Death of a Gentle Lady - M. C. Beaton [55]
He lay back on the sofa and stared up at the nicotine-stained ceiling. He should really report this place to the Scottish Tourist Board, he thought. What a dump for a holiday let! His eyes began to close, and soon he was fast asleep.
He was awakened by a hammering at the door and the voice of his neighbour, Ellie, shouting, ‘There’s a fire down by the harbour!’
He made for the door and then stopped. That’s it, he thought. Light a big fire, get every one running out of their cottages, and wait.
‘You go ahead,’ said Hamish.
He pulled a black woollen cap over his head, then pulled a sweater on over his shirt. He left the cottage quietly and headed towards the river. He had seen a track leading along the side of the river up to the top of the cliffs. Near the top, he turned and looked back. A shed by the harbour had been set on fire; the locals were passing buckets of water, one to the other, to throw on the flames.
Hamish gained the road and walked along to the west, looking for a parked car. He then turned and walked back along to the east. At last he saw it on a bend of the road. It was a small battered-looking van, and the number plates had been removed.
He tried the handles at the back and found that the van was unlocked. He climbed inside, shut the doors behind him, and settled down to wait.
An hour had passed when he heard the sounds of someone approaching. Let her drive off a bit, thought Hamish grimly, and then I’ll have a surprise for her.
The driver’s door opened. He heard the engine roar into life, and in a split second he realized he had not heard the driver’s door close.
He tore open the back door of the van, tumbled out, and leapt, seeing nothing but blackness below him. His flailing hands caught hold of a branch sticking out of the cliff. He clung on for dear life.
There was the sound of an explosion far below, and then flames shot up into the night sky.
He saw he was hidden by the overhang of the cliff. His arms felt as if they were about to be torn from their sockets. He kicked his boots into the soft ground of the cliff until he found footholds and felt the pressure on his arms slacken.
In the light from the flames below, he saw a rocky ledge to his left. With all the strength left in his arms, he swung himself over and fell panting on the ledge. Using tufts of grass for purchase, he swung himself back up over the top of the cliff and, taking out a powerful torch, swung it to the left and right.
Moorland stretched for miles either way. He pulled out his mobile phone and woke up Jimmy Anderson.
‘I’ll get the police helicopter up and we’ll search the moors,’ said Jimmy. ‘Go back and lock yourself in.’
Hamish stayed awake, listening to the sound of the police helicopter overhead. At last he could not bear the inactivity any longer and went out. The harbour was full of police cars. A forensic team was working on the burnt-out van, which had fortunately hit a large rock instead of plunging on down on to one of the houses.
James Fringley appeared beside him. ‘I gather you’re not who you said you were,’ he said.
‘No. Who told you?’
‘A copper asked me which cottage had been rented to Hamish Macbeth. I gather that’s you and you’re that policeman from Lochdubh. Why are you here?’
‘Headquarters has me hidden up here because some murderer is after me,’ said Hamish wearily.
‘Do me and everyone in this village a favour and get the hell out of it as soon as you can. There were fishing nets burnt in that shed, and that van could have killed someone.’
Hamish guessed the would-be killer had probably guessed he would search for him up on the clifftop. The back of the van had been cramped, and he had changed his position from