“Macbeth’s found a witness up at Kinlochbervie, some daft woman with the second sight, who says she saw the killer up on the cliffs. Mind you, she thought it was the devil.”
“Oh, I am so sick of all of you. I have complained to the procurator fiscal,” said Andrew, and he went into the drawing room to report to the others this latest outrage.
When they all moved outside, Hamish said to Fiona, “What do you hope to get from all the fingerprints and DNA? Was there anything on the body?”
“They can maybe get fingerprints off the neck.”
“But they think she was strangled with a scarf or some sort of material.”
“Damn. I’d forgotten that.”
They were joined by Jimmy Anderson. “I’ve got heavy expenses,” he said. “I had to take that lawyer, Cameron Tinety, out for a lot of drams to get information out of him. He says there was a will leaving everything to Gloria Dainty.”
“There’s a motive!” exclaimed Fiona.
“But he changed it and said he wanted the old will leaving everything to his son. But it was changed two weeks afore Gloria was murdered.”
“Andrew may not have known that,” said Charlie. “I’ll ask Juris if Andrew had visited the old man before.”
He went into the house. “Macbeth,” said Fiona, “tell me exactly what this odd creature said.”
Hamish began to talk but she interrupted him. “Didn’t you take notes?”
“I was afraid it would put her off, ma’am. But I remember everything she said.”
When he had finished, Fiona sighed. “What a load of rubbish. Do you believe in this second sight nonsense?”
“It’s awfy hard to prove,” said Hamish. “Folk usually tell you they saw whatever coming after it happens.”
“There are enough of us here,” said Fiona. “Go back to your usual duties, Macbeth.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait for Charlie.”
“No, leave him here. Anderson, you report back to Strathbane and type up a full report.”
Charlie came out to join them. “This was the son’s first visit since the old man moved up here.”
“We’d better talk to him again,” Fiona said with another sigh. “Let’s go, Charlie.”
Back at the police station, Jimmy followed Hamish in. “Any whisky?”
“I think you’ve already had a skinful,” said Hamish. “You’d best be on your road.”
“Thon Fiona has the hots for Charlie.”
“But she’s married?”
“Aye, and to none other than Lord Staford McBean, high court judge.”
“Are you sure? He’s in Edinburgh and she’s out o’ Inverness.”
“Sure as sure.”
“But she’s called Fiona Herring! Not Lady McBean.”
“Keeps her maiden name for work. C’mon, laddie, give us a dram. I am your senior officer.”
Hamish sighed and took a new bottle of whisky down from a cupboard.
“But she cannae fancy our Charlie,” protested Hamish.
“Why not? Big strong fellow like that.”
“Well, if that’s true, there’s one good thing. Our innocent Charlie seems to be woman-proof. Never really notices them. Treats Priscilla like a sister.”
Jimmy took a gulp of whisky. “It was a good thing it was you and not Blair interviewing that nutter up in Kinlochbervie. He’d ha’ had the lassie sectioned and hauled off to the nut house. Do you believe that second sight stuff?”
“Elspeth Grant sometimes seems able to see things coming.”
“Load o’ bollocks, if you ask me.”
There followed a quiet few days for Hamish. Charlie wasn’t even around, Fiona having kept him down at Strathbane going over and over statements. Charlie phoned once saying miserably that he wished the whole sorry business was over because he hated Strathbane and missed Lochdubh and the friendly dinners with the colonel and his wife.
Hamish felt he should be glad to have the police station to himself again. But somehow, he felt lonely. He was just thinking of going to Braikie to see Dick and Anka when the phone rang. It was Fiona, sounding impatient.
“Get back up to Kinlochbervie,” she ordered, “and go from door to door. There must be something we’ve missed.”
Hamish was about to point out that the police had already been from door to door, but bit his lip and agreed to go. He whistled to Sonsie and Lugs, put them in the Land Rover, and set off.
He realised he hadn’t had any breakfast and decided to stop at the café first. Great mountainous waves were pounding the beach. Black clouds streamed in from the west. The air was full of salt and blowing sand. The gulls were huddled on the cliff shelves and crannies. It seemed as if the whole world were in motion. A rowan tree outside the café tossed its bare branches up as if pleading with the menacing sky.
He pushed open the door and went in. “I was just about to phone you,” said Sheena Farquar.
“Why? What’s up?” asked Hamish.
“It’s that daft lassie, Jessie McGowan. Herself hasnae been seen around. A neighbour knocked at her door but got no reply.”