Death of Yesterday Read Free

uneasy. It was too much of a coincidence that she should disappear when she had an appointment with the hypnotist.
    To his amazement, he got a call from Detective Sergeant Jimmy Anderson later that day. “Blair’s decided to look into it,” he said.
    “Why? I thought he’d delight in shooting the whole thing down,” said Hamish.
    “I think he feels if there is a crime, then he wants to be the one to solve it. You’ve stolen his glory too many times.”
    “I’d better get back to Cnothan and join him.”
    “He says you’re to sit tight and look after your sheep and leave it to the experts.”
    Hamish groaned. He knew that Blair’s blustering, bullying tactics would make the locals clam up even more.
    * * *
    Hamish waited gloomily for the inevitable. Sure enough it came later with an e-mail from Blair telling him it was a wild goose chase and to stop wasting police time and, furthermore, never again try to employ the hypnotist without first getting clearance.
    But undeterred, Hamish went back to Cnothan, knocking on doors, questioning one after the other without success.
    He was furious when he returned to Lochdubh to receive a phone call from Superintendent Daviot. The locals in Cnothan had complained of police harassment. Blair had found nothing. Hamish was to leave it all alone.
    The weather continued to be unusually hot. Three weeks after the disappearance of Morag Merrilea, two men were loading bales of T-shirts onto a lorry outside Shopmark Fashions when they suddenly stopped their work.
    “Thon’s an awfy smell from that bale,” said one, “and it’s heavy, too.”
    “Better cut it open,” said his companion. “There’s maybe a dead animal inside.”
    They sliced the twine that held the bale and unrolled it.
    The dead and decomposing body of Morag Merrilea rolled out and lay lifeless under the eye of the glaring sun.

Chapter Two

    Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
    —Christina Rossetti
    “You would think,” said Hamish Macbeth angrily, “that such a horror would get folks’ tongues wagging, but they’re all more closemouthed than ever.”
    Blair had given Dick and Hamish the task of knocking at doors in Cnothan to interrogate the villagers. Tired of looking into blank secretive faces and getting curt nonhelpful replies, they retreated to the café in the main street to console themselves with cups of bad coffee.
    “See, it’s like this,” said Dick. “There was a village here that was supposed to be right friendly but along came the Hydro Electric Board, built the dam and made the loch, and the old village was drowned. So folks say there’s a curse on the place.”
    “Havers!” said Hamish. “They were all rehoused. No one was drowned to come back and haunt the place.”
    “Aye, but the church was buried in the water. They say when doom is coming, you can hear the old bells.”
    “My mother remembers the old village,” said Hamish, “and she said they were a right lot of bastards. I hate being sidelined.”
    “Jimmy Anderson will fill you in. I just this minute saw him heading up the main street to the pub.”
    “Right! Let’s go and see if he’s got anything.”
    Jimmy was seated in a corner of the Highlander pub, drinking a double whisky.
    “Any luck, Hamish?” he asked.
    “What do you think,” said Hamish crossly. “I feel like arresting the whole village and charging them with obstructing the police in their enquiries.”
    “While you’re at it, you can charge the whole factory as well,” said Jimmy. “Sit down and have a drink.”
    “I’ll get the drinks,” said Dick. “Fancy another, sir?”
    “That’d be grand.”
    “What will you be having, Hamish, er . . . sir?”
    “Tomato juice.”
    “Blair’s furious,” said Jimmy, his foxy face