Death of a Village by MC Beaton

fright and rage, Bella turned round and Hamish and Elspeth threw themselves to the ground as the blast from the shotgun deafened them.
Hamish leapt to his feet before she could fire again. He wrested the shotgun from her and got her down on the floor and handcuffed her while she screamed abuse. Hamish checked Sean’s pulse.
He was still alive. He guessed that Bella had drugged him and was about to fake a suicide.
    By the time reinforcements had arrived from Lochdubh, Bella was crying and saying that Sean had been trying to commit suicide and she had been trying to stop him.
    ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Hamish wearily when Bella had been taken away and Sean borne off in an ambulance. ‘At least we’ve got her now.
She’ll be away for a long time.’
    ‘That’ll teach you to listen to me in future,’ said Elspeth. ‘Now I’m off to write up the story for the nationals.’
    ‘Sub judice. You can’t say anything until after she’s charged.’
    ‘Oh, yes I can. I just don’t mention her name. I just describe everything and say a woman is helping police with their inquiries. What about buying me dinner one night?’
    ‘I’ll take you for dinner tomorrow night. The Italian’s.’
    Back at the police station, Hamish sat down and typed out a lengthy report. Poor Jamie Stuart. The police would have already borne him off to Strathbane in case he turned out to have been
Bella’s accomplice.
     
Chapter Five
    Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
    What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
    Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;
    Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!
    – Robert Burns
    The next few days passed quietly for Hamish. Sergeant Macgregor over in Cnothan had sourly agreed to cover for him while he was away on ‘holiday’. The bombing of
the major’s cottage had disappeared from even the local newspapers. Elspeth had cancelled their date for dinner, just saying she was ‘on a story’. Hamish had been mildly surprised
at his own disappointment.
    The weather was not perfect. There had been two days of rain. But by the end of the week, the sun shone again. Purple heather blazed on the flanks of the two mountains above Lochdubh. Not a
ripple disturbed the glassy water of the sea loch. It was hard to even think of violence as Hamish lounged in his deck chair in the front garden under the blue lamp with Lugs lying on his back at
his feet, his paws in the air.
    His peace was disturbed by Jimmy Anderson, who had come looking for the remains of that bottle of whisky. Hamish collected another deck chair, the bottle and glasses, and Jimmy sat down with a
sigh of pleasure.
    ‘How are things at Stoyre?’ asked Hamish.
    Jimmy held up his glass, admiring the colour of the whisky in the sunlight, before taking a hearty swig of it. ‘Nothing,’ said Jimmy laconically. ‘Same old business.
Tight-lipped locals. The powers-that-be are pretty sure it was one o’ them.’
    ‘I wonder why. I mean a fertilizer bomb probably takes a bit of knowledge of chemistry.’
    ‘The fact is they don’t think all that much was used. Bit of newspaper, bit of fertilizer, fuel and cotton, light it, chuck it inside, and run like hell. Leave the major’s
Calor gas tanks to do the rest.’
    ‘Still, it takes some knowledge.’
    ‘Anyone could get the instructions how to make it off the Internet.’
    ‘I wouldnae think anyone in Stoyre had a computer!’
    ‘Anyone could go to the cyber café in Strathbane.’
    Hamish eyed the detective shrewdly. ‘But they checked with the café and couldn’t find anyone who had been accessing the information.’
    ‘Something like that.’
    ‘I’m thinking of taking a bit of a holiday and going and staying there,’ said Hamish.
    ‘Waste of time off, if you ask me. Does Blair know about this?’
    ‘No! And don’t breathe a word.’
    ‘I won’t.’
    ‘So nothing’s happening in Stoyre?’
    ‘All quiet. They had a Burns reading o’ Tam o’ Shanter at the kirk there last