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

exclamations and questions and then Blair’s voice raging, “Get thon two back in here. Released? Which damn numpty let them oot?”
    At last Jimmy came on the phone. “Bad news, Hamish.”
    Hamish sighed. “It wasnae Gonzales who got on that plane with his passport?”
    â€œThat’s it,” said Jimmy. “And the brothers, Andy and Davy Campbell, were released.”
    â€œSo what does the substitute look like? Anyone you know?”
    â€œSame height, roughly the same features, but definitely not Gonzales.”
    â€œDon’t you see that all roads lead back to Murdo Bentley?”
    â€œGet off that phone!” howled Blair’s voice in the background, and Hamish was cut off.
    Hamish went into the living room. “Dick, did you know about a newcomer to the area, Beryl Shuttleworth?”
    â€œOh, her. Aye. I called on her to say hullo about a month ago. Nice lady.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me about her?”
    â€œDidn’t seem important. You turned over the job of calling on the locals to me. What’s the interest in her?”
    Hamish told him about the disappearance of Gonzales. “I’ll go and see her,” he said.
    â€œWant me to come?”
    â€œNo. Are you absolutely sure that Hetty doesn’t know anything? Might be an idea to keep after her.”
    Dick repressed a shudder. Then he had an idea. “Instead of questioning Hetty again,” he said, “I could ask that other librarian, Shona, if Hetty said anything to her.”
    â€œGood idea.”
    Dick brightened. “Do you mind if I don’t take Sonsie and Lugs with me?”
    â€œNo, it’s all right. They can come with me.”
    Â Â 
    Followed by his pets, Hamish walked up to the manse. The minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington, was in her gloomy kitchen, taking a tray of scones out of the Raeburn cooker.
    â€œCome in,” she said. “What do you want? Oh, leave those terrifying beasts of yours outside.”
    Hamish walked out of the kitchen. “Stay!” he ordered.
    When he went back in, Mrs. Wellington boomed, “A few centuries ago they would have burnt you as a warlock. It’s unnatural for a cat to obey orders.”
    Every time he saw Mrs. Wellington, Hamish felt a stab of pity for the mild-mannered minister. His wife was so domineering, so tweedy , with her round figure and bulldog face.
    â€œWhat do you want?” she demanded.
    â€œWhat sort of person is Beryl Shuttleworth?”
    â€œMrs. Shuttleworth to you. I don’t hold with all this touchy-feely business of calling folk by their first names.”
    â€œOkay, Mrs. Shuttleworth.”
    â€œNice lady. Comes to the kirk on Sunday which is more than you can say for a lot of the godless in this village.”
    â€œWhat does Mr. Shuttleworth do?”
    â€œShe’s a widow. Why are you so interested?”
    â€œI like to call on newcomers to the area.”
    â€œShe’s got an office in Strathbane.”
    Hamish inwardly cursed. He had forgotten that. And he should have realised that the Inverness police would check at the airport to see if Gonzales really got on the plane.
    He looked hopefully at the coffee percolator. Mrs. Wellington said, “No coffee for you. I do not encourage mooching.”
    Â Â 
    Hamish walked down the brae from the manse with the dog and cat at his heels. Dark clouds were streaming in from the west. Choppy waves raced over the surface of the loch. He had not heard the weather forecast but he was sure Sutherland was about to release one of its monumental gales on the landscape.
    At the police station, he put his pets in the back of the Land Rover and drove off out of the village. He decided there might just be a chance of getting a break in the—now two—murder cases.
    The Firs was a Scottish Georgian villa, standing on a rise, with a view down to the loch. It was made of sandstone and covered in ivy. The