“Who are you?” demanded Miss Blane.
“I’m a policeman.”
“Why aren’t you in uniform?”
“Because I am on holiday, but I happen to be staying at the boarding-house and—”
“You’re the one that was helping the police with their inquiries.”
“Well,” lied Hamish, “the press put it that way. As a matter o’ fact, I’m helping with the investigation.”
“At least you had the courtesy to call. I thought the police would have been round here right away.”
“Have any of the others been at the boarding-house before? There’s a Miss Gunnery, a retired schoolteacher, a Mr. Andrew Biggar, ex-army man, and two lassies from Glasgow, Cheryl Fink and Tracey Gamble.”
“Not that I recall.”
“Did Rogers meet Harris and Brett last year?”
“No, we didn’t negotiate with Rogers until the end of the summer.”
“I wonder why he came back,” said Hamish, half to himself. “He’s obviously worried about being found out, and yet he came back. And it’s not really very much like living in sin when you turn up with a woman and her three children. And the children call him ‘Daddy.’ ”
“Maybe he is,” said Miss Blane cynically. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. I remember when this was a nice village, with decent people, and the people who came in the summer were nice ordinary people as well. Now it’s all drink and worse. In my day the teenagers didn’t have enough to drink. Aye, and they had to work. And they showed respect to their elders.” Her voice had a whining, grating edge. The room was small and stuffy and crowded with tables cluttered with photos and china ornaments. There were lace curtains at the windows which let in very little light.
It all felt claustrophobic. He rose to go. “You’ll stay for a cup of tea,” she said. Naked loneliness suddenly looked out of her eyes. Of course she was lonely, Hamish thought, nasty old bat. But he sat down again. One day he might be old and nasty, too.
So he patiently listened to her complaints while he drank tea and agreed that her scones were the best in the world. She complained first about the village, then about the government, then about the European Community, then about the way America was being run, and when she reached the forthcoming independence of Hong Kong, Hamish felt he had had enough. He took his leave, promising to call again.
Outside, he took a deep breath of sandy, salty air. His best plan now would be to stroll past the police station and see if any of the police looked friendly. He stopped at the church notice-board opposite the police station and pretended to read, twisting round every now and then to watch the comings and goings. And then he saw a smart little policewoman arriving in a patrol car. He waited, wondering if she might be going off duty. After half an hour, she emerged in a blouse and trousers and headed in the direction of the pub. Hamish followed. He waited until he saw her going into the pub and then went in himself.
She was standing at the bar, sipping a gin and tonic. Hamish stood beside her and ordered a whisky. He turned and smiled down at her. “Cheers, Constable,” he said, raising his glass.
“Cheers,” she said, studying him. She saw a tall, thin man with an engaging face and hazel eyes. His red hair had a natural wave and shone in the dim light of the pub.
“I’m a copper as well,” said Hamish. She had a pert little face, small eyes, small nose, small mouth, and a quantity of shiny, curly fair hair and what Hamish thought of as an old-fashioned body: rounded bust, tiny waist, and generous hips.
Her eyes took on a hard, suspicious look. “You’re Hamish Macbeth,” she said.
“Aye, that iss right. Suspect number one.”
Her face relaxed a bit. Hamish looked so inoffensive. “Did you do it?”
“Murder Harris to enliven the boredom of my holiday? No.”
“You just stick to seducing the ladies.”
He silently cursed Miss Gunnery. “As to that,” he said, “I might tell you something about the case if you’re interested.”
“I am interested. I would like to have more to do with it. I’m from Dungarton and my job is to do all the dogsbody work. That Deacon even asked me to make the tea.”
“Neffer!”
“Aye. Treats me like a secretary.”
“What’s your name?”
“Maggie Donald.”
“You’re not from these parts?”
“No, Fife. I came up here to live with my auntie when my parents died.”
“Let me get you another drink,” said Hamish, “and we’ll sit over there and have a wee chat.”
“As long as you’re going to talk about the case and not chat me up.”
Hamish looked at her severely. “Well,” she said defensively, “you have earned yourself a bit of a reputation.”
He bought them a drink each and carried them over to a table in the corner. The pub was quiet. Apart from them, there were only two seedy-looking youths over at the fruit machine.
“So,” said Maggie, “who do you think did it?”
“I would have thought the wife was the obvious choice,” said Hamish. “The man was a nag. He made her life a misery. Then along comes this Andrew Biggar and I think that pair are falling in love. But Andrew seems a decent fellow, and Doris is so meek and mild, and she was terrified of her husband. I can’t see her biffing him on the head.”
“What about the fascinating Miss Gunnery? Did she know Hamish before?”
He shook his head. “Look, I’ll tell you something about me and Miss Gunnery if you promise not to repeat it.”
“I can’t promise that in case it turns out to have any bearing on the case.”
“No, it hasn’t. Can you see me coming all the way from Lochdubh to murder a man I don’t know? Miss Gunnery, in a mistaken attempt to save me from being charged with murder, or that was the way she saw it, got herself up like a tart and told those gullible detectives that I had spent the afternoon in bed wi’ her.”
“And had you?”
“No.”
“But you should have told Deacon! That’s obstructing the police in—”
“I know all that,” he interrupted impatiently. “I wass fed up wi’ the row I had that morning, what with Harris calling the police and accusing me of assaulting him. I went off and bought a couple of paperbacks in the village and went out to that bend of the river on the Dungarton side of the village and read all day. Then I bought a fish supper and took it to the harbour to eat it. That’s when I found Harris.”
“And you expect me to keep quiet about Miss Gunnery’s lie?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you want to get in on this case. Because I am living at the boarding-house. Because I know the people concerned.”
“I can’t promise. But I would like to know a bit more about them. Deacon has pulled in those two young girls.”
“Why did he do that?” asked Hamish. “I mean, they were evidently shooting their mouths off at the dance about how they would like to murder someone for kicks, but surely that isn’t enough to make them suspects.”
“Cheryl has form.”
“What kind of form?”
“GBH.”
“Grievous bodily harm! And her so young. She must be about nineteen at the oldest.”
“She’s twenty. She cut someone’s face with a bottle two years ago at a Glasgow dance hall. A drunken row. Cheryl thought the other girl was stealing her boyfriend. She met Tracey in prison.”
“And what was Tracey in for?”
“She did a short sentence for shoplifting. She was sent to prison because it was her fifth offence.”
“I’m slipping,” said Hamish, shaking his head ruefully. “I would haff said they were chust a pair of regular young girls who wore silly clothes and too much make-up.”
“So what do you know?” asked Maggie.
Hamish settled down and told her the alibis of the residents, some of which she had already heard from her colleagu
es. It was when he got to Doris’s alibi that he suddenly stiffened. “Wait a bit,” he said. “Doris told me and the others that she had walked away from the village along the beach the day of the murder. But I saw her myself walking towards the village. Why did she lie?”
“Perhaps she and this Andrew planned the murder together,” said Maggie. “It keeps coming back to her somehow.”
“I certainly don’t want to believe it, because they are nice people.” Hamish tilted his whisky this way and that in his glass. “I can’t imagine either of them murdering anyone.”
“It happens,” said Maggie. “Think if it—years of bullying building up resentment after resentment in Doris’s mind, and then she falls for this Andrew. Light the blue paper and retire. She might have gone up like a rocket, seen him standing right at the edge of the jetty and bam! into the water goes one very dead husband. And why did Doris lie to you about which way she went when she left the hotel?”
“I’ll find out. What did she tell the police?”
“I’ll need to look at the statements. I tell you what, I’m working until seven this evening. I’d better not be seen with you. If you start walking from the boarding-house just before seven, on the road, not the beach, I’ll pick you up and we’ll go somewhere and talk and share notes.”
“Right, Maggie. Can I get you another drink?”
She shook her head. “I’ve had my limit. It’s a good thing I’m slimming. I haven’t had anything to eat. Off with you before any of the coppers come in and find me talking to you.”
Hamish left feeling pleased with his morning’s work. He realized he was hungry and should have eaten something in the pub. He waited until Maggie left and then went back in and ordered some tired-looking sandwiches and a glass of ginger beer. He returned to the boarding-house by way of the beach and met Miss Gunnery walking Towser.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“You’re to report to the police station, Hamish,” she said wearily. Her hair was once more scraped back and the pale light from the grey sea and milky sky reflected on her gold-rimmed glasses and gave her a blind look. “They’ve been questioning and questioning. Me and the Bretts, Andrew and Doris, and the Rogerses. They even had a word with the children, especially Heather. That boatman is a menace. He told them all about Heather discussing ways to make murder look like an accident.”
“I’d best be off then.” Hamish stooped and patted Towser. “You’d best go home with Miss Gunnery like a good boy. I’ll get you some ham.” He waved to Miss Gunnery and set off back to Skag.
At the police station, he caught a glimpse of Maggie. She was carrying a tray of dirty teacups. He was ushered into the interview-room again to face Deacon and Clay.
“So you and that Miss Gunnery were lying,” began Deacon.
With all his heart, Hamish cursed the fickle Maggie.
But he folded his arms and faced them in silence. “You should be mair careful who you tell secrets to,” jeered Clay.
“So why am I here alone?” demanded Hamish suddenly. “Surely you should haff pulled Miss Gunnery in as well.”
“Give us time,” said Deacon sourly. “So where were you, laddie?”
Hamish told them slowly and carefully how he had spent his day, ending up with an exasperated cry of “If I had murdered the man, I would haff left the body where it wass for somebody else to find.”
“Aye, maybe,” said Deacon surprisingly. “We’ve been doing a bit more checking up on you. Some detective over at Strathbane, Jimmy Anderson, phoned to say we shouldnae give you a hard time, for you’re a dab hand at solving cases and letting your superiors take the credit.”
Hamish said nothing.
“And it is our opinion, having also checked on Miss Gunnery and found out she is who she says, a schoolteacher who took early retirement and one with an unblemished reputation, that we’ll leave you where you are, Hamish Macbeth, because you could be very useful to us. Now, Maggie tells us that what worries you about the wife, Mrs. Doris Harris, is that she told you she was on the other side of the beach, away from Skag, on the day of the murder, and yet you yourself saw her heading towards the village.”
“Yes,” said Hamish bleakly, thinking women were the devil in general and Maggie in particular.
“But we took statements from the Brett children, or rather from the eldest, Heather, and she says she wandered off from her parents and saw Doris in the distance, exactly where she said she was.”
“I’m not mistaken,” said Hamish firmly. “I definitely saw Doris on the road to Skag that morning. “Why should Heather lie? Since Maggie’s been shooting off her mouth all round, I may as well tell you that Dermott Brett and June are not married.” He paused for a moment, remembering that he had not told Maggie about the Bretts. “There was a scene last year when Dermott’s wife turned up. June and the children went off somewhere, but the Misses Blane, who owned the boarding-house then, told him they would have nothing of that kind under their respectable roof. Now Dermott told me that he did not know the boarding-house was under new management, but the surviving Miss Blane told me today that he was well aware of the fact that they meant to sell up at the end of the summer.”
“We’d better question them all again,” said Deacon heavily. “You’ve been busy.”
“I’m there,” said Hamish simply. “What about those two, Cheryl and Tracey?”
“We’ve put the wind up them. Couple of young slags. They’re silly and dangerous when they’re on the booze but pretty harmless off it. Keep an eye on them.”
“You mean you want me to work with you?” asked Hamish.
“May as well. You’re a copper. But no withholding any evidence or having silly biddies who ought to know better say you were in bed with them. So let’s go over it from the beginning again, Macbeth, and tell us all you know about them.”
So Hamish told every detail, right from the search of his suitcase through the day of the murder and what he had found out that day.
Deacon studied him with shrewd eyes while Hamish spoke. He was an odd fellow, thought Deacon. His voice was less sibilant than when he had first come in but still had a pleasant Highland lilt. His hazel eyes betrayed nothing of what he was really thinking as he spoke. Actually Hamish was experiencing an uncomfortable feeling of betrayal. The unfortunate residents of the boarding-house had become his friends in such a short time. He pictured them all as he spoke: pleasant Andrew Biggar and vulnerable Doris, dependable Miss Gunnery, and the Brett family, and he still thought of them as a family, even the dreadful Cheryl and Tracey. How happy they had all been when they went to the fair. Not for the first time, he felt queasy about his job. But, his thoughts ran on, as his voice delivered the report in calm, measured tones, he could not protect a murderer. That was the one thing that had carried him firmly through several nasty murder cases—taking of life was wrong. No one had the right to snuff out even such a repulsive character as Bob Harris.
“Well, we’ll pull in Dermott Brett for questioning first thing tomorrow,” said Deacon when Hamish had finished.
“What was the final result of the pathologist’s report?” asked Hamish.
“Stunned by a blow to the head from, possibly, a piece of driftwood, and then died from drowning. Given an element of surprise and a heavy piece of wood, any of them could have done it, but the one thing in Doris Harris’s favour is that the blow was struck by someone the same height as Harris, or so we guess, and Harris was five feet ten and Doris is about five feet two inches.”
Hamish looked at both detectives sadly. “The boatman was the last to see him, and then he was standing, but had Bob Harris been drinking a lot?”
“Like a fish,” said Deacon.
“After the boatman saw him, he might have been sitting down, with his legs over the edge. Anyone then could have struck him hard and toppled him over.”
“Good point,” said Deacon and Hamish felt like a rat. He had successfully put them all back in the frame.
�
�That’ll be all for now, Macbeth. Off wi’ you and let us know how you get on.”
Hamish wanted to protest he was on holiday, that he did not want to have anything more to do with it, but he was suddenly desperate to get out of the stuffy room and away from the tantalizing smell of Clay’s cigarettes.
He nodded to both of them and went out. Maggie was crossing the entrance hall. “Hamish,” she began.
“Leave me alone,” he snapped. He shouldered his way past her and went out.
The day was full of sun and wind and movement. White sand glittering with specks of mica danced crazily through the streets. The calm grey of the morning had gone. Seagulls wheeled and dipped and screamed overhead. Children’s voices were carried on the wind, along with snatches of music from the fairground. There were smells of frying fish and chips—that shop never seemed to close—smells of salt water and tar, and smells from the fairground of hot oil, candy-floss, and onions and hot dogs.
He went to the Asian store and bought a packet of cold ham for Towser. Then he reluctantly made his way back along the beach through the blowing sand and wheeling gulls to the point where he cut off inland over the shingle and over the dunes to the boarding-house.
He looked at his watch. Time for tea. What dreadful menu had the Rogerses thought up? And why did they, the guests, not complain more about it? Americans, say, would not have put up with such food for a moment, no matter how cheap the price.
He fed Towser the ham and then went down to the dining-room, blinking a little in surprise as he realized they were all there. Cheryl and Tracey were subdued and their eyes red with recent weeping. He felt sorry for them and then reminded himself sternly that they were ex-criminals.
He sat down heavily opposite Miss Gunnery. “How did it go?” she asked anxiously.
“They know you were lying about being with me that afternoon,” said Hamish.
“How?”
“I told them,” said Hamish, too weary to explain how one policewoman had betrayed them. “It doesn’t do any good to lie. I’m grateful to you, but there wass no need for you to put your reputation on the line for me. You can’t cover up things in a murder case.”
M. C. Beaton_Hamish Macbeth_11 Page 7