Hamish Macbeth 03; Death of an Outsider

Street, Cnothan, yesterday laughingly, but with tears behind the laughter, “This place will never be the same.” For God’s sake, sonny, you’re not sending stuff to the local rag, you know.”

Ian had slammed down the phone. What had been up with that bit about Mr. Noble? They hadn’t even used it. He thirsted for another scoop…something that would make them sit up. Blair was hiding something. Forensic had been crawling all over Jamie Ross’s place. Was that where Mainwaring had been last seen? But how had Mainwaring been reduced to a skeleton? And why did Blair get so red-faced and violent every time he asked if they had discovered the reason? Hamish might know.

Also, Ian smelled a cover-up somewhere. If it hadn’t been for that bomb in Downing Street, the media would still be asking questions and more questions.

The train pulled in. Ian saw Hamish descending from a carriage at the end and ran to meet him.

“Not another murder?” asked Hamish.

“No, it’s just that…” Ian launched into a long and bitter complaint against the Daily Recorder and the way one of the biggest murder mysteries of the century was being passed over.

Hamish thought hard as Ian talked. The lobster death could not be hushed up forever. Sharp interest would return and that interest would never fade. Television crews even a year later would return to do documentaries of what had happened to Mainwaring. So what if the upper classes of London had a fright? It would make screaming headlines, but at least it might mean a murderer did not remain at large. If the press became pushy again, then Blair would be made to work.

“There is a story,” said Hamish cautiously, “and you’ve just been talking about it.”

“What?” asked Ian eagerly.

“Well, the fact that this is a dreadful and grotesque murder and there’s an uncanny silence about it. Blair sits around the Anstey Hotel watching television when he ought to be interviewing people again and again. Go round the locals and gossip to them and get them to voice outrage.”

A slow smile dawned on Ian’s face. “Thanks, Hamish. I’ll start right away.”

“Another word of advice,” said Hamish. “When you’re writing for a paper like, say, the Daily Recorder, read a copy o’ the damn thing first and carefully copy the style. It’s no use writing a piece in the style of The Scotsman, say, when you want it in one of the tabloids. And it’s no use writing a piece for the tabloids as if you are writing for a local paper. Have you got your car?”

“Yes,” said Ian, waving towards a hand-painted primrose-yellow Morris Minor with a 1950^s licence plate.

“Then drop me off at Cnothan Game.”

Only half listening to the reporter as they drove along, Hamish tried to think of ways to get Helen Ross on her own. He knew his own liking and admiration of Jamie Ross were not allowing him to think clearly. But if there were more achievers like Jamie in the Highlands of Scotland, then the population figures might rise again. As it was, the young people drifted away to the cities, the houses and cottages stood empty, occasionally filled by an influx of underachieves who chattered on about the quality of life, by which they meant they could live on the dole while persuading themselves they were pioneers in the outback of the British Isles.

Ian dropped him in the yard of Cnothan Game and Fish Company and drove off. Hamish walked up to the door of the bungalow and rang the bell.

Helen Ross herself answered the door. She was wearing a black wool dress with enormous shoulder pads and jet-embroidered lapels, the sort of forties style worn by Joan Collins. Heavy antique earrings of Whitby jet emphasized the startling whiteness of her skin.

“Come in,” she said, and swayed off in front of him. He followed her into the sitting-room, automatically ducking his head as he walked under the chandelier.

“Jamie not at home?” asked Hamish.

“No, he’s over on the west coast, seeing to the catch. Sit down. Would you like a drink?”

“Perhaps later,” Hamish sat down in one of the white leather armchairs and looked at Helen Ross curiously. She gave him a vaguely inquiring smile.

“I’m glad I found you alone,” said Hamish, and then he plunged right in. “About a month ago, you and William Mainwaring booked into the Glen Abb Hotel in Inverness.”

Helen Ross lit a cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke and squinted at Hamish through it.

“So you found out about that,” she said. It was not a question.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” Hamish waited while Helen placidly smoked. Her whole body appeared relaxed, and her long, long legs in the sheerest of black stockings were crossed at the ankle.

“Not really,” she sighed. “But, if I have the right of it, it’s either you or that pig Blair?”

Hamish nodded.

“Well, I’ll tell you how it came about. I get pretty lonely here. Jamie’s wrapped up in his work. I met him after I got my degree at St. Andrew’s University. I was doing summer work, waitressing at the Anstey Hotel. We fell in love and got married and struggled along, being very happy just trying to make ends meet. Then Jamie thought up the idea for this business. It was very exciting. He worked at it night and day, like a man possessed. Then it succeeded, then we got rich, and then I got bored. End of story.”

The gentle, lilting Highland voice fell silent.

Hamish cleared his throat. “So to relieve that boredom, you decided to have an affair with William Mainwaring?”

“No, it wasn’t like that at all. He got in the way of calling around when Jamie was over at the west coast. He talked about books, paintings, world affairs, all the sort of things I used to talk about to my friends at university. He made me feel young again. Of course, it was all intellectual crap, now I come to think of it, but it was heady stuff. The conversation up here is about sheep, the weather, the church, and sheep. I was easily talked into going to Inverness with him. Jamie was to be away at the Land Court in Edinburgh, fighting another battle. William said we would stay at the Glen Abb – separate rooms – and have a slap-up meal and we could talk and talk. That was what was so seductive. Well, we were out of Cnothan and there we were in Inverness, and William began to seem to me like a prosy bore who knew a little about everything and not much about anything. Then I found he had just booked the one room. I told him I was leaving. He said if I didn’t spend the night with him, he would tell Jamie. So I said, ‘Tell Jamie,’ and I walked out in the middle of the night and found myself another hotel.”

“Which one?” asked Hamish.

“Not really a hotel, a boarding-house near the station, Mrs. Parker’s.”

“And what name did you check in under?”

“My own,” said Helen.

“And she will be able to vouch that you were there?”

“Of course she will. I was her only guest.”

“And did Mainwaring tell your husband about the trip to Inverness?”

“No.”

“How do you know?” asked Hamish curiously.

“Jamie’s got a violent temper. He’d have broken Mainwaring’s neck.”

“Then maybe he did.”

“He couldn’t have,” said Helen, raising thin eyebrows in amazement. “He was in Inverness with me at the wedding.”

“All the time?”

“No, he disappeared for a long time to sober up, but not long enough to get to Cnothan and back.”

“Is he often drunk?”

“He gets drunk on hogmanay and then maybe occasionally at a party. The rest of the time, he hardly drinks at all. He likes coffee more than anything.”

Hamish sat in silence, thinking. Helen Ross went to the drinks trolley and mixed herself a gin and tonic. “Sure you won’t have anything, Constable?”

“No, thank you. What are you going to do now?” asked Hamish. “I’ll need to put a report in to Blair. I can’t keep this quiet.”

“I suppose you must,” said Helen. She sat down and crossed her legs. Her skirt, Hamish realized for the first time, was slit up the side and now exposed an expanse of long smooth stocking-leg and black stocking-top. Hamish