Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [68]
Struggling and panting, because Prosser was heavy, they managed to lift the corpse into the back of the Land Rover. Hamish had found Prosser’s revolver and had tucked it into one of the dead man’s pockets. ‘Thanks, Priscilla,’ whispered Hamish. ‘You can go home now.’
‘You’ll need a lookout. We may as well go together. Don’t argue. I’m trying very hard not to be sick.’
Hamish put a wheelbarrow in on top of Prosser’s body. They both got in, and he drove off under the blazing stars of Sutherland, into the soaring mountains. The sky was clear but there was the faint metallic smell that heralded snow in the air when he finally stopped.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’ll get the body into the wheelbarrow. Up there’s Fraser’s Gully. If I tip the body down there, it’s a long way down and it’ll get smashed on the rocks. With any luck, ferrets and crows and foxes will help to destroy the evidence.’
‘Will you ever tell the police?’
‘Oh, aye, when I figure the bastard’s decomposed enough. You wait here. I can manage this bit on my own.’
He got out and opened the back of the Land Rover. First he took out the wheelbarrow, and then he pulled the body out on to it. Grunting and swearing under his breath, he pushed the wheelbarrow up the steep incline to the edge of the gully.
At the very edge, he tipped the barrow and sent the body flying down. He heard it bouncing off the sharp rocks he knew were down there. Then there was silence.
He dropped Priscilla by her car on the waterfront. She had taken off the forensic suit when they were up by the gully, and he collected it from her.
‘Don’t you want me to help you clear up the mess?’ asked Priscilla.
‘You’ve done enough. Go home.’
When Priscilla walked into the hotel, the night porter exclaimed, ‘Why, Miss Halburton-Smythe! You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘I think I’ve a touch of flu,’ mumbled Priscilla. She fled to the safety of her room, where she was violently sick. Thank God I never married him, she thought. I’m not cut out to be a policeman’s wife.
Sutherland is near the Gulf Stream and so can enjoy some unusually warm days in winter. Hamish blessed the mild days, which would help with the decomposing of the body, and cursed the frosts. He had found Prosser’s car and driven it to Inverness airport, where he left it in the car park.
Priscilla had left again without saying goodbye. He thought sadly that after all they had been through on that dreadful evening, she might at least have called to see how he was. He felt guilty because he could sense the ongoing tension in the village and he longed to tell them their worries were over.
But by the end of February, two hill walkers, peering down into the gully, saw the remains of Prosser and called the police. The body had been attacked by crows, eagles, buzzards, and foxes. There was little left but a skeleton and torn clothes.
The couple had phoned Strathbane so it was not until the evening of their discovery that Jimmy Anderson arrived at the station with the news.
‘Is it Prosser?’ asked Hamish.
‘Looks like it.’
‘They won’t have had any time to check his dental records.’
‘Aye, but inside the lining of his coat, we found his real passport and a Cayman Islands bankbook. Guildford police have found his dentist and they’re sending up the records. He had a revolver as well, and we’re checking to see if it was used to kill Brandon – the sweep had his neck broken, Davenport had his head smashed, same with Betty Close. Brandon is the only one who was shot. They think Philomena was drugged and that’s why she lost control of the car. Anyway, according to our singing canaries in captivity, Castle and Sanders, they knew he was out to get Davenport. That’s why they set up the alibi for him. They said he got Stefan Loncar to put on a mask that evening so that people would think it was him. You remember, it was a