Death of a Dreamer

“That would mean she would need to have carried antifreeze up the mountain with her. The antifreeze was in the wine bottle. There must have been something in that note to tell her to go ahead and take a drink before you arrived. She would have one and, as time dragged on, maybe another. Why did you and Dora get divorced?”

“The usual story. Married in a rush and then found out it was a mistake. But when the kids came along, I tried to stick it out. But things got worse and worse. Dora would never leave me alone when I was working. If I had an exhibition, she’d turn up and make a scene. I found out she had been having an affair behind my back. I said if she didn’t settle for an amicable divorce, it would all come out in court and the children would be taken away from her.”

“So what’s she doing up here? Money?”

“No, she likes haunting me. I don’t know how she found out I was up here. Don’t worry. She’ll soon get tired of the game.”

“You’re painting a portrait of Miss Halburton-Smythe.”

“Trying to. She’s a beautiful woman.” Jock looked sharply at Hamish. “And that’s all she is to me – a subject to paint.”

Hamish eyed him cynically. “I thought you artists were always looking for interesting faces, craggy faces, things like that.”

“Usually. But there’s a remoteness about her which goes along with this landscape that I would like to capture. Oh, here’s Betty.”

Hamish brightened as Betty Barnard walked in. His official holiday was due the following week. He had planned to use the time trying to find out how Effie had been killed. He decided to cancel his holiday. That way he would not waste his leave, and he could maybe spend a few more pleasant days with Betty.

“Hullo, Jock, Hamish.” She sat down. “No one drinking this coffee?” She poured herself a cup.

“Hamish is interrogating me,” said Jock.

Her eyes flew to Hamish. “Why? What’s happened?”

“The death of Effie Garrard.”

“Oh, that. But that’s a suicide.”

“I think it might be murder,” said Hamish.

“Why?”

“On the evening Effie went missing, someone left a bottle of wine with a note supposed to be from Jock here asking Effie to meet him up at Geordie’s Cleft.”

“So why aren’t there still police and detectives crawling all over the village?”

“Police headquarters have decided it was suicide and don’t want to investigate any further.”

“So why bother?”

“I don’t like to think of a murderer loose in my village.”

“That’s a pity. I was hoping we could maybe spend the day together tomorrow. I was going to phone you.”

Hamish thought quickly. “Maybe just an afternoon, if that’s all right with you.”

“Okay, I’ll pick you up at one o’clock tomorrow. Now, if you’ve finished with Jock, leave us alone to discuss business.”

¦

Hamish drove down to the village and went into Patel’s grocery store. He asked Mr. Patel, “Do you sell much antifreeze?”

“Don’t stock it. Most folks go to Iain to get their cars serviced, and he supplies the antifreeze.”

Iain Chisholm was working on the engine of an old Volvo in his garage. He straightened up when he saw Hamish.

“Do you ever sell antifreeze to anyone?” asked Hamish.

“No, there’s no need. I put it in when I service their cars.”

“Any missing?”

Iain pushed back his oily cap and stared around the dusty jumble of his garage. Then he went over to a row of shelves. “I’ve got two containers of the stuff here. I’m sure that’s all I had.”

“Could anyone have helped themselves while your back was turned?”

“I suppose they could. What’s this about?”

“Effie Garrard. Herself died from drinking antifreeze. Who’s been in here lately to get repairs or servicing?”

“The doctor, Mrs. Wellington, Mr. Johnson with two of the hotel cars, and that’s about it.”

“Do you ever leave the garage unattended?”

“I lock it up. Not that there’s thieves here, but the locals will nip in and take a spanner or something like that and forget to give it back. Hamish, if anyone wanted antifreeze, they’ve only got to stop at any garage outside or inside Strathbane and buy some.”

¦

Hamish went to the police station to find Priscilla waiting for him in the kitchen. He kept a spare key in the gutter above the kitchen door.

“I’ve taken Sonsie and Lugs for a walk,” said Priscilla. “They’ve been fed. Archie gave me some fish for Sonsie, and I bought some liver for Lugs.”

“Did you find out anything more about the American?” asked Hamish.

“I invited him to join me for dinner. It was quite an ordeal. He kept taking out a notebook and scribbling in it under the table. It’s all round the village he’s a government spy.”

“Who for? The CIA? How can people be so daft?”

“It made me furious. I told him if he didn’t stop taking notes about what I was saying, then I’d put the dinner on his bill.”

Hamish grinned. “I bet that stopped him in his tracks.”

“He has ambitions to be an author.”

“Good luck to him. I’d like to get a look at that notebook of his.” Hamish looked hopefully at Priscilla.

“No hope, Hamish. I’ll bet he sleeps with it under his pillow. Any leads?”

Hamish told her about his various interviews and then said, “I want to get to the bottom of this. Blair’s behaved disgracefully in insisting it’s a suicide. I could have done with a whole forensic team and policemen helping me to interview everyone.”

“I’m afraid some members of the Strathbane forensic team are in trouble. I met Matthew on the road here, and he told me.”

“What have they been up to now?”

“They’d just got a delivery of those blue light things, you know the ones that bring up bloodstains?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they were using them to play Star Wars outside their favourite pub in Strathbane. They were all charged with drunk and disorderly and misuse of police property. They were even dressed up as Star Wars characters. I believe Luke Skywalker was particularly abusive.”

Hamish groaned. “I’m beginning to think that lot are never sober. I’d better get on the phone and cancel my leave.”

¦

The following afternoon, Hamish spent a pleasant time with Betty. She listened to him as he felt no one had listened to him before. He began to wonder what it would be like to be married to an artists’ agent. Then he wondered uneasily about Elspeth Grant, the reporter who was now back at her job in Glasgow. He had been thinking of proposing to her but had left it too late. He had tried calling her at various times, but she had hung up on him.

He was just leaving Betty at the hotel and about to get into the police Land Rover when Priscilla came running out. “Hamish! Hal’s gone missing, and his bed hasn’t been slept in.”

“When did anyone last see him?”

“Yesterday. He took a packed lunch and said he was going for a walk. A lot of us have been out looking for him all day.”

Hamish phoned Strathbane and alerted them that an American tourist had gone missing. Then he phoned the