He drove on up the coast, turning all he knew over in his mind. Gloria had been trying to seduce her employer. Gloria was a gold digger. Therefore it followed that anyone wanting her out of the way would surely be someone like Andrew or his wife, who felt they were about to lose their inheritance. But both were alibied up to the hilt. So that left only old Harrison, furious at finding out she had been playing around. Say he had strangled her in a rage. He could have paid Juris a large sum to dump the body.
Better get Charlie to check his bank accounts. But where does he bank? Should have asked. He realised he was hungry and stopped at the café for a bacon sandwich and a cup of coffee.
The café was quiet. “Do you do much business here?” asked Hamish.
“We get a lot of folk in the summer. I’m Sheena Farquar.” She was a small, rosy-cheeked, grey-haired woman.
“Hamish Macbeth. Folk must have been talking a lot about the murder. Did anyone see anything?”
“Only poor auld Jessie McGowan. The girl’s daft. But it’s believed she has the sight.”
Hamish knew she was referring to the second sight, certain highlanders supposedly blessed with seeing the future. Even Boswell and Johnson went searching for evidence of it in their tour of the Hebrides.
“Where does she live?”
“A wee house at the end o’ Loan Road. It’s got a purple door.”
“Does she live alone?”
“Aye, her parents are dead. She can look after herself well enough, but she scares people, always mumbling and talking to herself.”
Hamish made his way to Loan Road and located the house with the purple door. There was no doorbell. But there was a brass knocker in the shape of a devil’s head. He raised his hand to knock but the door was jerked open.
At first he thought this could surely not be Jessie McGowan, for the small woman looking up at him seemed sane enough.
“I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth,” he said. “I would like a few words with Miss McGowan.”
She nodded and stood aside to let him enter. There was a tiny square of a hall. She opened a door to the left. Hamish followed her in. It was a conventional living room with a rather battered three-piece suite in brown corduroy, a coffee table, a fireplace with ornaments on the mantelpiece, and lace curtains at the window.
“I am Miss McGowan.” She sat down on the edge of one of the armchairs and surveyed him. Despite her long grey hair, he guessed she might be in her late thirties. She was wearing a white Aran sweater over faded jeans. Her long thin face was very white, her grey eyes hooded with thick lids.
“A body was found at the foot of the cliffs,” said Hamish, putting his cap on the coffee table. “I believe you might have seen something.”
“That I did,” she said. Hamish felt hopeful. The woman seemed perfectly sane.
She continued, “It was Auld Nick himself.”
Hamish’s heart sank. But he asked, “Are you sure it was the devil?”
She nodded. “Describe him,” said Hamish.
“All black. Black face, black everything.”
“And what was he doing?”
“He was standing on the top of the cliffs, looking down. Then he turned away and disappeared.”
“Where were you?”
“I was down on the beach hiding behind a rock. I go there sometimes to talk to the dead. The seals, you know. Folk come back as seals.”
“Did you hear the sound of a car or any vehicle?”
She looked at him solemnly out of her odd grey eyes. “Himself just goes back down to the nether regions. When I peeked round the rock again, he had gone.”
Hamish thought quickly. It could all be nonsense, or the murderer could have been dressed in black with the face covered by a black balaclava.
“The thing that puzzled me,” she said in her thin voice, “is why he did not take her down to hell.”
“Why would he want to do that in the first place?” asked Hamish patiently.
“She caused hatred and fear.”
“Did you know the nurse?”
“No, but I saw it all in my mind.”
“Pictures or emotions?”
“Feelings. Nasty feelings. And there is more to come. Death is coming.”
“Who’s going to die?” asked Hamish.
“A man.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know. Just a man. There is danger surrounding you, Mr. Macbeth.”
“From the devil?”
“Often the devil’s instruments are human.”
She began to rock back and forth, mumbling incomprehensible things. Hamish got to his feet and walked out. He had just reached the front door when her voice stopped him.
“Mr. Macbeth!”
He swung round.
“I have not offered you any tea.”
Once more, she looked quite sane.
“Another time,” said Hamish, and made his escape.
He drove back to the hunting box to join Fiona, who was standing in the hall, telling her about his odd interview but saying it might be wise to search the house for any black clothing. Two detectives and three policemen who had been searching the house after the forensic team had finished their work and were just packing up were told about Hamish’s discovery and told to go back in and look for black clothing.
They were confronted by Andrew. “I thought you had finished here,” he said angrily.