He ran back frantically to where Priscilla was comforting the boys. “It’s Peta. She’s dead,” he said. “Get these boys down to Lochdubh, phone Strathbane, and then bring help back here. Get some of the men. Tell them to bring groundsheets and a tent. It’s going to be a storm soon. Hurry! Oh, damn. My uniform.”
He grabbed his uniform out of the back of the Range Rover, tore off his casual clothes and changed into it while Priscilla, with quick efficient movements, cleared up the picnic and coaxed the shivering boys into the car.
Hamish ran back to where the body was lying, but this time he stood on guard outside the quarry, not wanting to tread on any clues. He flapped his arms at the buzzards above, only glad that they had not descended for dinner before the body was found.
The sky was turning milky white. The storm would appear to come down, he knew from experience, rather than blowing in from the west. The sky would deepen to grey and then black and then the rain would bucket down, blotting out any clues and those car tracks unless the men arrived first with the groundsheets.
¦
Jenny Trask missed all the excitement when Priscilla burst into the bar, for she had already left with her forestry worker, Brian Mulligan. They had drunk an awful lot and Jenny had taken him back to the castle bar, where they had drunk more. Looking through the door of the bar, Jenny had seen that the hall and reception desk were deserted, and so it had seemed like a good idea to slip Brian up to her room where eventually, between tangled sheets, the earth did seem to move for her as a most tremendous storm broke, rocking the castle to its foundations with peal after peal of thunder.
Outside, the Volvo, with windows open and sun-roof open, stood in the downpour and rain cascaded in, flooding the interior of the car.
¦
Hamish stood in the pouring rain, shivering miserably. A tent had been erected over Peta’s body and groundsheets covered a good deal of the floor of the quarry. Dr Brodie had examined the body and said he thought she had crammed the whole apple greedily into her mouth and had died of suffocation. Hamish shook his head slowly and said he’d be interested in what the police pathologist had to say.
Men from the village sat out in the road in their cars, passing round half-bottles of whisky and chatting excitedly.
And then the contingent from police headquarters arrived just as the storm clouds were rolling away and a bleak hellish light was beginning to illuminate the depressing scene.
To Hamish’s dismay, first out of the cars was Detective Police Inspector Blair with his sidekicks, Harry MacNab and Jimmy Anderson.
Hamish stared at him stupidly. “I thought you were in Spain!”
“Aye, well, ah’m back,” growled Blair. “Stand aside, laddie, and let the experts get to it.”
The forensic team in white boiler suits were standing ready. The police pathologist went into the tent. Then he poked his head out of the flap and called, “The rain’s stopped. You can remove this.”
Several policemen removed the tent. A shaft of watery sunlight shone down, lighting up Peta’s dead face.
“Jist like a roast pig,” said Blair with a laugh.
Dr Brodie moved forward. “I was just saying to Macbeth here,” he said to the police pathologist, “that this lady had the reputation of being a glutton. It was all over the village. She came here for a picnic and crammed an apple into her mouth and died of suffocation.”
“She died of suffocation all right,” said the pathologist, kneeling down by the body again.
To Blair’s irritation, Hamish moved forward. He pointed a long finger to Peta’s nostrils. “See those little bruises,” said Hamish. “I think someone rammed the apple in her mouth and pinched her nostrils tight so that she would suffocate. It’s a clear case of murder. She’s lying on a patch of gravel but you can see where it’s churned up about her feet where she writhed about.”
“Oh, for hiwen’s sakes,” moaned Blair. “Waud ye leave the diagnosis tae the experts, you barmpot.” The pathologist looked brightly up at Hamish, like an inquisitive bird. “You know this woman, Macbeth?”
“Yes, Peta Gore is her name. She was partner in a marital agency called Checkmate who brought a party of their clients to Tommel Castle Hotel, where they still are. Although she’s a partner, the firm is really run by a woman called Maria Worth, who had tried to keep the visit secret from Peta. Peta left a note this morning saying she was leaving, that she was walking down to catch the bus. But where are her clothes, where’s her luggage? And she’s a long way from the bus stop.”
The pathologist bent over the body again. “You could be right,” he said. “I mean, come to think of it, if she’d started to choke, she would have pulled the apple out of her mouth. If it’s murder, it’s a peculiarly vicious one. And I’ll tell you something else. It isn’t always possible to tell the exact time of death, but I would hazard a guess and say she died sometime last night.”
The groundsheets were being tenderly removed and a photographer was taking pictures of the tyre tracks. “Very faint,” he said. “Lucky you were here to get them covered, Macbeth.”
Blair glared at Hamish. Certainly Hamish had solved murders in the past and let Blair take the credit, but when Blair had been leaving headquarters, his super had said, “Oh, well, if it’s a murder, I’m sure Hamish will soon have an idea who did it.”
That had rankled. Worse, the super had referred to Macbeth as Hamish, a familiarity which Blair did not like.
Blair threw an arm around Hamish’s shoulders. “You’re wet through, laddie,” he said. “Why don’t you run along to that polis station of yours an’ dry off. Anderson here will run you down. Where’s your car, by the way?”
Hamish had no intention of telling Blair that he had been picnicking on the moors with Priscilla when he was supposed to be on duty – not yet anyway.
“Two wee boys found the body,” he said. “I got someone to drive them back.”
“Off you go wi’ Anderson then. We’ll call you when we need you.”
“You’d better,” said Hamish, “or I’ll need to put an independent report into Strathbane.” He walked off with Jimmy Anderson and left Blair staring after him.
“So what brought that old scunner back from Spain?” asked Hamish as Jimmy drove down into Lochdubh. The sky was clearing but a brisk wind had sprung up, ruffling the surface of the loch. The golden days were over and someone had murdered Peta.
“He got drunk in a bar in one o’ thae places on the Costa Brava and picked a fight wi’ a Spaniard and ended up thumping him one. The Spaniard calls the police. Turns out the Spaniard is head honcho in the town. Blair protests he’s a policeman, Spanish police say in that case he’s more of a disgrace and if he disnae want to be booked, then he’d better get the next plane out.”
“Why, oh why didn’t they arrest him?” mourned Hamish.
¦
Mr Johnson, emerging from the castle after the storm, found the soaked Volvo. He got two of the maids and told them to dry and polish the soaked interior and then went to the reception desk where he noticed Jenny’s key was missing, which meant she must be in her room.
He went upstairs and knocked loudly on her door. Jenny struggled awake, forgot there was someone in bed with her, and called, “Come in!”
Mr Johnson walked into the hotel bedroom and stopped short. Beside Jenny on the bed, a man was struggling up with a sheepish look on his face. The free and easy days of liberated sex had not yet reached as far north as Tommel Castle. Couples sharing rooms were expected to be married, or at least to have the decency to pretend to be.
“When you are ready, Miss Trask,” he said severely, “I would like to see you in my office.”
He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
“You’d better go,” said Jenny.
“Aw, come on, darlin’,” said Brian, “you’re not afraid of that old toffee-nose.”
“No, no, you must go,” said Jenny almost hysterically. He got up and stretched lazily and put his clothes on while Jenny snatched up her own clothes and fled into the bathroom, her face red with shame. Once dressed, she stood there for a long time, hoping Brian would leave.
