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

robberies, jewel thefts, drugs, arms, human trafficking, and prostitution. The northwest of Scotland with its many small bays and inlets was ideal territory for smuggling.
    The weak link was Liz Bentley. Somehow she had become involved. It might be an idea to go back to Cromish and investigate that end further.
    He finished his coffee and went out again to the waterfront to be consulted by Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife. The storm had died and pale sunlight was glittering on the choppy waters of the sea loch. As usual, Mrs. Wellington was encased in tweed. Even her large hat was made of tweed.
    â€œThis place has become Chicago,” she boomed. “And what are you doing about it?”
    â€œWhat I can,” said Hamish mildly. “Have you heard o’ something in Inverness called The Church of the Chosen?”
    She sniffed. “That lot. Load of rubbish.”
    â€œHow did you hear of it?”
    â€œEllie Noble, thon silly lassie, went there. Her parents came to Mr. Wellington for help. They were afraid it was some sort of cult.”
    â€œThat’s the Nobles out on the Braikie road?”
    â€œThat’s them.”
    â€œAnd does Ellie live with them?”
    â€œNo, she works in First supermarket in Strathbane and I think she shares digs with a couple of girls.”
    â€œThanks,” said Hamish and hurried to the police station. He fished out a photograph of Liz Bentley that he had in his desk. It was a print of one given to the police by her brother.
    He collected the dog and cat and got into the Land Rover. Blair was just emerging from a police unit set up on the waterfront. He shouted something as Hamish drove past.
    Hamish drove on, glancing in the rearview mirror as the image of angry Blair dwindled into the distance.

Chapter Seven
    Woman, a pleasing but a short-lived flower,
    Too soft for business and too weak for power:
    A wife in bondage, or neglected maid;
    Despised, if ugly; if she’s fair, betrayed.
    â€”Mary Leapor
    Hamish knew he was poaching on Strathbane’s territory, but he did not care. Knocking on doors in Lochdubh to find out if anyone had seen or heard anything was a waste of effort, he knew. The noise of the storm would drown any car arriving in the village in the middle of the night.
    Before leaving the police station, he had changed into civilian clothes, not wanting to attract any attention from Strathbane’s police force.
    In other towns and cities, supermarkets are often large palaces of goods and clothes, but First supermarket in Strathbane was as dismal as the run-down town itself. Very few people seemed to put their shopping trolleys back in the places designated for them, leaving them strewn instead around the car park. A chilly wind with the metallic smell of approaching snow whipped rubbish around Hamish’s ankles as he made for the main entrance. It was situated in one of the poorest parts of the town and dubbed by the locals as Salmonella Centre.
    Obesity was a bad problem in Strathbane as illustrated by a large woman at the customer services desk. She looked about as welcoming as Jabba the Hutt.
    â€œWhatdeyewant?” she demanded languidly, raising her eyes from a film magazine.
    â€œI would like to speak to Ellie Noble.”
    â€œEllie Noble! Report to the customer services desk,” she roared into a microphone, and then went back to reading her magazine.
    The automatic grimy glass doors behind which Hamish was standing opened and closed, sending in blasts of arctic air. As he watched, little pellets of hard snow began to swirl down outside.
    A small girl wearing the green-and-red overalls sported by the staff came hurrying up.
    â€œPolice,” said Hamish. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
    The spots on her face stood out red. “They were throwing the stuff out anyway,” she said. “I’m no’ going to prison for that.”
    â€œI want you to look at a photograph,”