helmet he could see the driver had bright orange hair.
Cheryl!
He set off in pursuit, wishing he were in the Land Rover, wishing he could switch on the siren. The scooter had been painted bright pink and the licence plate was obscured by dirt, but there could not be more than one person in the Highlands with that colour of hair. The figure on the scooter glanced back and then simply swerved off the road on a forestry track and sped through the tall thin pine trees. Hamish swung the car off the road, but after only half a mile the track disappeared and ahead he could see that orange hair flitting off through the darkness of the trees.
He cursed under his breath, turned and went back to the road. He would go on to the campsite and confront Cheryl when she arrived.
When he drove into the campsite, that woman was still there, still stirring the pot. As he was not in a police car or in uniform, no one ran away at his arrival. There were fewer old buses and caravans this time, but the bright-blue one belonging to the Stoddarts was still there. He went up and knocked at the door. Again the thin bearded man answered it.
“I would like to wait until Cheryl Higgins returns, Mr Stoddart,” said Hamish.
“Why wait?” he asked amiably and then stood aside. “Help yourself. Herself’s in bed as usual.”
? Death of a Travelling Man ?
8
What will not woman, gentle woman dare,
When strong affection stirs her spirit up?
—Robert Southey
The Stoddarts were again watching television. Hamish thought, as he leant over Cheryl to wake her, that he would have expected the Stoddarts to be weaving cloth, painting pictures or doing something artistic rather than watching an Australian soap. They did not seem in the least troubled by his presence.
Cheryl came awake, and as soon as she saw who her visitor was, began her usual litany of oaths and curses. Once he could get a word in, Hamish asked, “Where’s your scooter?”
“Whit?”
“You heard.”
“I sold it,” she said sulkily.
“Who to?”
“Some fella I met in a bar.”
“What’s his name?”
“I dinnae ken,” said Cheryl, shifting restlessly among the frowsty bedclothes. “He gied me cash, I gied him the papers.”
“What did he look like?”
“Wee man wi’ a leather jacket and black hair.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” demanded Hamish plaintively. “Were you out this morning?”
“No, I was here in ma bed.”
Hamish stood up and approached the Stoddarts. “Was Cheryl out this morning?”
Wayne Stoddart wrenched his eyes from the television screen. “Don’t ask me, man,” he said. “Only just got up.”
Bunty Stoddart, whose face was hidden under a tangled mass of hair, continued to watch and listen avidly to the Australian soap, a vision of sanitized life in the antipodean middle class.
Hamish returned to Cheryl. “I think it was you I chased this morning. There can’t be more than two of you in the Highlands with that colour of hair.”
Cheryl gave a contemptuous yawn.
Hamish gave up and went outside and began to search around for the scooter. The wind was howling through the piles of refuse and old cars which dotted the field among the buses and caravans. A dismal scene. But there was no sign of the scooter.
He began to experience a pressing nagging fear that he was in the wrong place, that the clue to the murder lay back in Lochdubh, buried among the inhabitants. But he stubbornly decided to wait in Strathbane until evening and see Johnny Rankin and the Stotters. It was no use questioning Cheryl again. He would not get anything out of her.
He drove into Strathbane, a misery of a place with tall concrete blocks of flats and an air of failure. Nothing had changed. The seagulls here seemed dirtier than anywhere else and the oily sea sucked at the rubbish-strewn shore, heaving in on long rolling slow waves, as if exhausted by pollution. He went to the Glen Bar, which he had once frequented when he had been briefly stationed in the town, ordered an orange juice and then sat in a corner and took out a notebook and began to write anything that came into his head about the case.
It slowly dawned on him that he had let his feelings become involved in a dangerous way. Not only was he protecting the three women, he had not questioned Mr Ferrari thoroughly enough, having let his partiality for hardworking Scottish Italians sway his judgement. Then there was the minister. There was no doubt that the normally scholarly and gentle Mr Wellington had gone temporarily mad, and the murder had definitely been done by someone in the grip of a murderous rage. Had Mr Wellington considered himself to be the hammer of God?
He had half a mind to call at headquarters and report the finding of the money, drugs and video and then ask for leave so that he could get away from the village and leave the Strathbane police to do their work.
But perhaps, just perhaps, he might find a clue during the performance of the pop group.
It was a long dreary day and he was glad when evening arrived and he drove to Mullen’s Roadhouse, anxious to get it over with.
The huge bar was crowded with a mixture of young people wearing what looked to Hamish like an assortment of jogging suits, and staid Scottish couples who had no doubt come because the entertainment was free and there was nothing much else in the way of entertainment in Strathbane.
He was getting tired of orange juice and switched to tomato juice.
There was a small stage in the bar. Various young men were setting up sound equipment and plugging in things and arranging loudspeakers.
At last Johnny Rankin and the Stotters came on. Johnny Rankin was an emaciated young man wearing black leather trousers covered in sequins and nothing else. The only female performer was Cheryl, who was wearing an old–fashioned black corset and black stockings, perhaps hoping to emulate Madonna, although there was something peculiarly sexless about her, but then, reflected Hamish, he had always thought there was something peculiarly sexless about Madonna.
The band swung into action, a hellish cacophony of sound. Cheryl shouted the lyrics and gyrated and twanged a large electric guitar, making up in energy what she so obviously lacked in talent. Strobe lights hurt Hamish’s eyes but he kept them fixed on Cheryl. At no time did she leave the stage. He suffered through the whole performance and then went out into the blessed quiet of the night, feeling low. There was no way Cheryl could have left the stage.
He drove back to Lochdubh, regretting that it was now too late to call on Priscilla – Priscilla who had a marvellous way of clarifying his thoughts. He resolved to see her the next day. The need to turn the evidence over to Strathbane was becoming pressing.
And then, as he was driving past the manse, he suddenly stopped abruptly a little beyond it and looked back up at the field. All the lights were on in the bus. He got out of the car and sprinted up towards the field.
He reached the bus and quietly leaned in through the door. Mr Wellington, the minister, was feverishly looking through the cupboards. Groceries and Seari’s clothes were lying tumbled on the floor.
Hamish stepped inside.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded.
Mr Wellington swung round, his face grey.
“I-I-I lent Sean a v-valuable book,” he stammered. “I was looking for it.”
“In the middle of the night?” demanded Hamish. “This iss breaking and entering.”
