Death of a Liar Read Free

at him, his freckles standing out on his white face.
    â€œWhat is it, sonny?” asked Hamish.
    â€œA foot! A foot!”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œSchoolhouse garden.”
    â€œShow me.”
    Hamish hurried after the boy and then called out, “Wait there!”
    He opened the gate and walked into the schoolhouse garden. “At the back!” called Rory.
    Hamish told his pets to stay, unhitched a torch from his belt, and walked round the back of the schoolhouse. He shone the torch across the garden. The recent storm had channelled rivers through the earth.
    In the beam of his torch he saw a foot in a sensible brogue sticking up.
    His heart sank down to his boots. He knew all of a sudden that the Leighs had not left at all.
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    The whole circus of forensic team, police, and detectives headed by the bane of Hamish’s life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, descended on Lochdubh.
    Blair made sure that Hamish was relegated to the sidelines, preferring to listen to gossip about the dead Leighs which his policemen had collected from the villagers. Finally, it transpired that there was only one body, that of Bessie Leigh. Of her husband, there was no sign. Hamish was ordered to take Dick and scour the countryside while a watch was put on all airports, train stations, bus stations, and ports. The Leighs’ car was missing, a brand-new Audi.
    Hamish decided to search the back roads, stopping at various croft houses to ask if anyone had seen an Audi driving past. He went north, guessing that any fugitive would avoid going south. At Lochinver, a man working in his garden said he had seen an Audi going at great speed past his house the day before, but he said there seemed to be several men in the car. Hamish drove on up the coast, looking always carefully to right and left, sure that the car would be dumped.
    Just south of Kinlochbervie, he slammed on the brakes. “Seen something?” asked Dick.
    â€œOver there, on the moor,” said Hamish. He started up the engine and swung the Land Rover onto the moor, bumping over tussocks of grass and heather. He stopped beside the Audi and got out. A seagull perched on the bonnet glared at him and flew away.
    The car was empty, but the keys were in the ignition. “Better check the trunk,” said Hamish.
    He sprang the trunk.
    Inside was the bound and gagged body of Frank Leigh, his dead face twisted in a rictus of pain.
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    Blair was furious. This was an important case, and he didn’t want this sergeant who had taken the glory away from him so many times having anything to do with it. When he arrived, the first thing he did was to order Hamish back to his police station to write a report.
    â€œI’d swear that wee man was tortured,” said Hamish as he drove back to Lochdubh. “What do we know about the Leighs? Nothing at all. Frank Leigh must have information about something that someone wanted.”
    Maybe whoever had taken him had followed in another car. Blair would try to make sure he didn’t get any information. Hamish stopped off on the way and bought a bottle of whisky in the hope that Detective Jimmy Anderson would call on him. Jimmy was a friend and had often passed on information in the past—provided he was lubricated with whisky.
    And so it turned out. He had just finished his report when Jimmy arrived, his eyes gleaming in his foxy face as Hamish put the whisky bottle and a glass on the kitchen table.
    â€œIt’s a mystery,” sighed Jimmy when he had downed his first glass. “The house had been ransacked, safe open and empty, hadn’t been blown so they must have got the code out of them, and papers strewn everywhere. But among thae papers, there aren’t any marriage lines or birth certificates, bankbooks or passports. Maybe the villains took them with them.”
    â€œHow was Mrs. Leigh killed?” asked Hamish.
    â€œSuffocated. Plastic and duct tape wrapped round and round her