“Did your wife have any close friends, even in the past?”
“Not that I can think of.”
Hamish gave up and left him. His thoughts turned to the formidable Mrs. Styles. Was she as squeaky-clean as she seemed?
He phoned Jimmy. “Any news on the post-mortem on Mrs. Samson?”
“Aye, the procurator fiscal says it was a heart attack, pure and simple. So that’s one murder less. The mobile unit’s packing up. They feel they’ve got everything out your village they can.”
“This Mrs. Styles,” said Hamish. “What was her alibi?”
“I don’t think anyone asked her. She’s such a formidable church person that I think the powers-that-be decided to give her a miss.”
“I’ll try her,” said Hamish, “but be prepared for an angry report about police harassment.”
¦
Hamish was informed by a neighbour that Mrs. Styles was round at the church. He made his way to the Church of Scotland and pushed open the door. Mrs. Styles was up in the pulpit, polishing the wings of the brass eagle which held the Bible.
Hamish wondered whether to trick her into an admission the way he had tricked Miss Greedy, but decided against it. Such as Mrs. Styles would not be easily frightened.
In the organ loft, the organist began to play Bach’s Toccata and Fugue. Dracula music, thought Hamish as Mrs. Styles grasped the brass eagle and glared down at him.
She slowly descended the stairs from the pulpit and approached him, a can of brass polish in one hand and a cleaning rag in the other.
“What is it, Officer?” she demanded.
“I wanted to ask you some more questions about Mrs. Gillespie.”
“What?” She swung round and glared up at the organ loft. “Stop that noise,” she shouted. “I can’t hear myself think.”
The organist ceased abruptly. “What I was wondering…” began Hamish.
But the organist burst into a jaunty rendition of ‘These Boots Are Made for Walking,’ filling the church with noise.
“Outside,” mouthed Mrs. Styles.
They walked out into the graveyard. “That man!” exclaimed Mrs. Styles. “I have complained and complained about him, but no one will listen to me. He’s a sacrilegious disgrace, that’s what he is. Now, what do you want?”
“Mrs. Gillespie, as has been well established, was a blackmailer. I am not suggesting for a minute that she was blackmailing you…”
“You’d better not! I’m a respectable woman.”
“Nobody said you weren’t. But Mrs. Gillespie had a nasty way of poking and prying through her employers’ private papers. Did you ever catch her at it?”
“Yes, I did. But I gave her a sound lecture. She was not a good cleaner, and I was going to fire her.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I am a Christian. And when she told me she had terminal cancer and that the work was the only thing that kept her mind off her impending death, I kept her on and was lenient with her.”
“When did she tell you this?”
“Six months ago. Her work had become really slack.”
“Her husband is the one who has cancer. There was nothing up with her. If she’d had cancer, it would have shown in the autopsy.”
“I wish I had never let that woman in my house. The more I hear about her, the more horrible she seems.”
Hamish studied Mrs. Styles. She was clear-eyed and arrogant. He was perfectly sure she was telling the truth. Perhaps, he thought, if she’d had a guilty secret, she might have been a more likeable woman.
“Mrs. Styles, if you hear of anything, know anything, please let me know. You can phone me at the police station in Lochdubh.”
“I am an honest woman, I’ll have you know. If I did know of anything, I would have told the police already.”
And that was that, thought Hamish gloomily.
He went back and drove off up into the hills. He finally stopped, got out, and walked to the edge of a cliff above the boiling Atlantic. The waves were hypnotic in their driving immensity as they hurled themselves against the base of the cliff. The air was full of spray. Cormorants rose up from the cliffs and then dived headlong into the sea. A puffin emerged from its burrow on the cliff top, regarded Hamish, and dived back into its burrow again.
I’m tired of police work, thought Hamish suddenly. I’m weary of people like Blair and Mary Cannon pushing me around. It wouldn’t be any better if I went for promotion. They’d shut down the police station as quickly as anything.
But if, he mused, I resigned, they’d put the police station up for sale. With the reward I got from the bank for stopping that robbery last year, I could put a down payment and get a mortgage. I would become a full-time crofter. Hardly any money in that, but I need very little to live on. I could do odd jobs. The locals don’t like working for the newcomers, and there are more of them moving north. I’d be free.
He smiled as he watched the diving gulls and the flying spray.
Hamish decided to head for Lochdubh. He was looking forward to seeing Blair’s face when he learned he was leaving the force. A little cloud crept up on the horizon of his mind. Blair would be delighted and Mary Gannon indifferent.
He banished the cloud and walked back to the Land Rover with a spring in his step.
¦
Once back in his office, Hamish typed out his resignation and then drove to police headquarters in Strathbane, whistling away.
He decided to hand his resignation in to Superintendent Daviot. Go right to the top, that was the answer.
Helen, the secretary, threw him a look of dislike. “You have not got an appointment,” she said. “Mr. Daviot is busy.”
The door to the superintendent’s office, which had not been quite closed, swung open to reveal Daviot putting golf balls into a paper cup.
“Ah, Hamish,” he said, “come in.”
Helen leapt to bar the way. “I was just telling this constable that you are busy.”
“That’s all right, Helen. What is it?”
At that moment, Hamish’s mobile phone rang. He drew it out and was about to switch it off when Daviot said good-naturedly, “You can answer that. It might be something to do with the case.”
Elspeth’s urgent voice came on the line. “You’re about to do something stupid, Hamish. Please don’t do it until you speak to me.”
“How did you…?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m at the hotel. Come and see me.”
Hamish rang off.
“Now, Macbeth,” said Daviot, “what seems to be the problem?”
Cursing Elspeth in his mind, Hamish crushed the letter in his hand and pinned a pious look on his face. “I chust wondered if Mr. Blair was all right. I heard a rumour he was ill.”
Daviot’s face darkened. “That is good of you, but at the moment, Detective Chief Inspector Blair is suspended from duty.”
“Why?”
“I appreciate your concern, but it is nothing to do with you, so go about your duties.”
¦
Hamish reflected angrily on Elspeth’s psychic powers, which he only half believed in. He screeched to a halt in front of the hotel and marched in.
