Death of a Travelling Man

think the packets of morphine were taken?” he asked.

“That’s the devil of it,” said Dr Brodie. “I haven’t really checked anything for six months. This is all I need.”

“Well, we’d best lock everything up again and let no one near it until after the forensic team’s arrived,” said Hamish.

Hamish fully expected Detective Chief Inspector Blair to arrive on the following morning, but it was an Inspector Turnbull, a dour Aberdonian who arrived with Detective Jimmy Anderson and three uniformed policemen as well as the forensic team. He had a search warrant for Sean’s bus and listened carefully as Hamish described Sean’s criminal record.

Sean and Cheryl were brought down to the police station, where they were both searched, and then Sean was asked to take them to the bus.

Sean opened the door for them and then examined the search warrant again carefully. “If you and your lady will just step outside,” said Inspector Turnbull, “we’ll be as quick as we can.”

The day was fine and mild. Sean and Cheryl sat side by side on a large packing case on the grass. Hamish noticed that they did not speak to each other.

He found himself praying to the God he was not quite sure he believed in for drugs to be found. He felt Sean was an evil influence on the village and wanted him out of it.

At long last, Turnbull emerged. “Nothing,” he said to Hamish.

“Great stinking pigs,” muttered Cheryl, but Sean put a hand on her arm and remarked pleasantly, “You really must stop harassing us, Inspector, just because we don’t fit into any conventional pattern.”

“Oh, I wouldnae say that,” said Turnbull. “There’s a lot o’ you long-haired layabouts crawling about Scotland.”

“My hair is not long, and if you don’t watch your mouth, Inspector, I shall sue you for harassment. You’ve found nothing, so shove off.”

Hamish suddenly said, “Better check under the bus, Inspector, just in case.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing a look of alarm on Cheryl’s face.

Sean lit a cigarette and eyed Hamish through the smoke. “Determined to find me guilty, eh? I think it’s time I phoned the press.”

He loped off in the direction of the manse. Hamish watched while the Calor gas tank outside the bus was unhitched, as were the cables from the bus to the manse, Sean obviously leeching electricity supplies from the minister. The keys, as Cheryl informed them, were in the blank, blank, blanking ignition. The bus roared into life and moved forward.

To Hamish’s delight, there were loose sods of earth under the bus which, when lifted, revealed a hole about three feet square, recently dug. But it turned out to be full of rubbish – Coke cans, bottles and scraps of paper.

Whatever had been hidden there, and Hamish was sure something had been hidden there, had gone. But who could have alerted Sean? Willie was a gossip, but Willie had been close to him, Hamish, since the doctor had first reported the theft.

Cheryl put up an arm to brush her hair out of her eyes. Her loose sleeve rolled back. Hamish saw ugly bruises on her thin arm.

But there was nothing he could do about that unless Cheryl showed any signs of wanting to report Sean for beating her up, and from the way she had suddenly started to scream obscenities at the police, it was highly doubtful if she ever would. But what did Mrs Wellington think when she heard the girl running off at the mouth like that? Possibly she hadn’t heard her. Possibly Cheryl reserved her swear-words for the police.

Next day the Strathbane and Highland Gazette carried a photograph of Sean and Cheryl on the front page. Sean was looking like a film star and Cheryl was attired in a pretty flowered cotton dress, with her hair done in two pigtails. The article quoted Sean as saying that they were a couple who only wanted to be left alone to enjoy the beautiful Highlands of Scotland but that they were being persecuted by the police. Inspector Turnbull was correctly quoted, describing Sean as a long-haired layabout. The article finished by saying that the couple were living in a converted bus on manse land with the full approval of the minister and his wife.

So that was that, apart from a stern warning from Strathbane not to go near the couple again unless evidence was concrete.

¦

Sean and Cheryl had purchased from somewhere a small motor scooter, and one day, they roared off on it. But their bus still stood up on the manse field. Hamish, however, was glad to see them go, and hoped they would stay away for a few days at least.

But while they were gone, Hamish received an agitated caller, the treasurer of the Mothers’ Union, Mrs Battersby. She was a thin, pale woman in her mid-forties with thick glasses, wispy hair and dressed in a wool two- piece she had knitted herself out of one of Patel’s ‘special offers’, a sulphurous-yellow yarn. “There’s one hundred pounds missing from the kitty,” she said.

Hamish’s thoughts immediately flew to Sean. “When do you think it was taken?” he asked.

“Let me see, I counted it on Sunday, for Mrs Anderson had given me ten pounds. We have been collecting for Famine Relief. Then this morning, Mrs Gunn gave me five pounds and I opened up the box to add that money to it and thought I’d better just count it all over again and log it in the book and I immediately saw that one hundred pounds had gone!”

Hamish’s heart sank. Sean and Cheryl had left last Saturday. They couldn’t have taken it.

“How much was there altogether?” he asked.

“One hundred and forty-five pounds and twenty-three pee.”

“It’s a wonder the lot wasn’t taken.”

“Ah, you see, the hundred was in notes and the remainder is just in small change.”

“I’d better come along and hae a look,” said Hamish. “Willie, you come as well.”

Willie, who had come through from the kitchen, began to remove his apron. “Aye, thon’s the grand lad you have there,” said Mrs Battersby despite her distress at the theft. “Always cleaning.”

Hamish, in order to keep relations with Willie as easy as possible, had allowed the policeman to continue housekeeping. It seemed to be Willie’s only interest in life. A new cleaner on the market was judged by Willie with all the care of a connoisseur sampling a rare wine. It was a pity, thought Hamish, that he had under him a policeman who showed so little interest in policing.

They walked together towards the church hall. “So the funds are kept here,” said Hamish. “I would have thought you would have kept them at home.”

“The reason I did not,” said Mrs Battersby, “is because of the great responsibility of it all. If any went missing in my home, then I would get the blame.”

“There’s a lot o’ wickedness around,” said Willie. “The minister was saying only last Sunday that it creepeth like the serpent and stingeth like the adder.”

“That’s booze, not burglary,” snapped Hamish, distressed at this evidence that the minister was still reading out ancient hell-fire sermons.

There was a small group of women outside the church hall, headed by Mrs Wellington, her face white with distress.

“Who could have done such a thing?” she cried when she saw them.

“Chust let me see where the money was kept,” said Hamish.

Mrs Wellington produced a massive key and unlocked the church hall. She led the way into the kitchen and opened a cupboard under the sink. There, among the cleaners and dusters, was a tin box with a small padlock. The padlock had been broken.

“Now that’s verra interesting,” said Willie.

“What is?” demanded Hamish.

“Judge’s Lemon Shine,” said Willie, holding up a bottle. “That’ll no’ get ye verra far with the cleaning, ladies. It’s no good with the grease.”

“Get out of the way,” muttered Hamish, exasperated. He took a large handkerchief out of his pocket and gently lifted the box up on to the kitchen counter. “Any sign of a break-in?” he asked. “Any broken windows?”

“Nothing at all,” said Mrs Battersby.

“So who’s got the key to the hall?”