Hamish Macbeth - Death Of A Dreamer Part 7

"What's ethylene glycol, and where can anyone get it?"

"Anywhere. It's commonly known as antifreeze."

"Wouldn't it taste awful?"

"No, it tastes sweet. Some alcoholics even drink it when they can't afford anything else. It was in that bottle of dessert wine that was found at the site."

"Any fingerprints on the bottle?"

"No. I mean, just those of the deceased."

"What about that sawn-off finger?"

"I can only a.s.sume she did it herself."

"With what? Nothing was found in the way of a knife or razor."

"She may have thrown it away. The procurator fiscal has decided on a verdict of suicide."

"I'm not sure about that."

"Well, your superiors are. Case closed. They say she was so mad and so disappointed in love that she killed herself."

"What are the symptoms of antifreeze poisoning?"

"It's changed in the body by the enzyme alcohol dehydrogenase into glycolic acid and oxalic acid, which are highly toxic compounds. There was widespread tissue injury to the brain, kidneys, liver, and blood vessels. After taking it, she would start to feel tired, disoriented, and may have fallen asleep."

Hamish thanked her, put the receiver down, and stared into s.p.a.ce. It was all so neat and tidy, and yet he had an uneasy feeling about the whole thing. He wondered if Jock's wife was still in Lochdubh.

Cursing himself for not having tried to speak to her before, he hurried along to Sea View. Mrs. Dunne told him that Mrs. Fleming had gone out for a walk.

"Do you know which direction she took?" asked Hamish.

"I saw her go in the direction of the bridge."

"When did she leave?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

Hamish set off in pursuit.

He saw a small blonde woman heading up the road on the other side of the humpback bridge.

He ran after her. "Mrs. Fleming?" he called.

She stopped and turned round. She was in her late thirties with dyed-blonde hair in a ponytail. She had small, discontented features and pale blue eyes. She was wearing a multicoloured blouse, brief khaki shorts, and st.u.r.dy boots.

"Yes?"

"Police Constable Hamish Macbeth, Mrs. Fleming. May I talk to you for a moment?"

"Go ahead, copper. But if it's aboot that dead wumman, I cannae help ye." Her voice was harsh with a Glaswegian accent.

"Did you know her?"

"Never heard o' her till I come here."

"Why did you and Jock divorce?"

"Away wi' ye, ye nosy copper. That's ma business."

She stared at him defiantly, her thin arms folded across her chest. "I've got naethin' mair to say to ye."

"Well, if you think of anything..."

She continued to stare at him defiantly until he walked away.

Hamish went back to the station and put on his climbing boots. He was determined to go up to Geordie's Cleft and look around.

First he phoned Angela and asked her if she would look after the dog and cat.

"Can't," she said. "Lugs is all right, but that wild cat of yours terrifies my cats. You'll need to find someone else."

In desperation, Hamish phoned Priscilla and explained his problem. "I'll come with you," she said in her calm, even voice. "There are no police around any more. We can take your Land Rover, put the animals in the back. I'll bring some food, and we'll drive up as far as we can. We can let them out for a run and then shut them up in the Land Rover while we climb up to Geordie's Cleft."

Hamish said he would pick her up. As he drove to the hotel, he couldn't help hoping that Betty had returned. He was still puzzled as to why she had left without phoning him.

Priscilla was waiting for him in the forecourt with a large picnic hamper.

"You were quick getting the food ready," said Hamish.

"A family had ordered it and then decided they didn't want it. They're being charged for it anyway, so it's free food for all of us."

Hamish drove as near Geordie's Cleft as he could, the Land Rover b.u.mping over the heather. He stopped, and they got out. Lugs and Sonsie ran off together.

"They won't get lost, will they?" asked Priscilla anxiously.

"No, they always come back when I call. Anyway, if we eat before we climb, they'll smell the food and come running."

"I hadn't time to get animal food for them."

"They're spoilt. They're used to people food."

Sure enough, Priscilla was just lifting a whole roast chicken out of its container when Sonsie came loping up, followed by Lugs, the dog's odd, large ears flapping as he tried to keep up with the cat.

Hamish watched Priscilla as she deftly carved the chicken and separated the pieces out onto paper plates. The sun was shining down on the golden bell of her hair. What did she think? wondered Hamish. What did she think of him? Did she ever think of their broken engagement?

"I don't think your animals will like potato salad," said Priscilla. She gave each animal a plate of chicken pieces. "There's a bottle of wine here, or would you prefer coffee?"

"Coffee. There's a long climb ahead, and I need all my wits about me."

"So why are you still interested? It's all around the village that the poor woman committed suicide."

"There's something wrong. The pathologist says she died of a combination of antifreeze and exposure."

"The antifreeze having been in the wine botde?"

"Yes. But evidendy antifreeze tastes sweet, and it was a dessert wine."

"What are you getting at?"

"Just suppose someone really believes she's pregnant and that she's going to marry Jock. Jock calls on her and tells her he never meant to marry her and that she's talking rubbish. She's devastated. Yes, but what if she gets a message supposed to have come from Jock, saying something like, 'I'm sorry, Effie. I really do love you'? Say the message is left outside her door with that botde of wine. Say the message goes on asking her to bring the wine to Geordie's Cleft so they can toast their engagement. 'If I'm late, help yourself to a gla.s.s before I arrive.'"

"But how would she even know where Geordie's Cleft was?"

"Jock had told her he planned to go up there painting to get a panoramic view. He maybe told other people. So she sets off and climbs up and waits and waits. Decides to have a gla.s.s."

"Find the corkscrew?"

"d.a.m.n. That's another thing I've got to look for. So she feels disoriented and drowsy, maybe falls asleep. The killer's been waiting nearby. She pops that typewritten suicide note into Effie's pocket."

"She?"

"The ring finger, cut off. Could be a jealous rage."

"Or some man from her past."

"Could be." Hamish stood up. "I won't eat any more at the moment. The food's making me feel lazy. I'll shut up the animals, and we'll be on our way."

They set out on the long climb. The air was full of the scents of bell heather and thyme. Down below them lay the fishing village of Lochdubh with its neat rows of whitewashed Georgian houses.

A yacht cut a white trail through the calm blue waters of the loch. Smoke rose straight up from chimneys; a lot of the villagers, like Hamish, used the oldfashioned method of heating water.

Hamish suddenly wanted it to be suicide so they could all go on with their safe lives far from the murder, drugs, and mayhem of the cities.

"I'm beginning to dread newcomers," he said as diey approached the cleft.

"There may be more in the future."

"Why?"

"With the European Union savagely cutting fishing quotas, a lot of the fishermen are thinking of turning their boats into tourist pleasure craft."

"I'm beginning to think no one in the village tells me anything any more," said Hamish. "First I've heard of it. I wonder what else they haven't been telling me."

They walked up to the cleft, then split up and began to search around. Although it was mosdy rocky, there were a few stunted gorse bushes.

After an hour, Hamish said, "Nothing here. Let's try further afield. Now, if someone threw something, where would it land?"

"Maybe right down the slope and into those gorse bushes. Mind you, they're pretty far below."

They slithered down. Hamish lost his footing and went straight into the gorse bushes. "Ouch," he yelled. "Help me out of here. I'm all p.r.i.c.kles."

Priscilla took his hand and helped him out. Hamish plucked gorse p.r.i.c.kles out of his hair and his clothes.

"There's something glinting down in there," said Priscilla, peering into the shade of the bushes.

"Let me try," said Hamish. "A few more p.r.i.c.kles won't matter."

She pointed. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves, bent down, and eased a long arm into the bushes. "Got it."

"What is it?"

"Its a corkscrew."

"That solves one problem."

"It's brand new."

"Maybe she bought it for the occasion."

"I wonder why the forensic boys didn't find it," said Hamish. "Mind you, that lot are more interested in drinking and rugby than in finding anything. The lot of them turn up on jobs with hangovers. Unless it was put there afterwards."

"I doubt it," said Priscilla. "No one would want to be seen near the scene."

They searched further without finding anything else.

"I'd like a look at Effie's cottage," said Hamish. "Just to see if she had a corkscrew."

"Won't it be locked up?"

"There are ways of getting in. Come on."

Five.

I've taken my fun where I've found, it, An'now I must fay for my fun, For the more you have known o' the others The less you will settle for one; An' the end of it's sittin' and thinkin, An' dreamin' h.e.l.l-fires to see.

So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not), An' learn about women from me!

-Rudyard Kipling Effie's cottage turned out to be locked. "It's just a simple Yalelock," said Hamish. He took out a thin piece of steel from one of his many pockets and popped the lock.

"Whatif the sister's here?" hissed Priscilla.