarters of an hour to pick the lock.

  The statue had been taken away. The finding of the money had been broadcast at last, causing a sensation in the newspapers which soon died away. Hamish began a search, feeling under the pews and the altar, hunting through the side rooms and kitchen.

  Suddenly he stiffened. The church was suffused in an eerie blue light. He ran to the window and looked out. A television van was parked outside and Elspeth Grant was making a speech to camera. He felt a surge of gladness, all the old attraction she held for him rushing back.

  He waited until she had finished and the lights were switched off and made his way outside.

  “Hamish!” cried Elspeth. “Is there anything new?”

  He shook his head. “What brings you here?”

  “We’re doing a documentary on the unsolved murders. Real crime features are all the rage and they hope to sell this to America. Can you make a statement?”

  “Can’t,” said Hamish gloomily. “I’d need to ask for permission and, believe me, I wouldnae get it. Where are you staying?”

  “We’ve made the Tommel Castle Hotel our headquarters.”

  Hamish smiled down at her, remembering the Elspeth of old when she was working on the local paper, an Elspeth with frizzy hair and thrift shop clothes. All that remained of the old Elspeth in the sophisticated figure before him were those silvery-grey Gypsy eyes.

  His strengthening accent betrayed his sudden nervousness. “Is there any chance of us getting together for chust a wee talk?” he asked.

  “All right. We’ve got what we need here. We’re just about to head back to the hotel. Join me for dinner.”

  Hamish raced back to the police station to change into his one good suit. Sonsie and Lugs eyed him gloomily, knowing that the suit usually meant they were to be left behind. Apart from his pleasure at meeting Elspeth again, Hamish longed to discuss the case with her. In the past, Elspeth’s strange psychic abilities had hit on things he had overlooked.

  He hoped Priscilla was not at the hotel, knowing that Elspeth blamed her for the breakup of their engagement. When she had seen him on film in a previous case spending time with Priscilla, it caused her to get drunk a
nd behave so outrageously with another man that it had been reported in the newspapers.

  He hoped he would not have to share a table with Elspeth’s crew, but when he arrived in the dining room he found that Elspeth had secured a small table for both of them in a corner.

  He kissed her on the cheek. She smelled of expensive French perfume. He suddenly remembered the days when the old Elspeth smelled of heather and peat smoke.

  “The new me is here to stay,” said Elspeth. “Get used to it.”

  “I hate the way you can sometimes read my mind,” said Hamish.

  Elspeth studied the menu. “I’m going to start with a shrimp cocktail,” she said. “I always liked them, and they’ve come back into fashion.”

  “Never knew they went out,” commented Hamish. “I’ll have the venison pâté.”

  “And they’ve got roast rabbit,” said Elspeth. “That’s very fashionable now.”

  “I hate it when cheap food becomes fashionable,” said Hamish. “The price goes up. I’ll have the fillet steak.”

  When they ordered their meals and a bottle of Merlot, Elspeth began to talk about her life at the television station in Glasgow, and then broke off and looked at Hamish with amusement. “You aren’t listening. You want to talk murder. Well, you can wait for the coffee.”

  So Hamish politely waited. Then when the coffee arrived, he began to tell her everything he knew. Around them, the diners gradually left, and when he had finished, they were alone in the dining room.

  “What do you think?” he asked eagerly.

  “I agree with you that I think there’s something worth much more than the stuff in the statue,” said Elspeth. “There’s slavery. Bring in illegal immigrants and sell them to the gang bosses who make them work for nothing.”

  “That’s usually where there’s lots of agriculture,” Hamish pointed out. “Nothing really up here but sheep.”

  “Prostitution?”

  “I thought of that, but whoever tortured the Southerns and Liz were looking for something hidden. Hard to hide a load of women brought in and forced into prostitution. I think it must be drugs. It all started in Canada. An awful lot of Ecstasy is manufactured in Canada. But maybe cocaine. Say a load arrived from somewhere like Colombia and they wanted to take it over to Britain. It’s awfy hard to police all the bays and inlets on the coast. It comes in a large ship and then is transferred to a small boat which can creep in and avoid the customs people. Now, I think the Southerns might have been a couple of wasters who knew Peter Gaunt. Maybe they’ve been to Sutherland before. So they tell whoever about a safe way of getting the drugs into Britain. Gaunt introduces them to the head villain. The Southerns agree to hide the drugs. But they make up their minds to put them somewhere no one would think of until any search for them dies down. I think Gaunt knows where the stuff is, but Gaunt is on the run, possibly not only from the police but also from the boss of the whole operation.”

  “So why did he take so long to disappear?” asked Elspeth. “I mean, you would think in that case that he would have fled after the murders.”

  “He could…what is it, Clarry?” he asked as the chef came up to their table.

  “Just some bones for Lugs and a bit o’ fish for Sonsie. How are you, Miss Grant?”

  “I’m fine. How are you and the family?”

  Hamish fretted until Clarry had left. “He could have persuaded whoever that he had been tricked just like them. I mean, when he fled, we assumed it was because we were closing in on him for fraud. But what if they decided he really did know something. He could be lying dead somewhere.”

  “If they tortured him, wouldn’t he talk?”

  “Yes, he would,” agreed Hamish. “And if that is the case, they’ve got the goods and are long gone.”

  “But why didn’t the fake Leighs, the Southerns, tell them?”

  “Maybe they passed the goods over to Gaunt. He promised them their cut for handling the operation but did not tell them where he had stashed the stuff.”

  “As you have nothing else to go on,” said Elspeth, “maybe you should be looking for Gaunt’s dead body. There might be some forensic clues there.” She stifled a yawn.

  “I’ve kept you up late,” said Hamish. “I’ll get the bill.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” said Elspeth. “It’ll go on my expenses.” She called for the waiter and paid the bill. “Where will you start your search?”

  “Maybe up near where Annie had her cottage. There are shepherd’s bothies up on the hills, abandoned crofts, places like that. What will you do now?”

  “I’ve got enough background. Back to Glasgow tomorrow.”

  He looked at her sadly. “And is that it?”

  Elspeth gathered up her belongings and said curtly, “Don’t go there again. I’m tired. Good night.”

  And before Hamish could rise from his chair, she had sped out of the dining room.

  The following morning, Hamish packed up the Land Rover with the dog and cat, a picnic, a stove, and a tent. It was a fine sunny day. As he drove north, he cursed the monsters who had brought their blackness to this beautiful wild part of the world: a place of huge mountains, white beaches, and tiny villages where the people still spoke with the finest accent in the British Isles, although a sort of bastardised Glaswegian was creeping into Inverness.

  He diligently searched abandoned ruins and bothies, questioning crofters as to whether they had seen strangers in the area. He had only stopped for lunch, and by the end of the day he was tired. He went to Cromish and bought eggs, sausages, and bacon, and food for Sonsie and Lugs.

  He found a camping place on a deserted beach, put up his tent, lit the camping stove, and fried up the sausages, bacon, and egg.

  As he fell asleep to the sound of the waves, with the cat beside him and the dog at his feet, he decided to search only one more day. He was not to know that Peter Gaunt would be found the following day, closer to home.

  Rod Monteith was a lowland Scot whose home was in Dumfries. He was the owner of fifty stationery shops in the south of Scotland and the north of England. He had remained a bachelor until his early forties. His faithful elderly secretary, Mrs. Struther, had died, leaving him to find a replacement. During the interviews, he met Amanda Burke. She was highly unsuitable, having none of the secretarial skills she claimed to have. But she was dainty and blonde, and had an exquisite figure. Dazzled by a woman for the first time in his life, Rod took her out for dinner instead, embarked on a whirlwind romance, and proposed marriage.

  After a year of marriage, Amanda, who had seen an old film about Bonnie Prince Charlie, said she yearned for a holiday cottage in the Highlands. Rod was already tiring of his empty-headed wife, but he thought perhaps if he bought somewhere in the north, then Amanda might spend time up there and leave him occasionally on his own, for the only time he could find relief from her endless prattle was when she was seated in front of the television.

  So he had bought a square Victorian building on the edge of Cnothan. At first Amanda was delighted with her new “toy,” and as she set about refurbishing the house, he found he could stay in the south and leave her to it.

  But Cnothan was a sour, unfriendly place. Amanda’s romance with the Highlands began to pall. She phoned her husband and said she wanted to sell the place. Rod told her to put it on the market but she screeched that was man’s work and he should travel to Cnothan immediately.

  Rod now had an efficient secretary, a tall angular woman in her forties with lank hair and thick glasses. He found her intelligent and restful. Amanda was in her twenties and as restful as a bed of nails.

  He arrived in Cnothan. The sturdy Victorian walls of the villa stared down at Amanda’s frilly furnishings and pink walls.

  She greeted him flinging her arms around him and bursting into tears. She had a strong grip despite her outwards appearance of frailty, and he had a feeling he was being trapped in the coils of some reptile. When she had recovered, she said the old outside privy in the g
arden must be removed.

  “Maybe it will add to the old charm of the place,” said Rod.

  “Charm? Come with me. It’s disgusting,” said Amanda.

  He followed her out into the garden, reflecting that only Amanda would think of wearing stilettos in the Highlands as she performed a sort of slalom between the plastic gnomes.

  She unlatched the door and flung it open and then screamed and screamed, before collapsing and striking her neck on the sharp broken top of the pointed hat of one of the gnomes.

  In the privy, dumped on the old wooden seat of the toilet, was a dead man. From the smell, it seemed as if he had been dead for some time. A cloud of blackflies rose from his body.

  Rod ran into the house to call the police. He didn’t bother about his wife. Amanda, he knew, from bitter experience, enjoyed faking faints. He phoned the police and sat down and waited. In his upset, he forgot to go and check on his wife.

  When Jimmy Anderson and the whole investigative circus arrived, Rod was lucky it was Jimmy and not Blair. For his wife was found to be dead, and Blair would no doubt have arrested him on the spot.

  Hamish got the message and raced back all the way to Cnothan. Christine and her team had just finished their work, and Jimmy was ready to go and examine the privy for himself when Hamish joined him.

  He said a preliminary examination had shown that Amanda had fallen and the cap of the gnome had pierced her neck.

  “So who’s the dead man?” asked Hamish.

  “Let’s have a look.” Jimmy led the way to the privy.

  Hamish held a handkerchief up to his nose. “It looks like Peter Gaunt. Anything in the pockets?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did the pathologist say whether there were signs of torture?”