Free Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob by M.C. Beaton Page A

Ministry of Transport checks on all vehicles over three years old.
    “And where does he live?”
    “Opposite Mrs. Bannerman.”
    Hamish walked along the village street, all too aware of the twitching curtains. Mrs. Bannerman was working in her patch of front garden. She saw him and scurried inside.
    Opposite her house on the other side of the street was a cottage with a shed at the side, with the legend A. J. MACLEOD, MOTOR MECHANIC , above the door.
    He went inside. There was a pair of legs in greasy overalls sticking out from under a car.
    “A word with ye,” called Hamish.
    The man wriggled out and scrambled to his feet. “Are you any relation to Angus Macleod?” asked Hamish.
    “His brither,” said Bert sullenly.
    “He’s in bad trouble. He’s assaulted Mrs. Wetherby.”
    “It wis jist a joke and Sandy won’t be touching him.”
    “No, but I’m a policeman, and if Sandy doesn’t do anything about it, I can report him to headquarters and he’ll be taken off the island and you’ll get a replacement who won’t put up wi’ your nonsense.”
    Bert, a small man with weak eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, blinked up at Hamish. He jingled some change in bis overall pocket and looked sly.
    “We could aye come to an arrangement,” he said in a wheedling voice.
    “Aye, maybe we could. Do you ken Geordie Mason, him wi’ the haunted truck?”
    “O’ course.”
    “Did the MOT, did you?”
    “Last year. Naethin’ up wi’ it.”
    Hamish looked at him cynically. He knew there were garages that would pass any old vehicle as being sound, provided the price was right.
    “If you want me to leave Angus and Sandy alone, you’ll do this. Tell Geordie I’ve said there is something wrong wi’ his truck and get it in here and take it apart and make sure it’s sound.”
    Bert pushed back a filthy cap and scratched his head. “It won’t mind that,” he said, “Geordie says it likes a bit of attention.”
    “You’re all crazy,” said Hamish in disgust. “Just see to that truck.”
    On the road back, he turned his mind to the problem of who could possibly have started the hatred for Jane Wetherby. Mrs. Bannerman? Someone from the health form? Did anyone from the health farm talk to the islanders? They had all been there two weeks before his own arrival, time enough to do damage. He would need to ask Harriet. The thought of Harriet Shaw cheered him immensely. The wind had dropped as he neared The Happy Wanderer, and snow began to fall in large feathery flakes. He stopped, amazed. He could not ever remember having seen a white Christmas. Usually it snowed a bit before Christmas and a lot after Christmas. Perhaps this too would fade away before the twenty-fifth.
    A Christmas atmosphere seemed to have fallen on Jane’s guests at last. They were all helping her trim a large synthetic tree in the lounge and hang decorations. Even John Wetherby was laughing as he stood on top of a ladder and tried to reach up to put the fairy on top of the tree…
    When the tree was finished, Hamish took Jane aside and told her the result of his investigations. Jane clapped her hands in delight. To Hamish’s horror, she called out, “Listen, everybody! Isn’t Hamish clever? He went into Skulag and found out that it was Angus Macleod, a fisherman, who pushed me into that pillbox.”
    John Wetherby slowly turned round. He had been bent over a box to start bringing out the tinsel and paper decorations with which to decorate the rest of the lounge and dining room. At Jane’s words he straightened up abruptly and swivelled to face Hamish.
    “You reported this to the police, of course,” he said sharply.
    “Of course,” said Hamish, dreading what was going to come next.
    “Then why hasn’t the policeman been out here to take Jane’s statement?”
    “Because Angus told everyone he only did it to give Jane a fright and that he was going to let her out at midnight. Sandy refused to charge him.”
    “Well, he’ll bloody well have