Elspeth was waiting for him at the reception desk, her face anxious. “Come into the bar,” said Hamish, “and tell me what the hell you were talking about.”
When they were seated at a corner table, Elspeth said nervously, “It’s like this. I’d a sudden awful feeling you were about to leave in the middle of this case. You were fed up and worried and then you felt free.”
“I wass about to hand in my resignation,” said Hamish bleakly, the strengthening of his accent revealing he was upset. “I am that fed up wi’ being pushed here and ordered there by the likes o’ Blair and Gannon. And dinnae tell me it’s a’ my ain fault for not moving up the ranks. I’m frustrated by lack o’ information at every turn.”
“I would only point out that a mere copper isn’t given all the information, but I won’t.”
“Not Irish, are you?” asked Hamish sarcastically.
“Hamish, you’ve got to press on. You can’t walk away from this. Just think how you would feel if you did and the murders were never solved. Think of the black suspicion in Braikie. They would start to think the husband had done it. They’d make his life a misery. And what of poor Shona? Her parents came here from Glasgow yesterday. They’re devastated. They need a resolution. Let’s go down to the police station and make notes. I’ll be your Watson. Let’s go over everyone from the beginning.”
¦
In the police station, Hamish made coffee, and they both went through to the police office.
“Right,” said Elspeth. “The first. Professor Sander.”
“There’s a good chance he pinched one of his students’ book on Byron,” said Hamish. “But the student is dead. The prof has no real alibi, and he was the nearest person to Mrs. Gillespie. From the post-mortem, it seems she had only been dead for a short time before I found her. So he could have followed her down the drive and struck her in a fit of rage.”
“I’ll dig a bit more into his background for you. Next?”
“Mrs. Fiona Fleming. Mrs. Samson seemed to think that Mrs. Gillespie believed her to have killed her husband by pushing him down the stairs. I’ve a feeling in my bones that the man’s death was an accident, pure and simple. Maybe Mrs. Fleming was in the early stages of her affair with Dr. Renfrew, and Mrs. Gillespie was blackmailing her over that. I don’t like the woman, and I feel she could be quite vicious. But no. I think it was someone cold, calculating, and ruthless. Maybe someone who met Mrs. Gillespie at the foot of the drive and said, “Let me help you put your stuff in your car,” and then swung the bucket hard.”
“Now comes Mrs. Styles.”
“The saint of Braikie. I don’t think so. I think if Mrs. Gillespie had tried to blackmail her, she would have gone straight to the police. The same with Mrs. Wellington.”
“Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson?”
“I can’t get the hang o’ that woman. She’s playing at being the country lady. But she’s got a good alibi for the time of Shona’s death.”
“What alibi?”
“On the night of Shona’s murder, she was staying with a friend in Glasgow. Then she had a hotel receipt from the Palace in Inverness. Says she stopped there on the road back.”
“What about Dr. Renfrew?”
“He must have been terrified that she’d gossip about his malpractice suit. Could be. Then there’s Miss Greedy, who admits to having rigged the bingo so that Mrs. Gillespie would win. I want that kept quiet. I don’t believe for a moment she murdered anyone.”
“What about Mrs. Gillespie’s stepdaughter?”
“Damn! I’d completely forgotten about the lassie. I suppose she’ll have been asked for an alibi for the time Shona was murdered, but I’d better have a talk with her again.”
“Let’s go back to Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson,” said Elspeth. “I wonder if a friend would lie for her?”
“Strathclyde police will have checked out her alibi.”
“It’s not their case. It would be interesting to get down there and suss out whether she might be lying.”
“I can’t take the time off to go down there. They’d be down on me like a ton o’ bricks.”
Elspeth looked at him mischievously. “And you don’t want to lose your job?”
Hamish gave her a reluctant smile. “You’re right. That was a real daft moment I had. Thanks. You scare me sometimes, Elspeth. Do you always know what people are thinking?”
“No, hardly ever, and when I’m down in the city, not at all. Put it down to a lucky guess. Tell you what, if you see the daughter, I’ll nip back to Glasgow and interview Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson’s alibi. What’s her name and address?”
Hamish consulted his notes. “Bella Robinson, The Croft, Mylie Road, Bearsden.”
“I’ll have a go.”
They both stood up. Hamish looked down at Elspeth.
He had a sudden longing to take her in his arms. As if she sensed his feelings, Elspeth gave an awkward little duck of her head and muttered, “Goodbye. Talk to you later.”
¦
Elspeth wondered whether to tell Luke where she was going, but finally decided against it. Luke had said he didn’t come north to work. He was on holiday, and Elspeth’s wanting to be a reporter night and day was interfering with good drinking time. And Luke drank a lot. Reporters were hard-drinking people, but Elspeth felt uneasily that Luke’s drinking was getting out of hand. Usually the most boozed-up reporter would chase any story, whether on holiday or not.
As she drove south over the Grampian mountains, she put Luke from her mind and, with an even greater effort, stopped thinking about one village policeman.
When she finally got to the respectable town of Bearsden and found that The Croft was in fact a neat bungalow, she was tired and hungry and wished she had stopped for food on the road.
Her heart sank as she walked up the garden path. Houses with nobody at home always, to Elspeth, radiated an empty feeling. She had debated telephoning first but knew that if by any remote chance Bella had been covering for her friend, she would be forewarned. She rang the bell and waited and waited.
Depressed, she turned away. She went to the bungalow next door and rang the bell.
The woman who answered the door was a large matron with a well-upholstered bosom and thick flowing hair. She looked like the figurehead on an old sailing ship.
“Ye-es?” she asked.
“I was looking for Mrs. Robinson next door,” said Elspeth.
“Mrs. Robinson hes goan to hir wee house in Spain.” She had the strangled, genteel accents of what is damned as Kelvinside.
“When did she leave?”
“Thet would be yesterday.”
Nothing more to do, thought Elspeth wearily. She drove to her Glasgow flat, planning to spend the night before starting on the long journey north. She phoned Hamish. His mobile was switched off. She tried the police station and got his answering service and left a message.
¦
Hamish was in the local pub on the harbour, trying to comfort Archie Maclean. A crumpled letter lay on the scarred table between them.
“Buggering government,” said Archie, tears running down his face. “To decommission my boat! To order me to take her to Denmark where she is to be scrapped! The
“Leave it to me,” said Hamish. “I’ll get up a petition.”
Archie scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. “Good o’ ye, Hamish, but that’s been tried afore.”
The British government had massacred more than half the Scottish fishing fleet to prevent the waters being overfished.
“Are they offering compensation?”
“Only a wee bit. I didn’t go in for the voluntary decommissioning.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Hamish went out and along to the church, which was never locked. He seized the bell rope and began to ring the bell. It clamoured out over the village of Lochdubh, bringing people hurrying out of their houses and the minister
