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

to our senses and searched for the evidence. It was gone and in that moment, we realised we hadn’t even arrested her. We went back but the place was in darkness and she didn’t answer the door. We tried to break it down because we still had the warrant, but the door was too tough for us and man, we were still drunk and shaky.
    “Then came the enquiry. They cleared us of any wrongdoing but it was on our records and we knew we’d never get any promotion after that. I’m right glad she’s dead and I hope she suffered.”
    “And was she using her maiden name of Catriona Burrell?”
    “Yes. Look, if you catch whoever killed her, shake his hand from me.”
    “When you were searching the house for drugs, can you remember anything else, letters, postcards, photos, things like that?”
    “Let me think. I know, Peter picked up a framed photograph and says, ‘Do you think her man’s still around?’ I only had a wee keek at it, mind, but it was of a big strong fellow and written at the bottom was from your loving husband, rory.”
    “That’s grand,” said Hamish. “Anything else?”
    He sat for a few minutes in thought. Then a voice from the tanoy barked, “Security guard, report to the main entrance.”
    Hamish handed over his card. “If you remember anything at all, phone me.”
    Simmonds got to his feet. “I ’member now. Behind the fellow was a view of a harbour. It looked like Oban.”
    When Hamish reached Inverness airport, before getting into his old car, he phoned Mr. Johnson at the Tommel Castle Hotel. “Do me a favour,” said Hamish. “If Blair phones you, tell him I was up at the hotel all day checking on the guests.”
    Mr. Johnson agreed. Hamish drove off towards Lochdubh, feeling that at least he had covered himself in case the erratic Blair had suddenly decided to hound him.
    As he drove back, he turned over in his mind what Simmonds had said. If Catriona had married this Rory, then it might be worthwhile to go to Oban and look for a Rory McBride.
    Jimmy Anderson was waiting for him. “I thought you might be back soon. Have you anything for me because I’m right tired of getting nowhere.”
    Hamish led him into the kitchen and told him what he had found out.
    “I thought,” said Hamish, “if you’d cover for me, I might take a run over to Oban in the morning and see what I can find out.”
    “I’ll think of something if there’s any whisky left.”
    “One, Jimmy, only one. I don’t want you to be done for drunk driving.”
    When Hamish put the bottle and a glass on the table, Jimmy filled the glass up to the brim and took a swig. “That’s better. Blair’s been worse than ever. Mike Haggerty, thon foreman who gave Fergus Braid an alibi, well, Blair’s decided they’re in cahoots and Mike is lying. Mike’s in the cells at the moment.”
    “Why?”
    “He shouted, ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Blair said yes, so Mike socked him on the nose. But I think Mike will be out by now.”
    “Why?”
    “Because Mike’s sister, Shona, is an advocate who lives in Dingwall, and she’s demanding to hear a tape of the interview and screaming police harassment. Daviot told Blair to let her hear the tape and wouldn’t you know it, Blair hadn’t got the interview recorded so he’s in deep poo.”
    “Let’s hope that keeps him quiet for a time,” said Hamish. “He was always awful about badgering and arresting the innocent, but I swear he’s getting worse.”
    “Aye, that’s the drink for you,” said Jimmy, taking another hearty swig from his glass.
    Hamish drove down to Oban the following morning, taking the cat and dog with him. He sometimes thought the pair were worse than children, having to be regularly watered and fed. At least Sonsie’s company meant that Lugs would roam far and wide with the cat up on the moors and manage to consume quite a large amount of food without getting fat.
    The day grew darker as Hamish drove south into Ross & Cromarty. Oban was a pretty place in the