Shona Fraser.
“What have we here, Macbeth?” demanded Blair.
“It looks as if someone might have brained her with her bucket,” said Hamish.
While the pathologist got out her kit, Blair bent over the body. Then he straightened up, his alcohol-wet eyes gleaming with triumph. “That’s where you’re wrong, laddie,” he said loudly, casting a look in Shona’s direction. “There’s blood on the stone at the foot o’ that auld pump. She must ha’ tripped and given her head a sore dunt.”
“If you will allow me,” said the pathologist. She pushed Blair aside and bent over the body.
There was a long silence while she investigated. The day was dry, but a mist was coming down, turning the landscape into a uniform grey.
A seagull wheeled and screeched overhead. Rowan berries, bright as blood, fell down from the tree.
At last, Dr. Forsythe straightened up. “I can tell you more when I make a proper examination, but, yes, it seems someone struck her a murderous blow on the back of her head with her own bucket. She fell forward and struck her forehead on the stone in front of the pump.”
“There might have been a struggle,” said Hamish. “You can see where the gravel at the foot of the drive has been all scraped.”
Blair rounded on him in a fury. “You,” he snarled, “had she any relatives?”
“There’s a husband.”
“Well, get over there and break the news to him and let the experts get on with their job.”
Hamish touched his cap and walked over to his Land Rover. The forensic team were getting kitted out. A strong smell of stale booze emanated from the lot of them. Hamish remembered there had been a rugby match the night before. No doubt they had all been celebrating as usual.
Shona ran after him. “You got it right. He didn’t,” she said.
“Och, Blair’s a bright man. Stick with him,” said Hamish hurriedly, and jumped into the Land Rover.
One of the nastiest parts of a policeman’s job, reflected Hamish, was breaking the news to the loved ones.
With reluctance, he drove to the housing estate, parked outside the Gillespies’ home, and went slowly up the path and rang the bell.
Mr. Gillespie answered the door. “I am afraid I have bad news, sir,” said Hamish, removing his cap. “Your wife is dead.” He knew from experience that it was kinder to get the brutal truth out fast rather than keep some relative or husband or wife on the doorstep with mumblings of an accident.
“Dead? How? A stroke?”
“May I come in?”
“Aye, come ben.”
He stood aside and ushered Hamish into the living room. Hamish’s eyes took in the large television set and expensive DVD recorder before he turned to Mr. Gillespie. “Please sit down,” Hamish said.
Mr. Gillespie sat down in an armchair on one side of the fire, and Hamish folded his long length into another.
“How did she die?” asked Mr. Gillespie.
“It looks as if someone hit her on the head with that bucket of hers.”
Mr. Gillespie raised a trembling hand to his mouth. He took out a clean handkerchief and covered his face. His shoulders shook.
Hamish looked at him in sudden suspicion. “Are you laughing?”
Mr. Gillespie lowered his handkerchief. He laughed and laughed. Grief takes people strange ways, thought Hamish, but Mr. Gillespie’s laughter was more merry than hysterical.
“You see,” said Mr. Gillespie at last, mopping his eyes, “that bucket was her weapon.” He bent forward and tapped his scalp. “Look!” On his freckled scalp Hamish saw an old scar. “Herself did that with her damn bucket.”
“You mean you were a battered husband?”
“That’s a fact.”
“Why didn’t you report her?”
“I’ve got cancer of the stomach. I’m on my second session o’ chemo. I can’t work. Hers was the only income we had.”
“I notice you bought this house. She must have made a fair bit from cleaning,” said Hamish.
“That was me. I used to have a good bit of money put by.”
“I’ll check the estimated time of death,” said Hamish, “but I think I’m going to be your alibi. Do you have a car?”
“No.”
“I don’t see how you could have got over there to kill her. Have you anyone who can come and sit with you?”
“And share my relief? I don’t need anyone. I’m going to sit here and get well and truly drunk. And I’m going to watch American wrestling. She’d never let me do that.” He hugged his knees. “And I can see my daughter again. Heather’s my daughter by my first marriage. Mavis hated her, so she never came around.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill her?”
“Apart from me? Oh, lots, I should think. She never had a good word to say about anyone.”
“Did she have a desk in the house? Any papers or letters I could look at?” Hamish was beginning to wonder whether the snooping cleaner had gone in for blackmail.
“No, nothing. She said paper carried dust. Never allowed a book in the house. Oh, my, now I can sign on at the library.”
“There must be bank statements somewhere.”
“We’ll look if you like. She handled all the bills.” But to Hamish’s amazement, after a diligent search, he could not find a bankbook or bill anywhere in the house. “Where did she bank?” he asked. “I don’t know.”
“But, man, when you were working, you must have had a pay cheque.”
“I worked over in Strathbane at the men’s outfitters, Brown and Simpson. I gave my cheques to Mavis, and she banked them.”
“She must have given you money to buy things.”
“Mavis gave me a packed lunch and my bus fare. That was all.”
“The deeds to the house must be somewhere.”
Mr. Gillespie gave a shrug while Hamish stared at him, baffled.
¦
Hamish stood outside the house and wondered what to do next. Then he remembered there was only one bank in Braikie, the Highland and Island. It was a new bank, but surely they would have taken over the accounts of the old one.
He drove to the main street and parked outside the bank.
Inside, he had to wait for the manager. He hoped the manager would not turn out to be one of those men who keep a person waiting to reinforce their own importance.
But a woman appeared from the manager’s office, and Hamish was told he could go in.
The manager introduced himself as Mr. Queen. He was a tall, cadaverous Highlander, the lines of whose face seemed set in perpetual gloom as if he had perfected the refusal of loans over the years and so the results had become marked on his face.
Hamish explained about the death of Mrs. Gillespie and asked if she had banked with the Highland and Island. Mr. Queen’s long bony fingers rattled over the keys of a computer on his desk. “Aye,” he said, leaning back and staring at the screen.
“May I see a printout of her account?”
Mr. Queen stared at the tall policeman, his eyes shadowed by heavy, shaggy brows.
“I can get a warrant,” said Hamish.
“I suppose you can. I’ll print it off.”
Hamish waited while the statement rattled out of the printer.
Mr. Queen handed it over. On her death, Mrs. Gillespie had twenty thousand pounds in her checking
