buying expensive dresses in Inverness and paying cash for them when, in fact, I was buying them cheap from the thrift shops. I was so glad when I heard he was dead and then, when I realized the police would probably find that video, I was frightened to death all over again. Oh, Hamish, John must never find out.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Hamish heavily. He faced Jessie. “Now you.”
Jessie sobbed and stumbled over the words and repeated everything, but the sad story slowly emerged. She, too, had been flattered by the attentions of this young man. She had gone to the bus. He gave her something to drink and she didn’t remember a thing after that until somehow she was in her own bed at home and Nessie was sitting next to her.
“He must have put something in her drink,” said Nessie, “for she was raving and seeing things. I didnae call the doctor, thank the Lord for that, for I thought she maybe had the DTs and that would have been a shame and disgrace. When she told me she had had one drink and didn’t remember anything after that, I didnae believe her. Then Sean Gourlay called, as bold as brass. He asked to see her alone. After he had gone, I could see she was frightened to death and so I got it out of her. He wanted twenty pounds. That’s a lot for us. Dad left us the house and a bit in the bank, but just enough for us to get by on if we watch carefully. I told Jessie to give him the twenty but warned her he would probably be back. And so he was. So I said to Jessie we should sell up and get out of Lochdubh where he could never find us…” Her voice trailed off and she sat in dumb misery.
Oh, may you burn in hell, Sean Gourlay, thought Hamish. Jessie was probably, at the age of fifty-something, still a virgin. She and Nessie were staunch church-goers. No one would ever think, looking at the pair of them, that there would ever be anything about either of them to blackmail. They both had brown hair, permed ferociously into small tight curls, and thick glittering glasses and thin spare figures.
“Now, Mrs Wellington,” he said, “what is your story?”
“He said they were Turkish cigarettes,” said Mrs Wellington bitterly. “And how would I know any different? He made me feel young and reckless and I had never felt young or reckless before. I haven’t even any children.”
Hamish did not feel like asking her what she meant by that. “I married a suitable man and settled down to do good works. I was tired of good works,” she said, tears starting to her eyes, “and now look what my wickedness has brought me to. I’m a silly old fool. I, like Mrs Brodie, have a joint account, and Mr Wellington checks it every week!” Hamish had always considered it odd that Mrs Wellington always referred to her husband as ‘Mr Wellington’, like a Victorian lady. “I was so desperate, I thought if I gave him a big sum, he would go away. He promised to go away. I stole the money from the Mothers’ Union. But he came back for more. I sold some of my jewellery to keep him quiet. When he died, I was so glad it was all over.”
“And did any of you kill him?” asked Hamish.
“No,” said Mrs Wellington.
“No,” squeaked Jessie.
“I wanted to,” said Angela heavily. “I dreamt about it every day. But I didn’t kill him. What happens now, Hamish?”
“I’ll need to keep this evidence here, in my room where Willie won’t find it, and then try to see Cheryl again. She must have known about the blackmailing. She knew what she was doing when she went out for those walks and left Sean alone with one or other of you.”
“Surely she murdered him,” said Angela.
“I would like to think that,” sighed Hamish. “But at the time of the murder she was performing with a pop group in front of witnesses, and I canrtae break her alibi. Keep quiet, all of you, and we might come out of this. But if I find one of you killed Sean Gourlay, then there will be no more covering anything up. I’ve got a week. In a week’s time, Sean’s mother comes up here to take away a few things and try to sell the bus. Of course, I could always put the video with the other things I found,” he added half to himself.
“You mean you found the missing drugs?” asked Angela eagerly.
“And the money?” put in Mrs Wellington.
“Yes.”
“Where?” asked Angela. “Can’t we have the money back, and the drugs?”
“No, I’m sorry. They’ll have to stay where they are for now.”
When the women had gone, Hamish went through to the office and made notes, writing down what he knew, but without seeing any glimmer of hope.
The phone beside him rang. It was a tearful woman calling to say a truck had crashed into her car up on the moors. He drove off to deal with that but all the while his mind was turning over what he knew and worrying in case one of the three women was a murderess.
It was during that evening when the light began to fade and Willie was whistling to himself in the kitchen as he prepared the supper that Hamish, with a sudden lurch in his stomach, wondered if either of the three might go to the bus to try to find the money or drugs.
He shouted to Willie that he had to go out and to keep his dinner warm and made his way up to the manse field. The bus stood dark and forlorn. Hamish crouched down behind the packing case, deciding to give it an hour or so. Mrs Wellington and Angela, if they wanted to make a move, would do so before bedtime so as not to rouse their husbands’ suspicions by getting up and going out in the middle of the night.
By eleven o’clock he was beginning to shiver, for the night was getting cold. He rose stiffly up from behind the packing case and then crouched down again. Three shadowy figures were at the edge of the field. He waited a moment and then switched on the large torch he was carrying, stood up and shone it straight at the bus. Angela, Mrs Wellington and Jessie Currie swung round and stood hypnotized in the light like startled rabbits.
Hamish walked towards them. Angela was carrying a hammer, no doubt to break the lock.
“I know what you’re after,” said Hamish severely, “and you’re not getting it. Now, I’m going out on a limb and putting my job on the line for the lot of ye. The least you can all do iss not to try to tamper wi’ the evidence more than it’s been tampered with already. Off tae your beds, ladies, and if I see just one of you near this bus again I’ll take the whole lot, video and all, and let Strathbane see it.”
They shuffled off silently, without a word.
Hamish followed them just as slowly. He was haunted by the sight of Angela holding that hammer. You think you know people so well, and when something like murder happens you realize you really don’t know much about them at all. Angela had previously proved herself to be unstable, but the circumstances had been stressful. Mrs Wellington he had believed to be the sort of character of a Good Woman that she presented to the world, and Jessie and Nessie he had regarded affectionately as a couple of jokes. He must try Cheryl again.
¦
Next morning, he told Willie he wanted the day off and asked him to look after things. Hamish cynically noticed his dog, who would normally have been scrabbling at the Land Rover, was happy to be left behind. Towser had been seduced by Willie’s cooking.
He took Willie’s battered Ford instead of the police car, not wanting to advertise his presence in Strathbane to anyone from headquarters.
The farther he drove from Lochdubh, the more he felt like an irresponsible fool. He should never have become so involved with the locals in a murder inquiry. He should have phoned Strathbane, told them about the new evidence, and let them take it from there. For all he knew of them, Mrs Wellington, Angela, or even Jessie Currie might be capable of murder.
If only Cheryl hadn’t so many witnesses. He would no doubt find her again and she would swear and curse and he would get nothing more out of her. He could not tell her about the video without risking exposing the three women.
It was all so hopeless.
He was approaching Mullen’s Roadhouse. He slowed down. A large new poster was pinned up on the window. Top of the bill was Johnny Rankin and the Stotters. He stopped the car and climbed out. They were due to perform that evening.
He decided to phone Willie and say he would be in Strathbane until very late. He had to see that performance and judge if there was any way Cheryl might have managed to slip out. She had that scooter. But it would take about two hours surely to get to Lochdubh, park the scooter outside the village, go to the bus on foot, murder Sean, and then get back.
He was turning the problem over in his mind when a slim figure on a scooter shot past. Under the crash
