“Oh, him? He’s about somewhere.”
“Staying a long time, isn’t he? What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a writer. Hammering at that typewriter of his day and night.”
“What’s his name? I’ve forgotten.”
“John Parker.”
“Ah, yes. Maybe I’ll have a word with him. Hadn’t you better go and lie down? You look awful.”
“I can’t lie down.” Paul’s face twisted with distress. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her dead face.”
“Well, maybe you’d better tire yourself out. You still doing the garden?”
“I was, but Trixie took over and she seemed to be better at it than me and so…”
“Well, let’s go around and have a look,” said Hamish.
The two men walked around to the back garden. “Hasn’t been touched for a bit,” said Hamish. “Look at the weeds. Why don’t you get started again?”
Paul nodded dumbly and started to weed between the rows of vegetables.
Hamish heard a car arriving and left him and walked around the front. John Parker, the writer, was just getting out.
“Bad business,” he said when he saw Hamish.
“Has the CID asked you about your movements on the day of the murder yet?” asked Hamish.
“Not yet.”
“They’ll be along shortly. So you’re a writer, are you? I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen the name John Parker on the bookshelves.”
“Well, you won’t. I write under the name of Brett Saddler.”
“You’re Brett Saddler? The man who writes the Westerns?”
“That’s me,” said John with a faint smile.
“I always thought Brett Saddler was an American.”
“I’ve always liked Westerns,” said John. “Must have seen about every Western movie ever made. I give them the good old–fashioned stuff. As a matter of fact, Westerns have made a come-back. I sold the film rights of my last one, which is why I’m able to take this long holiday.”
“My! You must be a millionaire.”
“Far from it,” said John. “I got twenty-five thousand dollars, and by the time you take agent’s fees off that, and British tax, there isn’t all that much left. If you want to know where I was when Trixie died, I was off driving up in the hills. I like it up there. So quiet.”
“Anyone see you?”
“No, I didn’t meet a soul,” he said cheerfully.
“Do you know if anyone else had any of that curry she had been eating?”
“I shouldn’t think so. She must have had it for lunch. The Kennedys had sandwiches and Mrs Kennedy is of the opinion that curry is foreign muck. I wasn’t here and Paul was in Inverness.”
“Did the forensic boys find any pot that had been used to cook the curry?”
“No, everything in the kitchen had been scrubbed clean. Trixie was the perfect housewife.”
“Did you know her before?”
“No. Now I’ve got to get back to my writing.” He gave a lethargic wave of his hand and went into the house.
Hamish then thought of Archie Maclean, who had been seen holding hands with Trixie. It had been all over Lochdubh. Had Mrs Maclean known?
He was walking back along the waterfront when he saw Priscilla’s Volvo approaching at a slow pace. He felt in his bones that for some reason she was going to drive right past him so he stood in the middle of the road and held up his hand.
“What is it, copper?” asked Priscilla. “You can hardly accuse me of speeding.”
“Just wanted a chat.”
“I’m a bit busy.”
“Now, now, what
Priscilla stared straight ahead, her hands resting on the wheel. She was angry with Hamish over Trixie’s tale about that sweater. Although she knew Trixie must have been lying, she could not help remembering old stories about Hamish’s various flirtations. Priscilla was completely unaware that Hamish Macbeth was attracted to her. She knew he liked her but thought he looked on her sometimes as being rather young and silly.
When Priscilla did not reply, Hamish said, “Someone has been saying something to put your back up. It cannot be your father, for he’s said about everything there is to say. So who could it be?”
“I feel you made a bit of a fool of yourself over Trixie.”
“And me the only person in Lochdubh who couldn’t stand the female,” said Hamish, “apart from Brodie, that is.”
“I met her wearing one of your old sweaters,” said Priscilla. “She said you gave it to her and made a pass at her or something.”
“I neffer gave her anything,” said Hamish in amazement. He frowned and then said, “I have it. She went out driving with your father and your father must have told her about his worries that you might run off with the local bobby. She came round to me and said she was going to the toilet and she was away for a long time and then she left by the front. She must have picked up my sweater just to annoy you.” He leaned on the car. “I am very flattered it did annoy you.”
“It only annoyed me because I would not like to see any friend of mine making a fool of himself over such a woman,” said Priscilla. “I’ve got to go, Hamish. I’m exoected at home.”
“What about dropping in tomorrow for a chat?” asked Hamish.
“I can’t. I’m taking this car over to Golspie for its annual Ministry of Transport check tomorrow – I don’t trust any other garage – and then taking the train to Inverness to do some shopping for mother.”
“I’m going to Inverness myself,” said Hamish. “What time will your train get in?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“What if I meet you at the station and then we can go for lunch and I’ll drive you back.” Hamish waited anxiously.
“All right,” said Priscilla. “Now do get out of the way.”
Hamish stood back and watched her go with a grin on his face.
Then he decided to go and call on Mrs Maclean. Mrs Maclean had not been one of the women at the bat demonstration. Trixie’s hold had been on the middle–class and lower-middle–class women who had kitchens full of labour-saving devices and therefore more time on their hands.
Mrs Maclean was down on her knees, scrubbing her stone-flagged kitchen floor with ammonia. Not for her the easy road with mop and up-to-date cleanser.
The radio was blaring out Scottish country dance music. He called to her, but she didn’t hear him so he switched off the radio and she looked up.
“What do you want, you glaiket loon?” she said, wringing the floor cloth savagely and throwing it into the bucket.
Hamish sighed. The trouble with being a policeman in a small, normally law-abiding village was that you did not strike fear or terror into the heart of anyone.
“I’m making inquiries into the death of Trixie Thomas,” he said.
“Why?” Mrs Maclean sat back on her heels. “That wumman’s better off dead.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But since yourself had no reason to like her, you are one of my suspects.” He looked at her sternly, but she gave a contemptuous snort.
“She made a fool o’ that silly man o’ mine. He thought she fancied him when all that moodier wanted was a bit o’ free fish. Take the sugar out o’ your tea, that one would. It’s my opinion the Thomases had money enough, but they was always talking about being hard up and scrounging everything they could get. The minister’s wife goes around saying Mrs Thomas was the perfect housewife. She was perfect when it came to getting other people to do the work for her. Thae women like Mrs Wellington and that Mrs Brodie haven’t enough to do. Microwaves and washing machines. A disgrace I call it.”
A strong smell of bleach rose from a huge copper pot of sheets on the wood burning stove. Mrs Maclean was
