“Daviot fusses and frets. Usually when he deals with the press, it’s a carefully orchestrated press conference. He’s not used to dealing wi’ the wolf pack on the ground. The forensic lab’s groaning that it’s got cases a year old, but Daviot wants DNA results now. Dr. Forsythe’s working hard. She wants to retire after this case.”
“So how far have they got?”
“Still too early. Dr. Forsythe is checking the toxicology. She thinks a big strong lassie like that might have to be drugged first.”
“I thought of that myself. But maybe if she was hit hard on the head with a hammer or something, she wouldn’t need to be drugged.”
“Right. But there were no drag marks on the stairs. I know it looked as if the cellar had been recently cleaned, but something would have shown up if she’d been hit on the head and pulled down the stairs. Even cleaned-up blood shows up under those blue lights they were flashing around. So it stands to reason it was someone she knew. Two glasses on the table, one bottle, no prints. A full bottle of Amontillado. Say someone said, “I’ve got a good bottle of wine in the cellar. Come down and we’ll drink to your wedding. You’ve got time.””
“Mrs. Gentle said she went out for a walk.”
“Mrs. Gentle could have been in on the murder.”
“I forgot to tell you. I’ve got witnesses to that phone call from the box,” said Hamish. “I sent a report over.” He described the woman.
“I’ll phone headquarters and get them on to it right away,” said Jimmy, going through to the office. “They can start with that bike,” he called over his shoulder.
When he came back, he rubbed his hand over his bristly chin and yawned. “I’ll stay here the night, Hamish.”
“That’s another pair of my underpants, not to mention another clean shirt,” complained Hamish. “Want a drink?”
“I don’t. Blair’s alcoholism has given me a real scare.”
¦
Harold Jury knocked on Archie Maclean’s door the following morning. “Your local policeman suggested I call on you,” said Harold, looking down at the small fisherman. Archie was not what he had expected. He had fondly pictured a tall, burly son of the sea, not this small man in a cloth cap and a tight suit.
“Come ben,” said Archie. “Oh, wait a minute.” He reached behind the door, picked up a fir branch, and struck Harold across the face with it. He chanted something in Gaelic, then said, “Now you can come in.”
The blow had been a light one, but Harold still felt shocked. He followed Archie into the kitchen. The floor was covered in newspapers. “The wifie’s house-proud,” said Archie. “Don’t want to get dirty marks on the floor.”
He placed a bowl of rock salt on the table and said, “Eat up. Welcome to ma house.”
“Can I have some water with this?” asked Harold.
“No, the traditional highland welcome says you hae to eat it straight.”
Harold gulped and swallowed. His mouth felt as if it were on fire. At last he finished the small bowl of salt. “What now?” he asked.
“This,” said Archie. He picked up the fir branch and struck Harold again. “Welcome and goodbye.”
“That’s it?” Harold rose from his chair at the kitchen table.
“Aye, that’s it.”
Harold went straight across the road to the bar on the harbour, where he ordered a pint of beer and gulped it down his throat. He was beginning to feel obscurely that there was something too odd about the whole business. He ordered another pint and turned away from the bar, looking for a place to sit down. He noticed that the bar seemed to have filled up, and a group of men were looking at him with covert amusement. An awful suspicion began to grow in his mind. He left his pint untouched and drove back to the Tommel Castle Hotel, where he confronted the manager and demanded to know if what he had experienced was a highland welcome. When he had finished laughing, Mr. Johnson asked, “Where did you get such a silly idea from?”
Furiously Harold described how Hamish Macbeth had sent him to see Archie Maclean. “Do you mean it was all a joke?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I shall report that policeman to his superiors. I shall phone the local newspaper.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll look a right fool.”
Harold realised the truth of it. “I’m getting out of here,” he yelled. “Get my bill ready.”
The office door opened, and the vision that was Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walked in.
She stood in a shaft of sunlight. Her smooth blonde hair was a perfect bell. She was wearing a green wool suit. Thoughts of the fairy queen ran through Harold’s head.
“Can I help?” asked Priscilla. “I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”
“It’s all right,” said Mr. Johnson. “Mr. Jury was just asking for his bill. Mr. Jury?”
Harold was hanging on to Priscilla’s proffered hand with a dazed look on his face. “Eh, what?” he asked as Priscilla firmly withdrew her hand. “Oh, that.” He forced a laugh. “Just joking. I’ll be staying on for a bit. Miss Halburton-Smythe, may I offer you a drink?”
“Well…”
“I’m afraid I got unnecessarily upset over a joke played on me by a silly policeman.”
“Tell me all about it,” said Priscilla, and she led the author from the office and into the bar.
¦
“I’m going to interview the family,” said Jimmy that morning.
“Who’s all going to be there?” asked Hamish.
“There’s daughter Sarah, and son Andrew with his wife, Kylie, their two children, John and Twinkle – ”
“And
“Believe it or not, Twinkle is her name. There’s also a nephew, Mark Gentle.”
“Take me with you,” urged Hamish.
“Well, sit in a corner and keep your mouth shut.”
¦
Mrs. Gentle had had the speech and manners of an upper-class lady. Her daughter, Sarah, although tall and rangy, had the same accent as her mother – the result of a good finishing school in her late teens. Andrew Gentle and his wife, Kylie, came as a surprise. Andrew was stocky and very hairy. His thick brown hair grew low on his forehead and he had hair on the back of his hands, making them look like paws. He was wearing an open-necked shirt displaying a great tuft of chest hair. His accent showed traces of cockney. Kylie was tall and anorexic-thin. She had a stiff, expressionless face – Botox, thought Hamish – and masses of artificially red hair. Her vivid blue eyes were the result of contact lenses. Her unexpectedly generous breasts, revealed by a low-cut blouse, hung on her skeletal figure like ripe fruit on a withered tree. Her accent was highland – or maybe more island, decided Hamish after listening carefully. Although soft, it held the fluting tones of the Outer Hebrides.
Andrew, it transpired, was fifty years old and his wife, forty-eight.
Daughter Twinkle was twenty-five. She had a classy accent, but that was the only thing classy about her. She had inherited her father’s stocky figure. Her skin was sallow, her eyes brown, and her large mouth set in a perpetual pout.
Son John was twenty-three, tall, willowy, and effeminate. He had dirty-blonde hair worn long. His voice was pleasant but was marred by a faint lisp. Hamish noticed that he looked frightened.
Nephew Mark Gentle had a London accent. He was handsome in a rugged way: well built with a good head of blonde hair and clear grey eyes. His hands were red and callused. Hamish wondered what he did for a living.
Jimmy said he would interview them one at a time, starting with Andrew, and asked if there was a suitable room. Andrew suggested the study.
Jimmy, flanked by Andy MacNab, was to conduct the interview. A policewoman was there to take notes, even though the interviews were to be recorded. Hamish sat in a corner of the study and looked around with interest.
He doubted whether Mrs. Gentle had ever used the room. It had a masculine flavour. There was a large Victorian desk and several hard chairs. Sporting prints hung on the walls; a stuffed fox snarled in its glass case on a cabinet by the window. The room was very cold.
