account.
Hamish raised puzzled eyes. “There were no bankbooks or statements in her house.”
“She asked for nothing to be sent to her.”
“And these payments as far as I can see, looking back, were all made in cash?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd?”
“I never really studied her account before. She’d pay the money in to one of the tellers. She would have memorised or kept a note of her bank account number and paid the money in with one of the forms on the counter.”
¦
“The house, now. She bought her council house.”
“That’s another search,” he said gloomily. “Wait here.”
Hamish waited impatiently, his brain whirling. Mrs. Gillespie was a gossip. Mrs. Gillespie had taken that letter from Elspeth. If she could do a thing like that, then she probably snooped on her employers. Everything seemed to point to blackmail.
A seagull landed on the windowsill and stared at Hamish with beady eyes before flying off. The wind was getting up. A discarded newspaper, blown upwards outside, did two entrechats and disappeared up into the darkening sky.
At last, Mr. Queen came back. “Aye, she bought her house twenty years ago when council houses up here were going cheap. At that time, she and her husband had a joint account. They paid for it fair and square. Only cost fifteen thousand pounds at that time. They got a mortgage and paid it off. That would be about ten years ago. Then Mrs. Gillespie cancelled the joint account two years ago. Her husband agreed. It’s after that that all the payments were made in cash.”
“I’ll be off,” said Hamish. “You’ll no doubt be getting a visit from my superior, Detective Chief Inspector Blair.”
¦
Hamish returned to the professor’s house. The forensic team were still at work. Blair was in his car with the heater running, swigging something from a flask.
Hamish rapped on the window.
“Whit?” demanded Blair, lowering the window.
Hamish told him about the bank statements and finished by saying, “She could have been blackmailing some of the people she worked for.”
Blair stared past Hamish. Hamish turned and saw the diminutive figure of Shona Fraser, who had been listening eagerly to every word.
“Tell Jimmy Anderson what you’ve got,” snapped Blair, “and get back to your police station and await further orders.”
Hamish moved away. Shona followed him. She looked up at him suspiciously. “I’m still waiting for signs of the great detective from Mr. Blair.”
“Oh, hang in there. He’s deep. Verra deep. You would-nae think it, but the wheels of his brain are turning.”
Hamish saw Jimmy and hailed him. He handed Jimmy the bank statements and told him about his suspicions of blackmail.
“You’d better start interviewing them,” said Jimmy. “I’ll tackle the professor.”
“I’ve been told by the old sod to get back to the police station.”
Jimmy took out a list of names. “Tell you what, go over and see this Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson at Styre, and I’ll clear it with Blair.” His blue eyes in his foxy face narrowed as he saw Shona talking to Blair. “What’s the wee lassie doing?”
“Strathbane Television wants to do a documentary on Blair, the great detective. She’s a researcher.”
“Let’s hope she finds some intelligence in that whisky-soaked brain. Talking of which – have you any whisky at that station of yours?”
“About half a bottle.”
“That’ll do. I’ll call on you this evening.” Unlike his superior, Detective Inspector Jimmy Anderson had a great respect for Hamish’s police work.
¦
Hamish drove back to Lochdubh and collected his pets and put them in the police Land Rover and then took the road to Styre. Styre was more of a hamlet than a village, consisting of only a few fishermen’s cottages, three villas, and a small general store.
It lay on the small sea loch of Styre which formed a sort of bay, affording little protection from the might of the Atlantic, lying just outside.
Hamish’s stomach gave a rumble, reminding himself he hadn’t eaten. He parked in front of the general store, owned, as he remembered, by a Mrs. Beattie. Mrs. Beattie, a small, fussy woman, was behind the counter. The shop was dark, the shelves crowded with very old-looking tins of stuff, sacks of feed, coils of rope, and lobster pots.
“It’s Mr. Macbeth!” exclaimed Mrs. Beattie. “You havenae been around here this age.”
“I’m looking for something to eat,” said Hamish, “and some tins for my dog and cat.”
“The dog and cat food’s ower to your left. I’ll go and make you a sandwich. Spam all right?”
“Spam’s fine.”
Hamish collected a tin of cat food for Sonsie and a tin of dog food for Lugs. He knew his spoilt pets preferred people food but decided they’d need to rough it for once. If he could be content with a Spam sandwich, then they could put up with commercial pet food.
After a short time, Mrs. Beattie returned and handed him a thick sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. Hamish added a bottle of mineral water to his purchases. “How much for the sandwich?”
“Have it from me. What brings you?”
“Mrs. Gillespie, herself what cleaned for Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson, has been found murdered.”
“Michty me! Mind you, I thought she was a nasty woman, but Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson swore she was the best cleaner ever. When I had the flu last winter, I got her to clean for me. She nearly gave me a relapse, bang-bang- banging with that bucket of hers and looking into drawers where she had no right to look. Where was she murdered?”
“Outside Professor Sander’s place.”
“How?”
“It looks as if someone brained her with her bucket. What’s Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson like?”
“Verra much the lady. Verra proper. English, of course.”
“What’s herself doing up here?”
“Quality of life.”
“Oh, that. Did she find it?”
“Says she does.”
“I’ll be off then. Where’s her house?”
“It’s that big villa, just up on the rise above the village. There’s a monkey puzzle tree at the gate.”
Hamish went out to the Land Rover and collected two bowls and a can opener from the back. He filled the bowls and let the dog and cat out. They both sniffed the food and then looked up at him with accusing eyes.
“Eat it,” ordered Hamish. “Nothing else for you pair until this evening.”
¦
He ate his sandwich and drank water and looked out over the sea loch. The wind was beginning to come in great gusts. He finished his sandwich, put the dog and cat back in the car, carried their empty bowls down to the water and rinsed them out, before returning to his vehicle and driving off. The light drizzle was turning to heavy rain.
He drove up to the villa and then up the short curving drive. As well as the tall monkey puzzle at the gate, the garden was crammed with laurel bushes and rhododendrons. The wind was cut off by the high stone wall which surrounded the garden. Rain plopped from the leaves of the bushes.
