Mountain Rescue Patrol.
“I’ll come into the hotel and find out if anyone saw him leave and which direction he went.”
¦
Mr. Johnson summoned the staff. When questioned, they all said they hadn’t noticed where the American had gone. Then the maid, Bessie, came on duty and asked what all the fuss was about.
When Hamish told her, she said, “But he did come back!”
“When?”
“Last night. Just before dinner. I’d been taking a tray up to poor Mrs. Tabolt, who’s feeling poorly. She’s in the room next to him. I saw him going into his room.”
“What time?”
“It would be about seven o’clock in the evening.”
Hamish phoned the Mountain Rescue Patrol again and told them to hold off the search for the moment and then phoned Strathbane and said he was about to search Hal’s room.
Mr. Johnson took him up to Hal’s room. The door wasn’t locked. Hamish went in. The bed was made up and obviously hadn’t been slept in. Lots of clothes were in the wardrobe. Hamish searched every bit of the room, looking for Hal’s notebook, but it was nowhere to be found.
“Let’s check if his car is outside. He may have decided to drive somewhere,” said Hamish.
But Hal’s car was in the car park.
Hamish began to feel nervous. That wretched notebook, he thought. He phoned Strathbane once again and said he would need a team up to help him search. He knew they would turn out for a missing American tourist where they wouldn’t budge for a local artist.
He went out into the moors around the hotel, calling and searching. At last, exhausted, he returned to the police station, having decided to start the search again in the morning. The nights were still light, and the weather was warm. There would be no danger of the wee man dying of exposure unless he had decided to climb up into the mountains.
¦
Two local schoolboys, Sean and Diarmuid Hamilton, found the long white nights exciting. It was hard to sleep. They’d made an agreement earlier to slip out of their cottage and go down to the loch and play at chukkies – seeing how far they could skim a flat stone across the water.
In the grey gloaming which was like an early dawn just before the sun comes up, Diarmuid, proud possessor of a pencil torch, searched the shingly beach for flat stones. He swept the torch this way and that. The beam caught a pair of eyes down by the edge of the water.
“A seal, Sean,” he called. “Come and look. Slowly, now. We don’t want to frighten the beast.”
They crept closer.
“Oh, hell,” gasped Diarmuid. “It’s a man!”
They turned and ran as hard as they could, scrambling up the steps to the waterfront and hurtling towards the police station.
¦
Hamish was aroused from a deep sleep by the sound of hammering on the door and the sharp barking of Lugs.
When he opened the door, he looked down into the ashen faces of two small boys.
“There’s a deid man down by the loch,” gasped Diarmuid.
“Come into the kitchen and sit down while I get myself dressed,” said Hamish.
He went back into the bedroom and scrambled into his uniform. He hoped against hope the boys were mistaken and it would turn out to be nothing more than a bundle of old clothes.
When he was ready, he walked down with them to the beach, carrying a torch.
“Ower there,” said Diarmuid, pointing.
In the peculiar grey light of a highland summer night, Hamish saw the body. He crouched down. The dead eyes of Hal Addenfest stared up at him. He was lying half in and half out of the water.
Hamish stood up and took out his mobile phone and called Strathbane. He turned to the boys. “Run along home. I’ll be along to see you later.”
The boys ran off. Hamish crouched down by the body again. He felt for a pulse and found none. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and gently began to search in the pockets. Hal’s wallet was there, with money and credit cards. But there was no sign of his notebook.
He gently turned the head to one side and felt the skull. It gave beneath his probing fingers. Someone had smashed Hal’s skull in. The top half of the body, which was out of the water, was dry. There was no blood around the head that he could see. He looked at his watch. One in the morning. High tide had been two hours before, so allowing the time for the tide to recede, Hal must have been killed or placed on the beach a short time before the boys found him.
How could the killer have managed it unobserved? There were old people in Lochdubh who slept badly. Sound carried. Someone would surely have heard something.
He retreated to a flat rock and sat down. He took out his notebook and drew a plan of where the body was lying. Then on another page, he wrote down the boys’ names and when they had called at the police station. A little breeze rippled the glassy surface of the loch, bringing with it the scent of pine from the forests on the other side.
At last, he could hear the distant wail of police sirens. They came ever nearer and ever louder. Lights started to go on in the cottages. The peace of the summer night was being ripped apart.
Police cars stopped on the waterfront. He could see the heavy figure of Blair approaching the steps. Blair slipped on a piece of seaweed and crashed down the steps and fell with a shriek of pain.
Hamish ran towards him. “I’ve broke my leg,” howled Blair.
“Don’t move,” said Hamish, seeing the forensic team’s white van coming along the waterfront. He called Dr. Brodie. Jimmy Anderson came down the steps to join him. “Tell the forensic boys to get a stretcher down here,” ordered Hamish.
When Blair was carried up to the waterfront and was being examined by Dr. Brodie, who had come hurrying up with a coat over his pyjamas, Jimmy said, “So who’s dead?”
“An American tourist called Hal Addenfest. He was staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel.”
“That’s the one you reported missing?”
“The same.”
“Let’s have a look.” They walked down to where Hal was lying.
“He got a sore dunt in the back of his head,” said Hamish.
“He might have fallen down the steps and dragged himself to the water’s edge,” said Jimmy. “Look at what’s just happened to Blair.”
Another siren sounded in the distance. “That’ll probably be the ambulance from Braikie Hospital,” said Hamish. “Blair must really have broken his leg.”
When Blair was loaded into the ambulance, Jimmy and Hamish were joined by the pathologist, Professor Jane Forsydie. “He’s got a crack on the back of his head,” said Hamish.
She examined the body carefully and then straightened up. “I’ll be able to tell you better what happened to him when I do the autopsy, but, yes, I would guess he had been killed by a blow to the head.”
The forensic team started their work. A cameraman took pictures. A small crowd of villagers had gathered on the waterfront.
“His notebook’s missing,” said Hamish.
“What notebook?” asked Jimmy.
“He said he was going to be a writer. He took notes of what people said. He took Effie Garrard out a couple of times. I asked to see his notes about what she had said to him, but he refused. I couldn’t press him because it wasn’t a murder investigation.”
“And you think it is now?”
“I think it always should ha’ been. I’ll be off and talk to the wee boys who found him, and then I’d better check if a rowing boat has been used. Someone could have taken him out in a boat, cracked him on the head, and left him on the beach.”
