Death of a Liar by M. C. Beaton Page A

connected with the church or gone there herself,” said Hamish. “See what you can find out.”
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    â€œWhat was that about?” asked Anka when Dick had rung off. He told her and then said ruefully, “I’ve been working more at the baking than the policing.”
    They were working in Anka’s kitchen, preparing the bakery for the morning.
    Anka looked at Dick with affection. He had a dab of flour on his nose, and his tubby figure was wrapped in one of her large white aprons.
    â€œI don’t think you’re cut out for the police force,” she said. “I think you would rather be doing this.”
    I’d rather be doing anything with you than anything else in the whole wide world, thought Dick, but he just smiled and said, “I think our scones are ready.”
    â€œMaybe I should have a look around Liz’s cottage,” said Anka. “I might just see something you missed.”
    â€œI’m sure it’s against regulations,” said Dick cautiously. “But her brother will be up here soon again to check on things now the place is up for sale. It would be grand if we could find just one clue.”
    â€œGood. That’s settled. We will go tomorrow afternoon. We must have our beauty sleep.”
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    Christine tossed and turned in her sleeping bag, amazed at how frightened of the storm she had become. The noise had moved from a high eldritch screech to a deep bang, bang, bang as if giants up in the sky were slamming doors. She crawled out of her sleeping bag and switched on the light. Nothing happened. Must be a power cut, she thought miserably. I am not brave, but I’m brave enough to admit it. I’m going to the nice safe sofa in Hamish’s police station.
    She had not bothered to undress. Christine put on her coat and opened the front door, which was nearly whipped out of her hand by the force of the gale.
    By dint of hanging on to garden fences, she made her way to the station and banged on the kitchen door.
    It was doubtful whether Hamish would have heard her had not Lugs awakened him by barking sharply. Sonsie slid off the bed and went to the kitchen door and stood on guard, fur raised.
    Hamish opened the door and let Christine in. “I’ve decided your sofa would be better. Wait a bit. You’ve got electricity. There’s a power cut at the schoolhouse.”
    â€œI’ll make you up a bed on the sofa,” said Hamish. “Maybe I’d better go to the schoolhouse and have a look.”
    â€œIf you bring my sleeping bag, it’ll save you looking out bedding,” said Christine. “I’ll make myself a cup of tea and wait for you.”
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    The roaring wind at Hamish’s back propelled him along to the schoolhouse. The front door was swinging open, banging against the outside wall.
    He unhitched a powerful torch from his belt and made his way to the living room.
    He shone the torch on the sleeping bag and then backed off with an exclamation of alarm. What had been Christine’s sleeping bag was shot to ribbons.
    There was no sleep for anyone that night as the whole forensic team headed by Daviot and Blair arrived from Strathbane. It was initially decided that shots from something like a Kalashnikov had ripped into the sleeping bag. Whoever had done it had assumed Christine was still inside.
    As usual, Hamish was sidelined by Blair and told to interview the locals. Instead, he went along to the Italian restaurant, knocked at the kitchen door, and asked the beautiful Lucia, Willie Lamont’s wife, for a cup of coffee. He then sat down at a table in the empty restaurant to think.
    Behind all this was big money that some gang wanted to get its hands on. They wanted to scare any investigation away from the schoolhouse, he thought, and then decided that if that were the case, the shooting had the opposite effect. The police would now take the building apart.
    Money came from bank