wrist. There was only a flutter of a pulse.
Hamish swore under his breath. It looked as if Bert had taken an overdose. He, Hamish, would have to explain his presence in Strathbane, for he would need to get Bert to the nearest hospital.
He found a telephone buried under a pile of clothes on the living room floor and phoned for an ambulance, and then with great reluctance phoned Strathbane Police Headquarters. He asked to be put through to Jimmy Anderson, briefly told him what he had found and said he hoped it could somehow be kept from Blair at the moment.
“Everything can be kept from Blair at the moment,” said Anderson cheerfully. “He’s in the hospital wi’ cirrhosis o’ the liver. Be round right away.”
Hamish began to search feverishly after drawing on a thin pair of gloves which he always kept on him for examining clues without leaving his own fingerprints on them. He found the papers which showed that Bert was now the owner of Cheryl’s scooter. He found some photographs of Bert in action and was startled at the young man’s resemblance to Cheryl.
Then, feeling like a criminal, he carefully put everything back where he had found it, knowing full well that he was not supposed to touch anything before the CID arrived. He had just finished when he heard the approaching wail of the ambulance and police cars.
Hamish explained to Jimmy Anderson that he had just heard that Bert had orange hair and performed as a woman and had wondered whether that might have been the way Cheryl could have been at Lochdubh murdering Sean when she was supposed to be on stage. But he said nothing of his find of the money and drugs, nor of the blackmailing of the women. For a mad idea had taken root in his brain, an idea that might flush out the murderer with the least scandal possible.
But he patiently went back to headquarters with Anderson and typed up a statement. The report from the hospital said Bert was in a very bad way and no one would be able to interview him for some time.
Hamish then drove out to Mullen’s Roadhouse. Sure enough, Johnny Rankin and the Stotters were gyrating and howling to the end of their performance. Cheryl gave him a filthy look as she finally climbed down from the stage.
“Don’t worry,” said Hamish. “I’m not here to ask you any more questions. Did you collect all your belongings from the bus?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m glad of that, for Sean’s mother is coming up the day after tomorrow to take away her son’s things. But before she touches anything, the forensic team is coming back because I have found some items for them that they missed before and that I am sure will give us definite proof of the murderer. I swear they’re covered in fingerprints.”
Cheryl shrugged and her hair fell forward to hide her face. “When’s this forensic lot coming?” she asked.
“Let me see, this is Wednesday…no, it’s Thursday already, so that means Friday morning I’m expecting them.”
“Oh, aye.” Cheryl turned away, indifference in every line of her body.
But it must work. It’s got to work, thought Hamish as he drove home. I’ll tell the Wellingtons, the Curries, and Angela Brodie, and Mr Ferrari, too, that I’ve found stuff which will enable the forensic department to find the murderer. Forensic investigation is the new witchcraft. Any guilty person’s going to be frightened of being smelt out.
And if it doesn’t work, reflected Hamish sadly, I’ll turn everything over to Strathbane and throw myself on Jimmy Andersen’s mercy. What a gamble! What a thin chance! But the murderer, or murderess, must be badly frightened, must still be desperate to cover his or her tracks. And if I get whoever did it, then I have to gamble on that person keeping quiet about the blackmailing. If it’s Cheryl, point out that she’ll get a more lenient sentence; if it’s Ferrari, he didn’t know about the blackmailing anyway. But if it’s one of the others, the blackmailing is their best excuse for the murder and whoever it is will damn the other two innocent blackmail victims when presenting her defence. But it can’t go on. I’ll have to try.
¦
The next day, he decided that there must have been something in the orange juice he had bought at the club. He was behaving ridiculously. Better to wait until Bert recovered from his drug overdose and get Jimmy Anderson to find out if he had stood in for Cheryl on the night of the murder. Then question Johnny Rankin and the rest. Then see if Cheryl could be broken. It was possible she did not know of the blackmailing, but how could she not know? But something drove him on to get Mrs Wellington, Jessie Currie and Angela Brodie on their own and tell them a variety of what he had told Cheryl. All looked at him hopelessly, as if they were exhausted with weeping and worry.
When Hamish returned to the police station, Willie said, “Jimmy Anderson was on the phone. You’re to call right back.”
Hamish phoned Strathbane and was put through to the detective. “It’s Bert Luscious, real name Bert Maxwell,” said Anderson. “He’s been and gone and died on us. I had a go at Johnny Rankin and the rest and they swear blind Cheryl was with them all the time and I cannae break their story. Rankin’s got enough syringe marks on his arms tae make him look like a walking pincushion, but he started screaming about police harassment and said he’s been clean for months. We searched his flat and the others but couldnae find any drugs. Look, Hamish, Mullen tells me you’ve been tae the Roadhouse and it’s no’ on your beat. You’re going tae have to look the facts in the face, and it’s that one o’ that lot in Brigadoon up there did it, and stop running yourself ragged wi’ a bunch o’ daft men in women’s frocks and a lot o’ drug addicts who can’t sing for two pence. Are you keeping anything back?”
Hamish said reluctantly, “I’ve got new evidence. Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, was back at the bus on the night of the murder, so was her husband, and so was the restaurant owner, Ferrari, and a couple of his relatives.”
“And why havenae we seen those statements?”
“I’ve just done them,” said. Hamish.
“Look here, when is that mother coming up tae sell the bus?”
“In a few days’ time.”
“Well, I’m coming up there tomorrow to go over the whole thing again, and do you know why, Hamish Macbeth?”
“No.”
“Because I’ve got a feeling in ma bones you’re protecting someone. If Blair’s as bad as I think he is, he’ll have to retire and I’m in line for promotion, so it’s no more easygoing auld Jimmy Anderson. See you in the morn.”
Priscilla, thought Hamish. I need Priscilla, and as if on cue, Priscilla walked into the office.
“Sit down,” said Hamish. “I’m in a grand old mess.”
Willie came in with a tray of coffee. “Willie, could you take off your pinny and go on your beat,” said Hamish. “We want to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Use your brains, man, I’ve got something serious to ask Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
“Oh, I see,” said Willie. “I’ll give you a long time then.”
When Willie had gone, Hamish outlined what had happened to date and his plans for catching the murderer.
“It might just work,” said Priscilla. “What will you do if no one turns up?”
“I’ll chust haff to tell Anderson everything.”
“I suppose you can lie and tell him you just found the stuff. When do you expect your murderer to show?”
“After dark.”
“That’ll be about midnight, and even then it never gets really dark at this time of year,” pointed out Priscilla. “If I were you, I would begin watching about ten. I’ve got a nifty little tape recorder up at the castle. I’ll bring that and keep you company.”
“Nice of you, but why?”
“Better to have proof and a witness.”
“And what do I tell Willie?” asked Hamish.
