“Have you any idea where she might have gone?” asked Hamish.
“Could be anywhere. Mind you, she was always mumbling about some fairy cave in the cliffs, but if there was one, the schoolboys would have found it. She said the fairies sang to her.”
“I’ll have a look,” said Hamish, “afore the storm gets worse. Could you make me three bacon sandwiches to go?”
“Right you are. You must be hungry.”
Hamish did not want to say that his cat and dog were partial to bacon sandwiches. He drank a cup of coffee while he waited, listening uneasily to the shrieking of the wind.
He climbed into the Land Rover, unwrapped two of the bacon baps and passed them over to Lugs and Sonsie in the back, then ate his own while putting off the moment when he would need to get out and start to search the cliffs.
At last, he took off his cap, knowing the gale would whip it away and he needed both hands if he had to climb.
He stumbled along the sand, past where Gloria’s body had been found, becoming increasingly uneasy. They had been inside Harrison’s house when he had told Fiona what Jessie had said. Had he put her at risk? A great buffet of wind sent him flying into a tall standing rock and he cursed and rubbed his shoulder. He searched and searched but there was no sign of any cave. He was about to turn back when he heard a weird whistling and moaning sound coming from some way up the cliffs. He screwed up his eyes against the flying sand and dried seaweed. Halfway up the cliff, he saw a dark slit in the rock. He began to climb.
As he grew nearer, he wondered if this was Jessie’s fairy cave. The wind was causing unearthly noises to emanate from it, shrill keening sounds that he could hear despite the tumult of the storm. He finally edged his way in through the narrow entrance. It opened up into a cave. He unhitched a torch from his belt and shone it around.
In a corner, crumpled up like a discarded doll, lay the body of Jessie McGowan. He bent over her. There was no pulse. Her face was contorted and there were signs all around that she had vomited. He took out his mobile phone but there was no signal.
His journey down from the cave was perilous as the wind seemed determined to pluck him off the cliff face and throw him into the sea. Worse, the tide was up and he had to battle through breakers until he reached dry land, soaked to the skin. He went into the café and asked for a roll of paper towels.
“How did you get like that?” asked Sheena.
“Jessie’s dead.” He took out his phone. No signal.
“Use the landline on the counter,” said Sheena. “This is awful.”
A “weather bomb,” as the forecasters now called it, was due to hit the northwest of Scotland. Hamish reflected sourly that one day they might wake up to the fact that hurricane-force winds were becoming more and more frequent.
Fiona, Charlie, and Jimmy were the first to arrive and to find Hamish dressed in the late Mr. McGowan’s old sweater and trousers.
“Where is your uniform?” demanded Fiona.
“It’s hanging up in the kitchen to dry,” said Hamish. “I nearly got drowned on the road back from the cave. We’ll need to wait until the tide goes out.”
“But we had no trouble getting along the beach to Gloria’s body,” said Fiona.
“There wasnae a hurricane like this, ma’am,” said Hamish.
Jimmy had bought a bottle of whisky. “You look as if you could do with a dram, Hamish,” he said.
“Give him one,” snapped Fiona, “and then screw the top firmly back on the bottle. How long is this storm due to last?”
“Until this evening,” said Hamish.
“And it’s already as black as pitch,” said Fiona. The café had three tables. She sat down at one and indicated that Charlie should join her. Hamish and Jimmy sat at another table. Fiona ordered coffee for all of them. Jimmy managed to get a slug of whisky into his cup when Fiona wasn’t looking.
The procurator fiscal arrived and Fiona settled down to give him a full report.
I actually wish Blair were in on this one, thought Hamish. I’d like to see him trying to get his fat carcase up into that cave.
But Blair was busy plotting the downfall of Fiona.
Chapter Six
The clouds dispell’d, the sky resum’d her light,
And Nature stood, recover’d of her fright,
But fear, the last of ills, remain’d behind,
And horror heavy sat on ev’ry mind.
—Dryden
While Hamish and the rest waited for the full contingent from Strathbane to arrive, Detective Chief Inspector Blair was seated in the grimy office of private detective Willie Dunne.
“I’ve got a wee job for you, Willie,” said Blair. “You’ll be paid well if you keep your mouth shut. Remember, I hae the power to shut ye down.”
Willie was nicknamed Creepy Willie. He was a small Glaswegian with a comb-over of dyed brown hair on his freckled pate and a face that seemed to be all nose. He specialised in divorces.