M.C. Beaton - Death of a Gentle Lady

It was only when he had rung off that Hamish realised he still had the key.

He could not settle down for the evening. He felt restless. He wanted to banish Priscilla’s bright image from a corner of his brain. He decided to take a run down to Inverness. It was late-night shopping, and if he hurried he could be there in time. He needed some new casual clothes.

He took Sonsie and Lugs with him. There were plenty of shops in Strathbane, the nearer town, but he wanted to get well away from Lochdubh.

But by the time he had battled round the crowded shops and bought new shirts and trousers, he was longing to get back to the peace of home. He bought kebabs for himself, the dog, and the cat, and fed them in the quiet street by the river where he had parked before setting out for home.

He decided to take the old way over the Struie Pass and whistled cheerfully as he zigzagged round the hairpin bends into Sutherland. He had just reached the famous viewpoint when the engine coughed and died. The petrol light was flashing empty. Hamish stared at it, puzzled. He had filled the tank just before arriving in Inverness. He got out with his torch, searched under the vehicle, and then shone the torch back along the road. There was no sign of any petrol leakage.

He opened up the petrol cap and put a dipstick in. The stick came out dry. He took a four-gallon tank of petrol out of the back of the Land Rover and poured it into the tank.

Still puzzled, he drove on. At the police station, he lifted his pets down from the vehicle, took the key down from the gutter, opened the kitchen door, and switched on the light.

“I don’t think you pair need anything more to eat tonight,” said Hamish. “Off to bed.”

He decided to have a cup of coffee. Coffee never stopped him from sleeping.

Hamish was about to open the fridge door when he glanced down at the floor. Soot from the stove had covered a little bit of the floor in a fine black layer, and in the middle was the faint imprint of a shoe.

He stared at it for a long moment. He guessed the wearer would take size seven shoes. That was the size of the shoeprints on the back stairs of the castle. Size seven, British, was size nine, American – and what was that in centimetres? Did anyone in Britain know their shoe size in centimetres?

Hamish carefully lifted the lid of the stove. He had left, as usual, sticks and kindling and firelighter. What he usually did was just toss a match in and replace the lid.

He bent down and sniffed. There was a smell of diesel.

He backed off and whistled to his pets. “Going for a walk,” he said, “and fast.”

He hurried along to the Italian restaurant, where Willie was wiping the tables for the night. Hamish rapped on the door. “We’re closed,” said Willie.

“It’s urgent,” said Hamish. “I need to phone headquarters. There’s a bomb in the police station.”

“Come in,” said Willie. “Michty me!”

Hamish took out his mobile phone. “Willie, start evacuating the houses around the police station. Do it quick.”

Willie ran off. Hamish got a sleepy Jimmy on his mobile number.

“Jimmy, get the bomb squad. I think someone’s put a fertiliser bomb in the stove in my kitchen. I’m in the Italian restaurant. Willie Lamont’s gone to evacuate the houses nearby. I’m off to help him.”

“Be with you fast,” said Jimmy, and rang off.

♦

The night was frosty so Willie ushered several families into the restaurant. Mrs. Wellington, who had been telephoned for help, had taken the rest of those considered to be in the danger area up to the manse.

Hamish fretted and waited, only relaxing when he heard the sound of the sirens coming over the hills towards Lochdubh.

He walked along to the police station to meet Jimmy, who was standing there with an army bomb disposal unit.

“Tell the sergeant here about it,” said Jimmy.

Hamish described the footprint on the sooty floor and the smell of diesel.

“Any wires?” asked the sergeant.

“No. I looked.”

Two of his men went inside the police station. Hamish turned to Jimmy. “It was the same size as the footprint we saw in the castle.”

“Damn and blast it!” said Jimmy. “If this murderer thinks you know something, doesn’t he think it odd you’d keep it to yourself?”

“He may think Irena told me something that I haven’t yet figured out,” said Hamish.

The men came out, carrying something in a plastic forensic bag.

“Here it is,” said one. “A fertiliser bomb. Nice little homemade thing. All you need is newspaper, chemical fertiliser, cotton, diesel, and you’ve got your bomb. Someone put the fertiliser wrapped in newspaper at the bottom of your stove, then put cotton soaked with diesel on the top. If you’d lit your stove, it would have blown apart five hundred square metres – which would have dealt with you and your police station.”

“Hamish,” said Jimmy, “maybe we’re being sidetracked by the whole Gentle family. You don’t think there might be some Russian connection?”

“No, I don’t. They would have caught up with her before this.”

“Maybe not. Who’d think of looking for her in the north of Scotland?”

“We should be looking for someone fairly tall and slim with size seven feet,” said Hamish. “Might be a good idea to check Kylie Gentle’s alibi.”

People were returning to their houses. The forensic team arrived and went into the kitchen.

“I’m going to go up to the hotel and see if I can mooch a room,” said Hamish. “Oh, there’s another thing, Jimmy. I was coming back over the Struie Pass when I ran out of petrol. Now, I filled the tank up just before I got to Inverness. Say someone followed me down and drained most of the tank to immobilise me so that they could race back to the station and plant the bomb?”

“Might get something on CCTV,” said Jimmy. “Where were you parked?”

“Away down on a side street off the Ness Bank.”

“It’s a pity you were too cheap to pay for proper parking. You’d best leave the Land Rover and let the forensic boys look over it.”

“Could one of your lads give me a lift to the hotel?”

“Aileen will do that. Wait a minute.”

Jimmy went off and came back with a policewoman. “This is Aileen Drummond.”

Aileen was small and chubby with a cheeky face. When he got into the police car, Hamish said awkwardly, “I wonder whether you might stop at that Italian restaurant on the waterfront to pick up my dog and cat?”

“No trouble,” said Aileen.

But she flinched as Sonsie and Lugs were ushered into the backseat. “No,” said Hamish, before she could speak, “it’s not a wild cat.”

“Looks fair savage to me,” said Aileen.

“Are you from Glasgow?”

“Yes. Recognise the accent, did you?”

“It’s not as thick as Blair’s, but yes. What’s brought you up here?”

“I wanted to work in the Highlands but I landed in Strathbane, which is a sort o’ Glasgow in miniature but without the culture, without the restaurants, and without the posh shops. One great heaving underclass o’ criminals. You all right? Must be a hell o’ a shock finding a bomb in your kitchen.”

“I’m fine.”

“Here’s the hotel. Want to go in and get blootered? I could say you were in shock and needed tender loving care.”

“I don’t want to get drunk, and you’re driving.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Tell you what,” said Hamish, “I’ll stand you one drink.”

“You’re on.”

When Hamish went into the bar, he found Priscilla with Patrick and Harold Jury, sitting at a corner table and enjoying after-dinner coffees and brandies.

Priscilla rose and came to join him. “I heard about the bomb,” she said. “How are you?”