“Sounds reasonable. And what of Andrew and Doris?”
“It’s so sad. They go for walks together, but they are so solemn. It’s almost as if fear and worry are killing any love they might have had for each other.”
“And the children? What of the Brett children?”
“As soon as the wife appeared, June fortunately saw her coming and took the children out through the back door and kept them away all day. With any luck, June and Dermott can now get married after the divorce and the children need never know.”
“At least they’re English,” said Hamish with feeling.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“If they were Scottish, under Scottish law they would stay bastards for the rest of their lives. Being English, they will be legitimized as soon as the parents are married. But how did Dermott manage to keep up the deception for so long?”
“Like Harris, he’s a travelling salesman, mineral water. He’s away a lot. He must work hard and earn a good lot of money to keep two households running.”
“Does he have any children by his marriage?”
“No, I gather not, from the informative Crick. And June changed her name to Brett by deed poll.”
Hamish’s brain, which had been temporarily frozen by grief, suddenly seemed to be working again. That brothel! He had forgotten about that.
“I’ve a few calls to make,” he said. “I’ll see you later. I tell you what . . .” He thought of all Miss Gunnery’s many kindnesses over the death of Towser. “I’ll take you out for dinner tonight. There’s a good Indian restaurant in Dungarton. Do you like curry?”
Miss Gunnery’s eyes shone. “Love it.”
“Then that’s a date.”
Hamish left her and walked along to the end of the main street to where he thought the house was that he had seen Harris leaving. It was a trim Victorian villa, set back a little from the road.
He went up and rang the bell. A plump woman, looking at first glance like any other Skag housewife, opened the door. She was wearing a summer dress and low-heeled shoes. Her brown hair was ferociously permed into hard curls and ridges. Her blue-grey eyes were hard and watchful and her mouth was small and thin, with a disappointed droop at the corners. She did not say anything, merely stood back to let him enter. She led the way into what in more respectable days would have been the front parlour. It looked a bit like a dentist’s waiting-room. There were copies of glossy magazines on a low table in front of a sofa. A few occasional chairs stood about. A black marble clock ticked sonorously from the mantelpiece. Some dried pampas-grass in a bowl filled up the hearth. The room smelt of disinfectant and furniture polish.
“Well, whit can we dae for you?” she asked, folding her arms, her little eyes ranging up and down him.
“I am a police officer,” said Hamish, “and I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Here, now, I have nae quarrel wi’ the police at all.”
“I am not here to question you about running a brothel.”
An angry flush rose up her face. “This is a respectable bed and breakfast, I’ll have ye know. It’s that Simpson creature you’re wanting. I could hae you for slander. Off wi’ ye.”
Feeling foolish, Hamish made for the door. “Where does the Simpson woman live?”
“Next door.”
Muttering apologies, Hamish took his leave, sheepishly noticing as he reached the gate a little sign which advertised “Bed & Breakfast” in curly script set by the gatepost.
The house next door did not look at all like a brothel from his limited experience. It had a trim, prosperous middle-class air. A new BMW was parked in the short gravelled drive at the side of the house.
He rang the bell, which played a cheerful rendition of “Scotland the Brave.” This time the door was opened by a woman in a dressing-gown. She had a thin face, large teeth, and prominent eyes. “Oh, come ben,” she said cheerfully. “You’re early in the day.”
“It’s the afternoon,” said Hamish.
“Aye, well, we’re used to folk coming in the evening. What’s your pleasure?”
She led the way into a front room. In contrast to next door, it looked more like a family living-room. Someone had left some knitting abandoned on an armchair and the television was on. There was a small coal fire burning briskly in the grate. The sofa and chair were covered in flowered chintz.
“I am from the police,” said Hamish.
“Oh, aye, whit dae you want now? Another subscription to the Police Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund?”
Skating round this possible evidence of police corruption, Hamish said, “I hope I haff the right place. Is this a brothel?”
“You’re blunt.”
“I made the mistake of going next door first.”
She burst out laughing. “That must ha’ got the old biddy’s knickers in a twist. I can tell you her gentlemen boarders, as she ca’s them, drink mair than any o’ the lot that come here. What dae ye want?”
“The man, Bob Harris, him that wass killed. Did he come here?”
“He came a couple o’ times.”
“Who did he see?”
“Mandy, both times.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“Sure. But I doubt if she can tell you anything. It was a couple o’ quickies, cheapest rate. I’ll get her.”
Hamish waited. A low voice from the television informed him quietly of the mating habits of tigers.
After some time the door opened again and Mrs. Simpson ushered in a pallid girl wrapped in a housecoat. Hamish did not belong to that sentimental class of men who consider that tarts have hearts. He had, during his police career, found them lazy, fidgety, nervous, and cheeky.
“Here’s Mandy,” said Mrs. Simpson, pushing her forward. “Don’t take all day. She needs her beauty sleep.”
Mandy picked at a spot on the end of her long nose and then pushed her lank hair out of her eyes. Hamish reflected nastily that even if Mandy slept a hundred years, she would still wake up plain and grubby.
They sat down on the sofa. “Now, Mandy,” began Hamish, “I believe the dead man, Bob Harris, was one of your clients.”
“Oh, him. I usually cannae tell one from the ither. But I saw his picture in the newspapers.”
“I feel if I knew a bit more about his character, then it might help me to find out who killed him.”
“Och, it waud be the wifie.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“He’d drunk a lot and he was suffering frae distiller’s droop. Couldnae get it up. Said his wife had ruint him. Said she hated him. He said he’d be back but it was jist the same the next time. He smacked me around a bit, he was that mad. I rang the bell. We hae a bell in our rooms in case the clients get nasty and Mrs. Simpson came running in and ordert him oot.”
“You must hear a lot of gossip from your clients. Has anyone mentioned seeing Bob Harris on the day he was murdered?”
“Aye.”
“What did he say? Who wass he?” Hamish leaned forward.
“It was that man from the boarding-house.”
“What? Next door?”
“Naw. The one where Harris was staying. Rogers. That’s his name. Harry Rogers.”
CHAPTER SIX
The whole world is in a state of chassis.
—Sean O’Casey
Hamish headed back along the beach in the direction of the boarding-house, loping his way through the long snakes of blowing white sand. He cut across the dunes towards the boarding-house and saw in the distance Rogers getting into his blue van. He ran even faster, shouting as he went, but the wind whipped his words away and he saw the van turn out onto the road towards Dungarton. Cursing because he hadn’t a car and Miss Gunnery was probably still in Skag, he walked into the hall and found Maggie Donald standing there.
“Quick!” said Hamish. “Have you got your car?”
“Yes, round the back, but—”
“Come on. We’ve got to get Rogers.”<
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They ran out and got into Maggie’s car. “Where to?” she asked.
“The road to Dungarton. He’s driving his blue van.”
They sped off. “What’s it all about?” asked Maggie, swinging neatly round a tractor.
“I went to the brothel.”
“Why on earth . . . ?”
“Rogers was a customer. And he said something to one of the girls about seeing Harris on the day he was murdered. Was there anything about that in his statement?”
“Not a word.”
“So let’s catch Rogers and find out what he was doing.”
Maggie concentrated on her driving and they were rewarded on the outskirts of Dungarton by seeing the blue van in front of them. “Should I flag him down?” asked Maggie.
“No,” said Hamish. “I’ve a better idea. Follow him but don’t let him see you. I want to see where he goes.”
Maggie let a car pass her so she was shielded from Rogers’s view.
The blue van, travelling at a sedate pace, went through the centre of the town and then turned off into a leafy suburb on the far side where large Victorian villas stood on either side of the road. Once elegant private residences, they were now small hotels and retirement homes.
“He’s stopping at that old folks’ home,” said Maggie. Rogers had driven up the short drive of a villa which had a board outside it stating that it was the Sunny Times Retirement Home.
“Stop here,” ordered Hamish, “and wait for me.”
Hamish slid out of the car. He went into the garden and peered round a laurel bush. Rogers was going to the kitchen door at the side of the villa.
As Hamish watched, a man in a greasy apron came out. Rogers handed him some notes. The man nodded and went back in. Rogers opened the back of the van. Soon the man appeared and together the pair began loading cartons into the back of the van.
Hamish strolled up. Rogers saw him coming. He slammed the back doors of the van shut and made quickly for the cab. “No, you don’t,” said Hamish. “We’ll chust be taking a wee look at whit’s inside.”
“You need a search warrant,” shouted Rogers, his high colour even higher with rage.
“No, I don’t,” said Hamish. He went to the back of the van and opened the doors and pulled one of the cartons forward. It contained a side of beef which smelt slightly high. He peered in the other boxes, which were full of assorted groceries. So this, then, was the reason for the horrible food at the boarding-house. Rogers was buying the rejects from an old folks’ home in Dungarton.
Hamish shouted for Maggie and when she came up to him, he briefly outlined what he had found. “Get that one out o’ the kitchen,” he said, “and we’ll take them both in.”
Protesting loudly that it was all above-board and innocent, Rogers and the man from the kitchen were marched round and into the front door of the retirement home, where Hamish demanded to see whoever was in charge. A tired-looking man in a crumpled suit ushered them all into an office off the hall. He introduced himself as a Mr. Dougald and said the home was run by a charity, Aid for the Senior Citizen.
“So what’s Jamie been up to?” he asked wearily.
“Is this Jamie?” asked Hamish, nodding in the direction of the man from the kitchen.
“Aye, Jamie Sinclair.”
“He’s been selling your stores to Mr. Rogers here. Mr. Rogers owns a boarding-house in Skag. He’s been selling off meat which is well past its sell-by date. I hope it’s old stores and you arenae giving the residents meat like that.”
“No, we are not. We get our supplies from reputable shops in Dungarton. This is what comes of employing ex-cons. I told the charity I didn’t want Sinclair, but they said everyone needed a break.”
“What’s Sinclair’s form?”
“Fraud, petty larceny, shop-lifting, handbag snatching, you name it.”
Hamish settled down to question the now thoroughly cowed Sinclair. The housekeeper regularly checked the supplies in the fridges and freezers, and so the stuff he had collected for Rogers lay in a cupboard in the kitchen until the boarding-house owner came to collect it. Hamish charged Sinclair and Rogers with conspiracy to defraud the retirement home, told Maggie to take Sinclair out to the car, but curtly ordered Rogers to stay where he was. He turned to Mr. Dougald. “Can I use your office for a minute? I want to ask Mr. Rogers a few questions before I take him to the station.”
“Go ahead. This is a bad business. But it’ll teach all those do-gooders on the board to send me someone decent next time.”
When they had all gone out, Hamish faced a truculent Rogers. “Now, the police at Skag will handle the charge, but I’m more interested in something else. You saw Harris on the day he was murdered.”
Rogers stared at him mulishly. “I did not. Who says I did?”
“Some tart called Mandy at that brothel.”
Rogers, who had been standing, rocking on his heels, sat down suddenly, as if his legs had given way. “No comment,” he mumbled.
“Och, well, maybe Mrs. Rogers will have a few comments.”
“You wouldnae!”
“Try me.”
Rogers twisted his large beefy hands, one in the other, as if wringing an imaginary person’s neck.
“All right,” he said after a silence. “I saw him heading for the jetty. He was stopped by Dermott Brett, who was shouting at him. I couldnae hear the words.”
“When was this?”
“Around three.”
Hamish looked at him sharply. “And why didn’t Mr. Brett tell the police this?”
Rogers stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”
“And why didn’t you?”
Rogers stared at his feet.
“All right. Out to the car wi’ you.”
Hamish left Maggie to explain the arrest of Sinclair and Rogers to Deacon. He himself set off at a run again for the boarding-house. He wanted to question Dermott himself before the police came for him.
It was late afternoon but the wind had died and the sun was shining brightly. He saw ahead of him Dermott, June, and the children on the beach. Dermott was helping the children build a sand castle and June was laughing at their efforts. They looked a carefree family party. He went up to them and said to Dermott quietly, “Walk away with me a little. I haff to talk to you afore the police arrive.”
Dermott put down the bucket full of sand he had been holding and got slowly to his feet. He and Hamish walked away down the beach together beside the glittering waves of the incoming tide. Hamish glanced back. June was staring after them, her face pinched and anxious.
“I arrested Rogers,” began Hamish.
“Why?” A look of wild hope came into Dermott’s eyes.
“Because of the rotten food. He’d been buying the leftovers from an old folks’ home in Dungarton. But that’s not why I want to talk to you. Rogers saw you arguing with Harris around the time of the murder.”
“Oh, that.”
“So out with it. Why didn’t you say so in your statement?”
“I was worried. It would look bad for me. I panicked. I was trying to keep my name out of the papers. I thought if I told them, then a report would go out saying I was being detained to help the police with their inquiries and then my wife would have found out. As it was—you heard?” Hamish nodded. “As it was, she found out anyway. She had always threatened to kill herself if I left her. And then she arrives, spitting venom. She’d read all about June and me being Mr. and Mrs. Brett in the papers, and she said she was going to divorce me. Just like that! All those years of covering up need never have happened!” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I thought I was out of the wood. But . . .”
Hamish said quietly, “But Rogers was blackmailing you.”
“Did he say so?”
Hamish shook his head. “He was blackmailing you over having been in Skag, over having had a row with Harris before he was murdered.”
“He wasn’t asking much,” mumbled Dermott, hanging his head. “
Just a couple of hundred. I thought I’d keep him quiet until this was over. Now it looks worse for me.”
“How did you pay Rogers?”
“I didn’t. I was going to pay him today.”
Hamish groaned. “I wish you’d given him a cheque. There’d be some proof then. It’s his word against yours. Did you murder Harris?”
“I wanted to, but I didn’t. He was hinting as how he’d let my wife know about me and June. I panicked. I followed him into Skag and threatened to punch him if he said anything. Rogers saw us. The minute he had the news of Harris’s murder, he said he would tell the police I had been arguing with Harris. As I said, I panicked and promised to pay him.”
Hamish looked sadly across the beach. Two policemen were heading towards them. “They’ve come for you,” he said. “Take my advice and tell them everything. You’ve no proof o’ blackmail, but now they know Rogers has been lying and cheating, they’ll be inclined to believe you.”
Dermott walked off with the policemen. Hamish went up to June and, taking her a little away from the children, told her what had happened. “We were mad to come back here,” said June bitterly. “It was different last year. The food was good and the weather was perfect and the children loved it. What happens now?”
“Provided Dermott tells them the truth and they believe him, he’ll probably be back this evening. But you must tell the truth as well, June. Where were you?”
“I was where I said I was, on the beach with the children. The only difference was Dermott wasn’t here. He said he’d thought Harris had gone into Skag and he was going to shut his mouth.” High colour flared in her face. “All he meant,” she added quickly, “was that he was going to threaten to punch him.”
“Try to keep the children happy,” said Hamish. “Little Heather’s looking a bit strained.”
“She’ll be all right,” said June. “This is getting us all down. Who did it, Hamish?”
“I don’t know.”
“Damn whoever it is to hell,” said June savagely. “I hated Harris, but this murder is causing such worry and misery, I wish the man was still alive.”
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