Hamish phoned the hunting box. When Juris answered, he asked him if he had cleaned the nurse’s car and was told firmly that he had not. “It is not my job to work for the help,” said Juris with all the haughtiness of a stage butler.
“Let’s get something to eat,” said Hamish. “I’m starving and I cannae think on an empty stomach.”
They found a café which sold all-day breakfasts and tucked into fried haggis, black pudding, eggs, bacon, tomatoes, and mushrooms.
“Think the dogs will be all right?” asked Charlie.
“They’ll be fine,” said Hamish. “I left them dog food but Lugs has probably introduced the poodle to the delights of the Italian restaurant’s kitchen. Now let’s think. Just suppose Helen has been murdered. Let’s try that one. Who would murder her and where would they dump the body?”
“Well,” said Charlie slowly, “the only one who might have it in for Helen is Greta. What if she found out that Harrison had changed his will in Helen’s favour?”
Hamish phoned Juris again. When he had rung off, he said, “Greta is in residence. Harrison has refused another nurse and says Greta will look after him. She’s been there for the last week and she’s a powerful woman. Maybe she guessed Helen had bumped off her husband and took her revenge. I hate being out o’ the loop. It’s like detecting in Victorian times, Charlie. They could have found all sort of hairs and DNA and we don’t know about it.”
“If you wait until this evening when all the reports are in,” said Charlie, “I could try my hand at hacking into Blair’s report and the forensic reports.”
“So for now let’s try to figure out where Helen’s body could have been dumped,” said Hamish. “That car bothers me. So clean. Let’s try this way. Someone kills Helen and uses her car to dump the body. It’s a wee Ford, not a four-by-four, so no use for going over the moors. So the body would need to be dumped near a road. And whoever would not want to be away from the hunting lodge for too long.”
“That drug business bothers me,” said Charlie. “I mean, say she was in some drug racket, then someone from Strathbane could have got rid of her.”
“Maybe, but would they use her car and then get it cleaned? Let’s get back up there and start searching.”
They drove back to outside the hunting lodge. “Right or left, I wonder,” said Hamish.
“Let’s try left,” said Charlie. “The instinct would be to veer left away from the road to Braikie.”
The days had drawn out and they knew the evenings would be light and that they had plenty of time for their search.
But they could find no trace of anything. “Let’s call on Dick,” said Hamish. “He might have some ideas.”
Dick gave them a warm welcome, but to Hamish’s disappointment, the beautiful Anka said she had orders on the computer to work on and left them to it.
Over excellent mugs of coffee and scones, Hamish told Dick all he knew.
“There’s a car wash here now,” said Dick. “At that wee garage. Couple o’ Poles. You could try there. Do me a favour. At the bottom of the stairs, there’s a big bag o’ cans. Could you dump them at the recycling unit? You know where it is, Hamish. Out on the Lochdubh road before you get to the new seawall.”
They thanked him for the coffee and made their way to the garage. But it was shut up for the night and no one around could tell them where the Poles lived.
“I’m weary,” said Hamish. “Let’s get rid o’ Dick’s rubbish and start again tomorrow.”
The recycling unit was considered a disgrace because it was rarely cleared. Great mounds of cans, bottles, and newspapers reared up against the evening sky.
Seagulls swooped and dived. Two seagulls fought over a hamburger wrapper. Silly birds, thought Hamish. No food there. He dumped the sack of cans on top of a pile of others.
A seagull shat on his regulation sweater and he shook his fist at it. He made to turn away. Something was bothering him although it was hard to think with all the noise of the waves crashing on the shore and the wheeling, screaming birds. He turned slowly round, looking to right and left. A supermarket trolley had been dumped at the far end of the unit. It was overflowing with cans and plastic bottles. Nothing sinister there apart from one black shoe.
Hamish unhitched his torch from his belt and walked forward. One black regulation shoe. He began to claw at the cans and bottles, sending them flying.
Stuffed in the very bottom of the trolley was the dead body of Helen Mackenzie.
Her empty eye sockets stared up at him.
The seagulls had had her eyes.
Chapter Twelve
How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Blair was furious. Had Daviot not been on the scene, he would have suspended Hamish from duty for destroying valuable evidence by throwing the cans and bottles which had covered the body all over the place.