“No, no, I promise you that.”
“Look, after we eat, we’ll go to the manse and you tell the minister about it. He’s a genuine Christian and you need one o’ those. Then I’d like to go down to Strathbane on the quiet and see if I can talk to people who knew Malky. There’s something nagging me. Okay, Andrew and his wife were at some wife-swopping party in Edinburgh. One of them could have slipped out and driven north. Anyway, it would make me feel easier. We won’t wear our uniforms and we’ll take your car.”
After lunch, they left the animals at the station and walked up to the manse. To Hamish’s relief, there was no sign of Mrs. Wellington.
Mr. Wellington led them into his dark and gloomy study. “Charlie here needs help,” said Hamish.
The minister listened carefully as Charlie blurted out his story. When Charlie had finished, Mr. Wellington said, “I have seen the inspector. She is a much older woman, is she not?”
Charlie nodded.
“Married?”
He nodded again.
“You have been preyed upon by an older, experienced woman,” said Mr. Wellington. “You must ask the Lord to heal your hurt. But the fault lies with her. There are plenty of bonny lassies in the Highlands, and I suggest you find one. What do you feel now?”
“I feel like you do when you’ve been drinking too much the night afore,” said Charlie, “and you wake up feeling dirty and smelly.”
“That’s good. A broken heart is a more difficult matter. Is your heart broken?”
Muddled thoughts like cloud shadows chased across Charlie’s face. “I think it’s all right, sir.”
“Grand. Be more careful next time. There are harpies around. Not,” added the minister wistfully, “that I have ever met one.”
The door crashed open and Mrs. Wellington appeared. “What is going on here?”
“Charlie here is Wee Free,” said Hamish, “but he’s thinking o’ changing to the Church of Scotland. Come along, Charlie.”
Outside, Charlie said, “That man’s a saint.”
“He’d have to be, married to a wife like that,” said Hamish.
Chapter Eight
O, wally, wally, gin love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld
And fades awa’ like morning dew.
—Scottish ballad
But when they arrived at the tower block, it was to find the area swarming with council officials.
“We can’t hang around here,” said Hamish, “or we’ll be caught by someone from Strathbane. I know a café where the druggies hang out.”
The sky above had darkened and a little hard flake of snow drifted down, followed by another. By the time they entered the café, a full blizzard was blowing outside. Hamish looked around. “See anyone from your days down here?” he asked.
“Aye, over in the corner,” said Charlie. “Jonty Hill. Used to give me wee bits o’ information.” They collected cups of tea from the counter and joined Jonty, who squinted up at them nervously. He was an ill-favoured youth with a pasty face and greasy hair. He was huddled into a stained donkey jacket. “It’s yourself, Charlie.”
“What can you tell us about Malky?” asked Charlie. He took out a twenty-pound note and rolled it in his fingers.
Jonty eyed it greedily. “Malky was a right nice wee guy. All this talk about him being some sort of serial killer is havers. Wouldnae even kill a cockroach.”
“I think he might have burned Willie Dunne to death,” said Hamish.
“If he set fire to thon office, it would be because he thought there was no one inside.”
“What relatives does he have?”
“It was on the telly this morning. His ma is suing the council. ‘Her darling boy,’ and all that. She chucked him out three years ago.”
“Did Malky have a girlfriend?” asked Hamish.
“They were more druggies in arms,” said Jonty. He seemed to think he had made a very witty remark because he doubled up with laughter which ended in a wheezing cough.
“Where does she live and what’s her name?” asked Charlie.
“Gemma Burns. There’s an auld house out on the Lairg road. Called Brae House. It’s a squat.”
Charlie passed over the note. “Try spending that on food, Jonty.”
“Aye, sure, man. I’m clean.”
Hamish and Charlie hurried through the blizzard to Charlie’s car. “It’s a good thing the heater still works in this old bus and I got the snow tyres put on last week,” said Charlie. “Do you think we should try to make it back to Lochdubh? I don’t want to be stuck down here in this hellhole.”
“Oh, let’s get it over with,” said Hamish. “It may stop snowing. What was the weather forecast?”
“Snow flurries.”