Death of a Witch

∨ Death of a Witch ∧

7

The mair they talk I’m kent the better.

– Robert Bums

“What if,” said Elspeth when Hamish returned and sat down, “the murder of Fiona McNulty has nothing to do with the other two? She was a woman living alone in a trailer. Some passing maniac might have wanted money for drink or drugs. Was she sexually assaulted? And was there any money in the mobile home?”

“I’m slipping,” said Hamish ruefully. “I’ll phone Jimmy.”

Jimmy answered and asked, “Where are you?”

“I’m in the Italian restaurant.”

“Be with you in a minute. I’m along at the station.”

Hamish rang off and said, “Jimmy’s in Lochdubh. He’ll be with us in a few minutes.”

Jimmy arrived and shrugged off his coat. “Man, I’m famished.”

“Join us,” said Elspeth. “I can entertain the police on my expenses.”

“As long as you don’t go printing anything you shouldn’t. Willie!” he called to the waiter. “Get me a bowl of spag bol and a bottle o’ plonk.”

“We dinnae serve plonk,” said Willie.

“Well, something red wi’ alcohol in it.” He turned to Hamish. “Man, I’m tired. Give me a bed for the night?”

“Yes, but you’re not getting any of my clean underwear. Jimmy, was the Fiona woman sexually assaulted?”

“According to the first brief examination, no.”

“Was there any money taken? Any valuables?”

“Not that anyone could see. Her handbag was in a cupboard with all her credit cards and two hundred and ten pounds in cash. There was a gold wedding ring on one finger and a diamond ring as well. She had a wee TV in the living area. That hadn’t been taken. So robbery wasn’t the motive.”

“That’s a pity,” said Hamish.

“Why?”

“I’ve a feeling that if the motive had been robbery, that might have been one less murder to solve. That would have suggested a villain, and we could have checked up with people with a criminal record on the database. It looks awfy like this one was connected to the others. Is there anything in Ina Braid’s background that might lead someone to kill her? She’s been in the village as long as most folks can remember. Churchgoing, member of the Mothers’ Union, absolutely blameless.”

“Fergus Braid in his interview said they had been married for twenty-eight years. Both local. Met at a ceilidh. Ina was working as a secretary over at Braikie. Got married and Ina became a housewife. End of story.”

“She must have known something,” said Elspeth. “I’ve got to do a colour piece. I’ll go around the village tomorrow speaking to people. They all know me and they’ll talk to me easier than they would even to Hamish.”

Hamish felt suddenly uneasy. “Remember, there’s a murderer out there, Elspeth. Don’t go putting yourself in danger.”

“I’ll be careful.”

♦

Hamish awoke the next morning to the sound of a gale hammering at the building. He sniffed. There was a nasty smell of stale booze and sweat that even the many draughts in the police station couldn’t dispel. Then he remembered Jimmy was sleeping in the cell.

He got up, washed and dressed, and roused a protesting Jimmy. He put out a glass of water and a packet of Alka-Seltzer on the kitchen table – Jimmy’s usual breakfast. He went into the bathroom and ran a hot bath. Jimmy was sitting on the edge of the bed, groaning.

“I’ve run a bath for you,” said Hamish.

“I don’t want a bath.”

“Yes, you do. You stink. Get to it!”

Hamish retreated to the kitchen, where he made a pot of strong coffee. Jimmy eventually emerged. He dropped two Alka-Seltzer tablets into the glass of water and then drank it.

“I don’t need a hair of the dog,” he said. “I need the whole coat.”

The wild cat jumped on his lap and sent him tumbling backwards onto the floor.

“Now, isn’t that amazing,” said Hamish. “Sonsie likes you.” He helped Jimmy back into his chair.

“If that’s the result of liking, I’ll settle for loathing any day. I hope Elspeth can get something.”

♦

Elspeth was sitting in the Currie sisters’ parlour, drinking tea. “You should get that big loon to marry you,” said Nessie.

“Marry you,” muttered her sister, her eyes glued to the television set, watching a rerun of a Jerry Springer show.

Elspeth ignored that remark. “I’d be interested to learn anything at all you know about Ina Braid.”

“Well, there’s not much,” said Nessie. The Greek chorus that was her sister was now thankfully immersed in the TV programme. “Have a biscuit. I baked them yesterday.”

Elspeth dutifully bit into a buttery biscuit and waited. The wind yelled and shrieked along the waterfront as if all the demons of hell had been let loose.

Jessie wrinkled up her brow in thought. A downdraught blew peat smoke around the room but neither of the sisters seemed to notice. “There’s not much to tell,” said Nessie. “Decent body and her sponge cake was as light as light. Not much to look at if you’d seen her afore she died but she was right pretty once. My, what a grand tennis player she was. Champion. Won the cup at the local championships over at Braikie. They’ve had grand courts there but a building developer got his greedy hands on them and they’re now houses where the courts were. My, that Ellie Macpherson, her what runs the post office in Braikie, was as mad as mad. Until Ina turned up, Ellie had been reigning champion.”

“Did they see much of each other?”

“No. Ellie was always a one to bear grudges.”

“Did Ina always get on all right with her husband?”

“Model couple, that’s what they were.”

Elspeth persevered, but it seemed as if Ina had led a blameless life.

She decided to drive to Braikie and see Ellie. Elspeth left her photographer at the hotel. He was a tedious man, and she wanted as little of his company as possible.

But first, bending against the wind and carrying her laptop, she went into the Highland Times office and asked the editor, Matthew Campbell, if she could borrow a desk to send over some copy.

“Sure,” said Matthew, who had once worked alongside Elspeth in Glasgow before he had fallen in love with the local schoolteacher and decided to settle in the Highlands. “Got anything interesting?”

“Not yet. Just a colour piece. You know, the hills and heather and blah, blah.”

“Take that desk over there.”

Elspeth switched on her computer and began to work. Hamish is going to hate me for this, she thought as she typed: “Does a serial killer stalk the mountains and glens of the Highlands?”

When she had finished and was about to leave, Matthew said, “Look, you could do me a favour. I’ve been getting our Angus to do the horoscopes, but he’s down with the cold. Could you just bash out something? You used to do them when you worked here.”

“Oh, all right.”

Elspeth had an idea and began to type busily. For each star sign, she put in a veiled warning, slightly changed in each one. For Gemini, she wrote, “Your sins will find you out. You were seen and whoever saw you is soon going to talk. You will have a sharp pain in your side on Thursday. Do not overwork and curb your volatile nature and propensity to indulge in violent rages.”

The others were all variations on the same theme. She printed it off and handed it to Malcolm. He read it with his eyebrows raised. “I’d better put a name other than Angus’s at the top of this or someone might murder him, too. Suggest something?”

“Gypsy Rose?”

“Without the Lee? Okay.”

♦

When Elspeth went out onto the waterfront to walk to her car, leaning against the force of the wind, it looked as if the whole countryside were in motion. Whitecapped waves scudded along the loch, clouds streamed across the sky, hedges in gardens sent out a mournful bagpipe sound as the wind whistled through them, and gates swung and banged on their hinges.

She hoped her small Mini Cooper was low enough on the road not to get blown over.

Fortunately the tide was out so that she was able to drive along the shore road into Braikie. The bungalows that overlooked the road were now closed and falling into disrepair. They had been flooded so many times, the owners had been unable to sell them.

The whole coastline of Britain is being eaten away, thought Elspeth, and yet no one does anything about it.

She parked in the main street and went to the post office, which was closed for the half day. Elspeth remembered there was a flat above the post office. There was a door at the side with an intercom. She pressed the bell. A high fluting voice demanded, “Yees?”

“My name is Elspeth Grant. I’m from the Daily Bugle.” The door buzzed. Elspeth opened it and climbed up shallow stone steps to where a thin woman wearing a turban and with bare arms covered in bracelets stood waiting.

She struck a pose in the doorway and said, “I see you have come to consult the Oracle.”

“The Oracle?”

“I know everything about everybody.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Elspeth, following her in.

Incense was burning in the living room. A sofa and two armchairs were draped in violently coloured material, all red and yellow swirls. The carpet and walls were bright yellow. A bowl of yellow silk flowers stood on a round table by the window. Beside the bowl was a large crystal ball. A mobile of various crystal shapes hung from the ceiling. A bookshelf was crammed with books on astrology and the occult.

“Sherry?” offered Ellie.

“Yes, please. I didn’t think anyone drank sherry anymore.”

“My father, God rest his soul, always said that sherry was the only suitable drink for a lady.”

Ellie disappeared and returned with a tray with a decanter on it. But instead of sherry glasses, she poured the drink into two whisky tumblers.

“Slainte,” she said.

“Slainte,” echoed Elspeth. The sherry was heavy and sweet and had a faint chemical taste.

“Now sit down and tell me how I can help you.”

Elspeth sat down in one of the armchairs. Ellie put a little side table next to her covered with a lace doily.

“First question,” said Elspeth. “Did you ever meet Catriona Beldame?”

“Yes. I suppose you heard that.”

Elspeth hadn’t but maintained a discreet silence.

“I wanted to see if she was genuine,” said Ellie. “There are so few of us about.”

“So few of what?”

“White witches.” Go on. “I did not stay long. I got out of that cottage as fast as I could.”

“Why?”

Ellie lowered her voice dramatically. “She was a black witch. I can still hear her dreadful laughter as I ran away.” Elspeth translated this as – I said something silly and she began to laugh and I was offended.

“I said to her as I fled, ‘The flames of hell will engulf you’” – Ellie leaned forward – “and they did! I didn’t put a curse on her, mind. That is not my way.”

This woman is bonkers, thought Elspeth. “Do you know of anyone who might want to murder her?”

“It was the devil, come to claim his own.”

“And what about poor Ina Braid?” A variety of emotions crossed Ellie’s face. It was obvious she was trying desperately to think of something but that she didn’t really know anything. “There are things I could tell you,” she said.

“Then go on, do,” said Elspeth sharply. “You are said to bear a grudge against Ina because she used to beat you at tennis.”

“That’s because I let her win although I was always the better player. I am a Christian. I do not bear grudges.”

“Then who else might have disliked Ina?”

“I cannot. I would be putting my life in danger.”

Elspeth closed her notebook and got to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Miss Macpherson. Got to rush.”

“Oh, do stay. There are other things I could tell you.” But Elspeth was already out of the door and clattering down the steps.

♦

Ellie was offended and felt thwarted as well. She had dreamt of featuring in the newspapers. When she opened up the post office for business the next day, she began to regale the customers with mysterious hints of how she really knew the identity of the murderer but was too afraid to say anything. The gossip swirled out from Braikie as if borne on the gale and spread around the surrounding villages.

Angela Brodie called on Hamish that evening.

“Come in,” he cried. “I’m right weary. All I seem to do is question folks over and over again without getting anywhere.”

“Have you heard about Ellie Macpherson?”

“The postmistress?”

“Yes, her. Aren’t you supposed to say postperson or something? I can’t keep up with all this PC rubbish.”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t pay any attention to it. What about her?”

“Your friend Elspeth called on her. The Currie sisters told her that Ellie was a good fund of gossip. Now Ellie is saying that she knows the identity of the murderer but couldn’t say anything because she feared for her life.”

“That’s an awfully dangerous thing to say.”

“Don’t worry about it. Ellie is a drama queen. Nobody takes her seriously.”

“A frightened murderer just might. Angela, have you heard anything, the slightest thing?”

“I’m afraid not, Hamish. And yet – I’m probably being overimaginative but it’s as if there’s a sort of communal secret in this village. I talk to people and I always get the feeling they are holding something back. You don’t think the villagers would shield one of their own?”

“No, they would not. This business about Ellie bothers me. I’ll take a run over to Braikie in the morning and tell the silly woman to keep her mouth shut.”

♦

The gale was still blowing the next morning. Hamish fed his sheep and hens, told Sonsie and Lugs to look after themselves, and set off for Braikie. The incoming tide was threatening the shore road. He realised he would need to stay in Braikie until low tide came round again. It was possible to get into the town from two other roads, but that would have meant a long detour coming in from Lochdubh.

There was a small crowd standing outside the post office. “What’s happened to Ellie?” asked Hamish sharply.

“We don’t know,” said one woman. “She hasn’t opened up and she hasn’t answered her door.”

Hamish rang the bell himself. No reply. There was a narrow lane up the side of the post office. He went along it and around to the back of the building. He looked up at the window of Ellie’s flat. It was not very high up. He hauled a dustbin up to the wall and climbed up on it. Then he grabbed the drainpipe and shinned up it so that he could look in at the window.

A sofa partially blocked his view but with a sinking heart he saw two feet protruding from the end of it.

Praying that she might just be ill, he clambered down and rushed round the front to his Land Rover, where he took out a police battering ram. A warning voice was telling him that he should phone Strathbane for permission before breaking in but he decided that losing time might mean he could not save Elbe’s life.

“Back off!” he ordered the crowd. He swung the battering ram with all his might and the door smashed open. He ran up the stairs. He tried her flat door and found it unlocked.

He went in.

Ellie was lying facedown on the carpet. The back of her head was a mess of blood. A crystal ball, smeared with blood, lay on the floor beside her. Hamish knelt down and felt for a pulse but there was no sign of life.

As he phoned Strathbane and slowly left the flat to stand guard outside, ignoring the babble of questions that greeted him, he felt a purely selfish pang of fear. There were now four murders, four unsolved murders. He knew that Blair, in order to turn attention away from himself, would say that he, Hamish, was incompetent and there was simply no reason to keep a police station in Lochdubh when Strathbane had to come over and do all the work.

He waited a long time. He realised they had probably tried to take the shore road, found their way blocked by the tide, and had to circle around to reach the upper road.

The crowd grew larger by the minute but now they stood in silence.

At last he heard the approaching sirens. The procession was headed by the procurator fiscal’s BMW, an unmarked police car, followed by two police vans, the forensic van, the pathologist’s car, a fire engine, and an ambulance.

The procurator fiscal, Mr. Ian Bell-Sinclair, was Hamish’s least favourite person next to Blair. He was fat, pompous, and lazy. The job of the procurator fiscal in Scotland is broadly the same as that of a coroner in other legal systems. He is also supposed to direct police investigations and take statements from witnesses. Unless any of the press were around, Bell-Sinclair shirked as many of his duties as possible.

He ignored Hamish and turned to Jimmy and his sidekick, Andy MacNab. “Where is your boss?”

“The detective chief inspector is not very well this morning,” said Jimmy. He turned to Hamish. “Let’s have it.”

Hamish flatly described what he had found. “I hope you applied for permission before breaking in,” said the procurator fiscal.

“And he got it,” said Jimmy impatiently. “Let’s go in. Suit up, Hamish.”

Hamish went to the Land Rover, got out his forensic suit, and put it on. He went back and led Jimmy up to the flat. Bell-Sinclair retreated to his car. He was famous for his detestation of viewing dead bodies.

“Why her?” asked Jimmy.

Hamish told him about Angela’s visit and how he had learned that Ellie had been bragging that she knew the murderer.

“Think she did?”

“I don’t know. I’ll go out and phone Elspeth. She interviewed her the other day.”

Hamish went back outside and sat in the Land Rover. He was just about to phone Elspeth when he saw her with a photographer on the other side of one of the barriers the police had used to block off the street.

He got out and went up to her, saying to the policeman at the barricade, “Let her through. She’s a witness. No, not the photographer, Elspeth. Just you.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” said Elspeth.

“Let’s go to my vehicle. I need a statement from you.”

Elspeth described her interview with Ellie and ended by saying, “I’ll swear she was just showing off. If Ellie knew the identity of the murderer, she would have told the police and then phoned all the newspapers. But someone got to hear of it and took her seriously.”

“Let’s hope you’re wrong and Jimmy finds some evidence of something. I almost hope this murder has got nothing to do with the others.”

“Is that all? I’ve got to file a story.”

“Yes, for now. Call on me later.”

“Will do. Jimmy’s just come out and your girlfriend’s just gone in.”

“Lesley is not my girlfriend.”

“If you say so.”

Hamish saw Elspeth stop by the procurator fiscal’s car. Bell-Sinclair got out, and they exchanged a few words. Then they walked towards the police barrier. Bell-Sinclair struck a pose, and Elspeth’s photographer took a picture of him.

How that man does love his photo in the press, thought Hamish. He went to join Jimmy and told him what Elspeth had said.

“Well, Hamish, it’s the usual old drudgery. We can’t tell yet when she was killed. Get into that crowd and the shops around and ask if anyone saw anything.”

Hamish spent a weary day, asking question after question. Of course, there were always a few imaginative people who would swear they saw a sinister figure lurking around, but further questioning and an invitation to the police station for an interview always had them backtracking like mad.

By the end of the day, he began to wonder why he went on punishing himself by remaining a common bobby. If he had upgraded to detective, then he would be in the middle of knowing everything that was going on with the investigation. On the other hand, that would mean moving to Strathbane, working at first on the beat and then sitting and passing the necessary exams. He would need to move into police accommodation, and that would mean getting rid of Sonsie and Lugs. He consoled himself with the thought that Jimmy usually kept him well informed.

Hard on that thought came the other worry. Four murders and not a clue! He hadn’t bothered to ask what ailed Blair, assuming it to be one of his usual alcoholic troubles, but even from his sickbed Blair was, he knew, capable of putting the boot in, yammering on about how incompetent Hamish had turned out to be.

As he wearily returned to his Land Rover, all around the press were having a field day. Television vans were lined up outside the police barriers. The voices of TV reporters talking about ‘the highland serial killer’ were blown towards him on the decreasing wind.

He drove back to the police station and fed his pets. He felt too tired to feed himself. He almost wished Lesley would arrive carrying her stew pot.

He went into the office, typed up his report, and sent it off. That finished, he decided to treat himself to a meal.

Hamish went out onto the waterfront. The wind had died down but angry waves still rose and fell on the loch, crashing down on the shingle of the shore and retreating with a hissing sound.

Willie Lamont welcomed him and gave him a table by the window. Hamish ordered a dish of lasagne and half a bottle of wine.

When Willie arrived with the wine, Hamish said, “You’ve heard about the murder of Ellie?”

“Aye. Bad business. Evidently herself was bragging about how she knew who the murderer was. She even wrote up the horoscopes for the paper, practically saying she knew who it was.”

“Are you sure she wrote the horoscopes? Have you got the paper?”

“Just out today. I’ve got a copy in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.”

When he returned with the paper, Hamish read the horoscopes. His heart sank. He was sure it was Elspeth’s work and nothing to do with Ellie. He took out his phone and called Matthew Campbell.

“Yes, it was Elspeth,” said Matthew. “Angus usually does them but he’s ill and I asked Elspeth to do them in return for the use of a desk in the office.”

Hamish felt a pang of fear. How stupid of Elspeth. “Don’t dare tell anyone at all who wrote them,” he said.

“They’ll think it was Angus.”

“So that puts his life at risk. Damn, I’d better get up there.”

When his food arrived, Hamish gulped it down, paid his bill, and set off up the hill to the seer’s cottage.

To his relief, Angus himself answered the door.

“Can I come in?” asked Hamish. “I’ve come to warn you.”

“I’m fine now, Hamish. What’s it about? I know. I’ve seen the paper. They’ll think it was me. Who was it?”

“Never mind. Have you a spare bed, Angus?”

“Just the one.”

“I’ll go back and get my sleeping bag. I’m staying here tonight.”

♦

Hamish returned half an hour later, followed by Sonsie and Lugs. “I’m off to bed,” said Angus. “I’ve kept the fire lit for you.”

Hamish had changed into civilian clothes. He crawled into his sleeping bag, fully dressed. He even left his boots on.

The floor was hard but he was so tired he immediately fell asleep. During the night a long low hiss awakened him. He opened his eyes, feeling the weight of his wild cat on his chest. In the light of the fire, Sonsie’s yellow eyes burned red and her fur was standing up on her back.

“Good girl,” whispered Hamish, shoving her off. He eased himself out of the sleeping bag and then sat up and listened.

All was silent – and then he heard a faint rustling sound from outside. He rose up, went to the door, and opened it. The brae stretched out empty in the moonlight. “Who’s there?” he called.

Silence.

He walked around the cottage but could see no one.

♦

In the morning, he said to Angus, “Is there anyplace you could go for a few days? I’ve a feeling there was someone after you last night.”

“I could go to my friend in Ardgay. He’ll aye put me up.”

“Do that, Angus. How did you know about Fiona McNulty?”

“My psychic powers.”

“Havers. Someone told you. I wish you really had psychic powers and you could tell me the identity of this murderer.”

“It will come to me. My cold blocked out the spirit world.”

“Och, just get packed and get off,” said Hamish.

♦

After Angus had left in his battered old van, Hamish went back to the police station, showered and changed into his uniform, settled his pets and told them they were on their own for the day, and then phoned Jimmy. He told him his fears about Angus, caused by Elspeth doing the horoscopes.

“Is she stupid or something?” said Jimmy. “If our murderer learns it was her and not Angus, she’ll be the next on the dead list. We haven’t the manpower to guard her. Go and tell her from me to get back to Glasgow.”

Hamish drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel and asked Mr. Johnson if he knew where Elspeth was.

“All the press were off early and over to Braikie,” said the manager. “Try there.”

“Try her room first,” urged Hamish. “She may have stayed behind to work on an article.”

The manager phoned. Elspeth answered and, hearing it was Hamish who was looking for her, said she would come downstairs.

Elspeth was wearing a ratty old sweater over faded jeans and large clumpy boots. Hamish wished she’d dress up a bit, put on a skirt, and then wondered whether, if he ever married, he would turn into the sort of bullying husband who chose his wife’s clothes.

“You look anxious,” said Elspeth. “What’s up?”

“Let’s go through to the lounge and find a quiet corner. This is serious.”

When they were seated, Hamish leaned forward and said, “Elspeth, you wrote those horoscopes in the Highland Times.”

“Yes, Matthew was stuck because Ang – ”

“I know. I had to sleep at Angus’s place last night.”

“Why? Is he still ill?” Her eyes widened. “You think the murderer thinks it was him and might come after him?”

“Yes, I think someone tried to get him last night. Now, if it leaks out it was you, you’ll be at risk. I want you to go back to Glasgow.”

“I can’t, Hamish. This is big stuff. Four murders! The news desk will ask me why I want to leave the scene and if I say I’ve been writing for another paper, they’ll sack me.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Both looked up, startled. One of the Polish waitresses, a tall girl with red hair, was looming over them. Hamish remembered her name was Anya Kowalski.

“No, Anya,” said Hamish.

When she went away, Hamish said, “I wonder how long she was standing there.”

“I think my radar is out of kilter,” said Elspeth. “I don’t know. But I am not going to quit this story, Hamish. I can look after myself.”

Anxiety made Hamish’s temper flare. “You’re a silly wee girl!”

“Don’t you dare patronise me. If you’re so worried about me, get off your arse and go and find out who is doing this.” Elspeth got to her feet. “If you concentrated as hard on looking for a murderer as you do looking after those pets of yours, you might get somewhere.”

Hamish stood up and smiled maliciously. “Dear me, lassie. I never thought the day would come when you’d be jealous o’ a couple o’ beasties.”

Elspeth turned on her heel and strode off.

Hamish sat down again and phoned Jimmy. “She won’t leave,” he said.

“I put in a report about it after you called,” said Jimmy. “The procurator fiscal says that as we’ve enough Strathbane men on the ground asking questions, you’re to guard Elspeth yourself. He’s got a soft spot for her because a flattering picture of him and comment appeared in the Bugle today.”

“We had a row,” said Hamish. “How can I guard her when she won’t speak to me?”

“Ah, love,” said Jimmy. “Make it up and keep after her.”

♦

Hamish left the lounge just as Elspeth was descending the stairs with her coat on. She had completed her ensemble by putting on one of those mushroom-shaped Afghan hats.

“I’m sorry if I upset you, Elspeth,” said Hamish quickly. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we join forces for the day?”

She looked up at him. “Been ordered to guard me?”

“I see your radar’s working again. What I really want to do is get down to Perth and interview Ruby Connachie. I want to start at the beginning. I want to find out as much about Catriona as possible. There’s someone in her background somewhere that started all this off.”

“Hamish, the murderer might be right here in Lochdubh.”

“Then there’s a chance that someone in the village might have known Catriona before she ever came up here.”

“Right you are. I could do with some colour for a background piece.”

“Off we go, then. Let’s start all over again with the first murder.”