by M C Beaton
“Wasn’t time,” said Elspeth cheerfully. “I was out reporting. A wee boy got stuck up on the top of the falls.”
“Which one?”
“Diarmuid Patel. He was standing in the middle of the top of the falls, too scared to move one way or the other.”
“Not much of a story.”
“Not compared to murder and mayhem, but you forget, we’re a local Highland paper.”
“How’s your astrology piece doing? Haven’t read it lately.”
“Sam says it’s what sells the most papers. I’m good at it.”
Hamish snorted. “You’re good at making things up.”
A buffet of wind shook Elspeth’s small car as she moved along the coast road. “Another Sutherland gale,” said Elspeth. “When I see one of those nature films on television and they speed up the sky scenes so that the clouds race from horizon to horizon, I think they should come up here and find it doesn’t need any tricky camera work to make the sky look like that.”
Mrs. Harris came downstairs to meet them when they parked outside her building. In honour of the occasion, she had put a sort of 1940s make·up; on her face: white powder and dark red lipstick.
Elspeth drove to the community hall and parked the car.
The hall was full, but Mr. Blakey had reserved them seats at the front. He thanked Hamish for his present of videos.
“I’m looking forward to this,” said Elspeth. “I didn’t see Green Card when it was first released.”
The elderly audience were rustling sweetie papers: The local shop nearby still sold sweets from large glass jars and put them in paper bags. An elderly woman next to Elspeth offered her a jelly baby from a large crumpled bag. Elspeth took one and murmured her thanks.
Elspeth turned to Hamish. “That’s a very small screen for a movie,” she said. “Actually, it’s not a screen. It’s just a telly.”
“All our Mr. Blakey could afford,” murmured Hamish. “Shh, it’s about to start.” Hamish wondered why so many should turn out on a cold windy night to watch a video on a television set when they could have rented one and watched it in the comfort of their homes, but then he reflected that the show was free and they obviously enjoyed each other’s company.
Elspeth settled back to enjoy the film but soon found her enjoyment impaired by the voices all around her. Some had seen it before and insisted on telling their neighbours what was going to happen next, and the deaf had companions who bellowed scraps of dialogue into their ears.
When the film was over, noisy and appreciative applause rang out. Mr. Blakey walked to the front of the room and held up his hands. “Before you all go,” he said, mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief, “a video was delivered to me this morning from Help the Aged, suggesting you all might like to see it before you go home. It is only fifteen minutes long.”
He slotted the video in, pressed Play, and then signalled to someone at the back of the room to turn out the lights again.
At first there was nothing but white dots on black. “Must be broken,” someone shouted.
And then, suddenly, there was a picture of a room and the camera swung round to focus on a figure in a chair.
“That’s Miss Beattie!” came a chorus of horrified voices. There was another shot of a black screen with dancing lights and then a picture of Miss Beattie’s lifeless body, swinging this way and that.
Pandemonium erupted. The elderly screamed. Chairs were overturned. Some women fainted.
The screen went blank.
Hamish ran to the door and locked it and took out his phone and called for backup.
He turned and shouted, “Sit down, everybody. Nobody is to leave until statements are taken.”
Mr. Blakey confronted him. “But some of the women have fainted.”
“See they’re all right, and if there’s any sign of anything more serious than a fainting fit, let me know. How did you get that tape?”
“It was put through the hall letter box, I don’t know when. I found it when I came to open up. There was a letter with it.”
“I’ll need to see that. But first let’s get this lot calmed down.”
Hamish went up and stood in front of the now blank screen. Mr. Blakey switched on the lights. Elderly women were being helped back to their seats. The air was redolent with the scent of urine. Poor things, thought Hamish.
“Listen,” he said. “The police are going to need your help. We’ll not keep you any longer than possible. When backup arrives, leave your names and addresses and then you will be allowed to go home. If any of you can think of anything that’s of use, stay behind. Now, this tape, supposed to have come from Help the Aged, was put through the letter box of the hall. Anyone who saw anyone near the letter box, please let me know. Isn’t there usually refreshments served after the movie? I think a lot of you could do with a cup of tea.”
Six women got up meekly and headed to the kitchen off the hall. Hamish surveyed the audience.
The panic was slowly being replaced with a buzz of excitement. The ones who had fainted appeared to have recovered.
Mr. Blakey handed Hamish a letter. Hamish took out a pair of thin plastic gloves and took the letter from him and read it. It was typewritten. He read: “Dear Mr. Blakey: As a member of Help the Aged, I thought this fifteen-minute documentary might interest your members.” It was unsigned.
“What was I to think?” pleaded Mr. Blakey. “It had a label on the video, “Help the Aged.””
“You left it in the machine?”
“Yes, I just switched the machine off.”
There came a thumping at the door and a cry of “Police! Open up.”
Hamish went to the door and opened it. Jimmy Anderson stood there flanked by six policemen.
“We were doing door-to-door enquiries when we got your call,” said Jimmy. “What the hell’s going on?”
Hamish explianed. Jimmy ordered the policemen to go around and take names and addresses and told them to keep back anyone who had something of interest to say.
“Where’s the video?” he asked.
“In the machine. I thought it had better be left there for the forensic boys. This is the letter that came with it.”
Jimmy put on gloves, took the letter from Hamish, and put it in a glassine envelope.
Where’s Elspeth? wondered Hamish suddenly, looking around. Police were moving among the crowd, while women served tea and cakes and sandwiches. No Elspeth.
“Type up your statement when you get back to Lochdubh and then send it over,” said Jimmy. “In fact, you’d best be off and do that now.”
“I’d better talk to Mrs. Harris first. I brought her along with me.”
Hamish made his way to where she was sitting. “I know your name and address, Mrs. Harris,” he said, “so I can take you home.”
“Where’s that girl, Elspeth?”
“I don’t know,” replied Hamish. How was he to get back to Lochdubh if Elspeth had disappeared? Elderly people were gradually making their way out of the hall, now nervous and subdued. Hamish suppressed a groan. Of course, Elspeth would have run off to file a story, which Sam would send out to the news agencies and nationals. Braikie would be swarming with more press than ever before by the morning. And the pressure of the media would mean Blair back on the job, ranting and raving.
Hamish escorted Mrs. Harris outside. To his relief, Elspeth was sitting in her car, her mobile phone at her ear, talking busily. He rapped on the window. She said something into the phone and rang off.
Hamish and Mrs. Harris got into the car. “Are you all right?” Elspeth asked her.
“I cannae take it in yet,” said Mrs. Harris. “Was that really Amy in that fillum or was it some awful joke?”
“We’ll find out,” said Hamish. “Are you going to be all right on your own?”
“Aye, I’ll be fine once I get into my flat and have my things around me.”
“People will be talking about nothing else in the morning,” said Hamish. “If you hear anyth
ing you think might interest me, phone me.”
“I’ll do that,” said Mrs. Harris.
When they dropped her off, Hamish got into the front seat of Elspeth’s small car. “Home,” he said.
“I thought the whole point of this was to talk to some of the old people and find out if they knew anything,” said Elspeth. “And what about the letter that came with the video? Mr. Blakey said something about a letter.”
“I’ve got to file a statement, and they can all wait. What was the point of the video? It didn’t show the murders.”
“It could be a warning.” Elspeth expertly swung the car round a startled sheep in the middle of the road. “Maybe someone tried to blackmail the murderer or murderers, someone who was in on it. He or they didn’t pay up. Maybe it was a warning that next time they’d show more.”
“This is the Highlands of Scotland!” shouted Hamish, exasperated. “Not some damn horror movie. Wait a bit. Horror movies. There’s something there. A child. What if a young child found that video and sent it to the community hall as a joke, not knowing that it was showing part of a real murder?”
“And typed the letter to go with it? Not likely,” said Elspeth.
“You’re right.”
“You know what this means?”
“What exactly are you getting at?”
“It means,” said Elspeth patiently, “that if whoever sent the video to the community hall was in on the murders but did not perform them, then that person is liable to find himself murdered.”
“Won’t wash. Whoever filmed the murder was as much a part of it as the man or men who strung Miss Beattie up. Someone’s looking at a long jail sentence.”
Elspeth suddenly swung the car to the side of the road and stopped. She darted out and was violently sick. Hamish climbed out and handed her a rather grubby handkerchief. “There, now,” he said gently. “It’s the shock.”
Elspeth choked and gasped and then handed Hamish back his handkerchief, unused. She took a small packet of tissues out of her pocket, extracted one, and dabbed her mouth. “Sorry, Hamish, it’s a nightmare.”
“It is that,” he said grimly. “Get back in the car, lassie, and I’ll drive.”
Jenny and Pat Mallone were just finishing a meal at the Italian restaurant when Iain Chisholm entered. He bent his head over a table of diners and whispered urgently. There were cries and shocked exclamations. Iain left. The diners he had spoken to leant over to the next table and began to whisper. More cries of shock and alarm.
“Something’s up.” Pat got to his feet. “And I’m going to find out.”
He walked over to the diners Iain had first spoken to. Jenny watched. She couldn’t hear what they were saying because they were whispering. Finally, Pat came back. “I’d better get to the office,” he said. “You’ll never believe what’s happened now.”
“What?”
“A video was shown at the community hall in Braikie tonight. Someone had delivered it and said it was a short documentary from Help the Aged. It showed Miss Beattie hanging.”
“Gosh!”
“I’d better see Sam and get over to Braikie.”
“Can I come with you?”
“No, I’ll need to take a photographer with me.”
When Pat got to the newspaper office, it was to find that Elspeth had already phoned over the story, and it had been sent off to the nationals along with library pictures of the community hall.
Pat chewed his thumb in vexation. At least the nationals would send their own reporters. Most of those reporters would rewrite Elspeth’s story and put their own names on it. He didn’t want Elspeth to get an offer of a job on a national newspaper before he did.
Hamish worked late filing his report. Blair phoned back at two in the morning and told him to go to Braikie as early as possible and do door-to-door enquiries. Hamish set the alarm and tried to compose himself for sleep, envying Lugs, who was snoring at the end of his bed. But sleep would not come. He felt sure that somewhere amongst all the people he had interviewed lay a clue to the murders, a clue he had missed.
Chapter Seven
O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie,
A little time, while it is new!
But when ‘tis auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades own’ like morning dew.
—Anonymous
The following morning, Jenny, wrapped in a rosy dream, ate her breakfast. Pat had told her his ambitions of being an ace reporter on a national newspaper and then moving on to television. Jenny was determined to return to London engaged to be married. Hamish Macbeth was proving too difficult and she obscurely blamed him for having caught her lying. But now, if she was married to a top reporter, that would be something to brag about. And it would mean no more disappointing affairs, no more going out on dates. She would be Mrs. Mallone. They would have a trim London house, somewhere fashionable, and she would see him off in the morning and then have nothing else to do but leave instructions for the cleaning woman. No more work. No more going to the office. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be married before Priscilla! I’ll make her my bridesmaid, thought Jenny. I’ll make her wear a yellow dress. Yellow was never Priscilla’s colour.
Now, what should she do with the day? Pat had phoned to say he would be spending the whole day in Braikie. She could go there herself and see if she could find out anything. Yes, that might be a good idea. If she was going to be Mrs. Mallone, then she should help her future husband in getting his first break. She could see it now. He would become a foreign correspondent for the BBC and she would go with him everywhere and become something of a celebrity. Of course, that notion rather spoiled the dream of having a lazy married existence at home. Suddenly, she remembered the seer’s prediction. He had been right! She would go and see him first.
Wasn’t one supposed to take a present?
She walked along to Patel’s store and bought a large box of chocolates and then set off up the hill to where Angus lived. The day was windy, with great gusts of wind that sent her staggering up the hillside. Seagulls were dotted about the sheep-cropped grass like the work of so many taxidermists, standing still, their tail feathers to the wind. Jenny did not know that this was a sign of worse weather to come.
She ploughed on upwards and arrived panting on the seer’s doorstep. She was raising her hand to knock when Angus opened the door. His eyes gleamed with delight when he saw the large box of chocolates. Angus loved sweets. “Come in, lassie,” he said. “I was expecting you.”
“You were?” Jenny felt a shiver of delighted apprehension.
She walked in, handing him the box of chocolates. Jenny was very fond of chocolates and hoped he would open the box and offer her one, but Angus asked her to be seated and bore the box off to the kitchen.
“Tea?” he asked on his return.
“Nothing for me,” said Jenny. “Did you hear what happened last night at the community hall?”
“Of course.”
“And you saw it all?”
For a moment, Angus looked startled. He remembered that something weird had happened when this girl had visited him with Hamish but could not remember what it was he had said. “Aye,” he said portentously, “I see in the future.”
Jenny wriggled with excitement. “So do you know who committed these murders?”
“I’m working on it,” said Angus. “I said I could see the future.”
“Yes, but if you can see the future, then you will know who it is Hamish is going to arrest.”
“Hamish Macbeth has had a lot of luck, but this could be the time his luck will run out. He may never find out who murdered those two people.”
“I would like to help him, you see,” said Jenny eagerly.
“Then you’re wasting your time. Macbeth has no interest in you.”
Jenny flushed to the roots of her hair. She rose to her feet and said crossly, “You’re not half as clever as you think you are. I have no romantic interest in Hamish Macbeth. You’ve really nothing to tell me
that’s worth a large box of chocolates. I’ll just take them back.”
For one brief moment, Angus was speechless. No one had ever demanded a present back. “Get out of here, lassie,” he roared, “and don’t come back again. A bad thing’s going to happen to you, but because of your rudeness and meanness, I am not going to tell you. Shove off!”
He loomed over her. Jenny, suddenly terrified, shot to her feet and ran round him to the door. She jerked it open and hurtled out. Clouds were racing across the sky. She reflected that surely nowhere else in Britain could you get four changes of climate in one day. A rainbow arched over the black and stormy waters of the loch and she found herself wondering, ridiculously, why it did not bend under the ferocity of the wind.
Would something bad happen to her? Or had he just been mad because she’d asked for her chocolates back?
Mentally trying to shrug off a feeling of foreboding, she gained the waterfront and got into her car. Now for Braikie. She was just moving slowly along the waterfront when Iain Chisholm came running out of his garage, waving his arms for her to stop. Jenny jerked to a halt and wound down the window.
“Going far?” asked Iain.
“Just over to Braikie.”
“There’s a bad storm coming up. That car’s only a three-wheeler. It could be blown over when you reach the shore road. I could put something heavy in her as ballast.”
But Jenny, still frightened by the seer, was anxious to get away. “I’ll be all right,” she said crossly. “If the wind gets too strong, I’ll just pull over.”
She let in the clutch and drove off before Iain could say anything else.
As she drove up out of Lochdubh, at the top of the first hill, a great gust of wind and rain made her hang on grimly to the steering wheel as the car bucked and rocked, but soon she was down the hill on the other side, driving between great banks of gorse. I’ll be all right when I get to Braikie, she told herself. As she drove slowly now towards the coast road, the sky was black and the thin one-way track in front of her twisted and glistened like a giant eel. She negotiated a hairpin bend and cruised down onto the shore road. Monstrous waves were pounding the beach. I’ll be all right, I’ll be all right, she told herself fiercely. Just a little way to go and I’ll be in the shelter of the houses. She was halfway along the road when with a great roar, the wind hit the car and blew it over on its side. Struggling to unfasten her seat belt, she realised her arm was broken. Helplessly, she lay there against the door of the car, praying for help to come along. Then she realised she was listening not only to the roar of the wind but to the roar of the waves. A huge wave struck the little car and drove it into a ditch. She screamed from the pain in her arm and fainted.