So forget Donati and imagine the man in charge of the case to be Blair. If Blair were on the case, what then would he, Hamish, do?
Keep it very simple, he thought.
He went into the police station and made himself a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table. He longed for a cigarette and wondered if the longing would ever go away or whether he would be stuck with it for life.
He went through to the office and got pen and paper and then sat down at the kitchen table again and began to make notes.
He went back to the start of the case. Someone had rigged that Renault to make it burst into flames. Someone had bought a felt that and sparking plugs. The efficient Donati had covered every garage in Sutherland. It was odd that Strathbane should have two detective chief inspectors. It meant that Donati had been recently promoted and Blair should be a very worried man for surely he was due to be demoted so that the police headquarters should have just one of them in charge. Forget Donati. Garages. There might be one somewhere else. There was a shop in Dingwall in the county of Ross and Cromarty which sold motoring accessories. Forget it. Garages and shops in the counties adjoining Sutherland had probably been covered as well. Where else?
Scrap yards. He threw down his pen. There was a sort of graveyard of old cars over at Brora. Anyone wanting cheap spare parts went there. But would four men from London know that?
He picked up the pen again and went on making notes. Gradually his head sank lower. He put his head down on the kitchen table. Just five minutes sleep, that was all…
He awoke with a start. Daylight was streaming in the kitchen window. He felt stiff and grimy. He bathed and changed and shaved and went out to feed the hens. Then he got into the Land Rover and drove towards Brora. The funeral was at ten that morning. He must make sure he was back in time for it.
But when he got to the yard it was to find only a mechanic on duty who had recently started work there. The boss, he said, had taken the day off to see friends in Golspie. He’d be back that evening. Hamish stopped off at a phone box in Brora and called Priscilla.
“Look,” he said urgently, “I wonder if you could do something for me. Will you be at the funeral?”
“Yes,” said Priscilla. “Daddy’s not going. He’s getting worse. We still can’t find out what’s worrying him. What do you want me to do?”
“Do you still have your Polaroid?”
“Yes, it’s around here somewhere.”
“I want you to get photographs at the funeral of the three guests and Alison and Mrs. Todd.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hamish!” Priscilla sounded shocked. “The press will be there in droves and if I start taking pictures as well, they’ll think I’m some sort of ghoul.”
“It’s awfy important,” pleaded Hamish. “Tell Alison and anyone else that you are taking the pictures as a memento. Tell them it’s an old Highland custom. Tell them anything. Please, Priscilla.”
“Oh, all right,” said Priscilla crossly. “But if I get into any trouble, I’ll blame you.”
¦
The wind had died down and a warm drizzle was falling as Maggie Baird’s coffin was lowered into the grave. All the villagers were there as they were at any funeral in Lochdubh. It seemed to Hamish that they were nearly outnumbered by the press. Television vans stood outside the graveyard, photographers perched on the top of tombstones, and reporters in black ties stood respectfully around, although questioning everyone they could get hold of in hushed whispers.
The funeral reception was to be held in the village hall, Mrs. Todd and the minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington, having decided Alison would not be able to manage the funeral baked meats on her own. Hamish reflected that it might have been better if the organisation of the reception had been left to Alison. She looked very frail and she had nothing to take her mind off her fears.
Priscilla was discreetly taking photographs but there were so many press photographers around that no one seemed to notice.
At the funeral reception, she handed Hamish the photographs. “When this is all over,” said Hamish, “let’s you and me go off somewhere and talk. You’re not looking your usual bonny self these days.”
“I’m worried about Daddy,” said Priscilla. “Yes, I’d like that. The atmosphere at home is all gloom and doom. Did you see Daddy at the funeral? Why on earth did he decide to come along? Thank goodness he didn’t stay for the reception. There is so much whisky on offer here and Daddy’s been sinking quite a lot of it recently. Look at this photograph. He’s standing with Mrs. Todd and Alison. See how swollen his face is? He’s all bloated up. He won’t go to Dr. Brodie anymore either.”
Hamish wondered whether to tell Donati where he was going. But Donati would simply phone the police at Brora and tell Hamish sharply to leave the case alone. Something made Hamish approach Donati and say earnestly, “I’ve got some ideas about the case I would like to put to you, sir.”
Donati frowned. “I haven’t time to listen to you at the moment,” he said. “The press are all over the place. The wind has died down so we’ve got a chance of getting that car up out of the sea. Just stand by for the moment until I give you your orders.”
Hamish humbly touched his cap and strolled away. He obeyed orders for the rest of the day and even the news that he was to guard the bungalow from the press in the company of P.C. Graham didn’t seem to ruffle him. He stood by one gatepost and P.C. Graham stood at the other, flashing him an occasional venomous glance. At six o’clock, Hamish looked at his watch and then began to walk off down the drive.
“Hey, you!” yelled Mary Graham. “Where dae ye think you’re going?”
But Hamish did not even turn around.
As he was driving along the waterfront, he saw the gnarled figure of the gardener, Angus Burnside, leaning over the sea wall and drew up.
Angus turned round. “Ach, what is it noo, Hamish?” he asked crossly. “I’ve been answering the polis’s questions fur days.”
“Well, humour me, Angie,” said Hamish. “When you were working around that bungalow, did you see anyone go into that garage apart from Miss Kerr and Mrs. Baird?”
“That wee greaser wi’ the uppity manner.”
“Which could apply to all of them,” said Hamish patiently. “Which one was it?”
“The smarmy one, him called Witherington. It wass about twa days afore the death o’ Mrs. Baird. “Whit d’ye want?” I went and asked him, and he got very hoity-toity. “Go back to your gardening, my good fellow,” he says. Damp English. They should all stay on the other side o’ the border.”
“Anyone else apart from him?”
“Naw, no one but that daftie, Miss Kerr. D’ye ken, she used tae go and
Hamish thanked him and drove off on the long road to Brora again. It was still high summer and in the north of Scotland it hardly ever gets dark. There was a blazing sunset as he arrived at the scrap yard. The derelict cars lay about in various stages of rust and decay. The purple flowers of the willow herb bloomed amongst the heaps of twentieth-century junk and long sour grass sprouted through shattered doors and windows of the less popular models – less popular for their spare parts. The whole thing was like a graveyard, a monument, a tombstone to death on the roads. That Ford over there, thought Hamish, had anyone survived that crash? The whole front was smashed and buckled.
Somewhere a dog howled dismally and the wind whistled through the rusty cars and swaying grass. At least the rain has stopped, thought Hamish, picking his way round the muddy puddles to a hut in the middle of the yard.
Cars, he thought. This case is all about cars. Forget the meat cleaver for the moment. Cars. Crispin knew about cars.
James Frame once worked for him. The others probably knew a bit about car engines. Alison’s obsession with driving. What an odd girl she was. Pity she seemed to have taken an aversion to Jenkins. A weak man to look after was just what she needed to stiffen her spine.
There was no one in the hut. Hamish sighed impatiently and sat down in a battered armchair beside the hut door to wait. He was very tired. Poor Priscilla. What on earth could be bothering that father of hers? He couldn’t help there. The colonel loathed him. His eyes began to close. Then he heard the sound of a car approaching and straightened up.
