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

dessert dish to one side to return to Lesley.
    Hamish went along in the direction of the mobile police unit and then backed off. A line of villagers, all men, were queuing up outside.
    He stopped a Strathbane policeman who was moodily smoking a cigarette and staring at the water.
    “What’s happening?” asked Hamish.
    “The boss is getting the DNA off all the men in this village,” said the policeman. His accent had the fluting sound of the Outer Hebrides.
    “That won’t do him any good,” said Hamish. “As far as I know no DNA was recovered from the scene.”
    “Aye, well, they are going to look at the DNA database.”
    “Why didn’t they ask me?” asked Hamish. “I could have told them no one in this village has a criminal record.”
    The policeman tossed his cigarette butt onto the beach. “I had best be getting on. But I’m right sick o’ chapping at doors and asking hard-faced wifies what their man was doing when that Braid woman was getting herself killt.”
    Hamish stood, irresolute. Before, Blair would have been shouting at him to do something or other. But he had no instructions. This time Blair seemed determined to keep him right out of the case.
    He took out his phone and called Jimmy. “Can you speak?”
    “I’m at headquarters making calls.”
    “Can you tell me where Paul Simmonds is working in Glasgow?”
    “You can’t go there, Hamish. Your expenses wouldn’t be paid. Besides, you’d be seen as poaching on Strathclyde’s police territory.”
    “Would I do a thing like that? Chust for interest.”
    “Oh, well, he’s working at Wylie’s, a big sort of Harrods-type store in Buchanan Street.”
    Hamish told his pets to look after themselves. He felt he didn’t dare inflict them on Angela again. He drove rapidly to Inverness airport and caught the shuttle to Glasgow. He had changed into civilian clothes.
    Glasgow was freezing cold. The balmy air, blessing Sutherland when he left, had not reached south.
    Hamish shivered his way along Buchanan Street until he came to Wylie’s.
    A member of the staff informed him that the security guard was off on his coffee break and could be found in the shop’s café in the basement.
    The café was quiet, but Hamish spotted a middle-aged man in dark blue coveralls with a badge proclaiming security on the front. Paul Simmonds was small for an ex-detective and plump, with a discontented face covered in red veins. His eyes were faded blue and watery.
    Hamish sat down opposite him and introduced himself.
    “What now?” snarled Simmonds. “If it’s about that woman what got murdered, I’ve answered all the police questions I’m going to answer.”
    “Come on,” coaxed Hamish. “This is unofficial. I’m not out to blame you for anything. I want to know what the woman last calling herself Catriona was like.”
    Paul stared into his coffee cup. Then he raised his head. “You’re not wearing a wire, are you?”
    “I’m here at my own expense and my boss would kill me if he found out.”
    “You’re that Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh, aren’t you?”
    “The same.”
    “Well, I’ve heard nothing but good about you. I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. I’m out of the force. I think she really was a witch. Yes. We had her bang to rights. Found a bag of Ecstasy tablets. I phoned over the find. She didn’t seem the least put out. Just smiled and said, ‘Let’s drink to success.’ It was a bottle of twelve-year-old malt. I was all for hauling her off but Peter said it wouldn’t hurt to have just the one drink. I don’t know what was in that drink but I suddenly felt happier than I’d done in my whole life. The fire was crackling on the hearth and the room was cosy what with the wind howling outside down the loch.
    “Suddenly she looked beautiful. ‘We’ll have a party!’ she cried, and somehow there we were singing and dancing. It was all a blur. Then she kissed us both good night, and when we were halfway to Inverness we came