wineglass clutched in one hand; over by the window, a bottle lay on its side.
Rap music was belting out from a stereo. Hamish switched it off.
He pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He could do nothing for Mark now. The man looked as if he had been dead for at least a few days. He would need to call the police, but he wanted to search first.
There were two bedrooms. One had been turned into an office. The drawers in a large desk had all been pulled out, and papers were spread over the floor. He examined a computer and found that the hard drive had been taken.
Hamish knelt down and began to go through the papers but they seemed to be all to do with the garage: receipts, orders for spare parts, and wage slips.
Even the wastepaper basket had been emptied out on the floor. His eye was caught by a crumpled sheet of pink paper. He picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a letter. He glanced down at the signature. Margaret Gentle! She had written:
“Dear Mark, You can come and stay if you like, but I am going to change my will. I am leaving everything equally to Sarah and Andrew. You have only yourself to blame by thinking you could blackmail me.”
So he knew about her plans to change the will before he even went there, thought Hamish. Had he decided he needed an alibi because he had something more sinister in mind than blackmail? I’ll never know now, he decided. He carefully wiped the front door in case he had left any fingerprints.
He wondered what to do. If he phoned the police and waited for them, he would be in grave trouble with them for arriving on their territory without telling them. Strathbane would be furious. Blair would make the most of it.
The woman who had buzzed him in had not seen him. His flaming red hair was covered in a black wool cap, which he had put on when he had walked from the Docklands Light Railway station.
His footprints would be all over the place. But if he wiped the floor, he would be destroying evidence. Mark Gentle had known his killer. The bottle and glass seemed to tell Hamish that he had poured himself a drink with his back to his visitor when he had been struck down. He wished he had not called out “Police!”
He sighed. He would have to do his duty. There was no getting away with it. He remembered seeing a surveillance camera over the door. The only lie he would tell was that he had found the door unlocked.
¦
Hamish was grilled by the Metropolitan Police for two days, periodically being questioned when he wasn’t actually being shouted at. Orders had come down from Strathbane that he was, on his return, to stay at his police station, suspended from duties, until a disciplinary hearing.
The surveillance camera over the door turned out to be empty of tape. At first it was thought that the murderer might have removed it, but it was found to be only cheapness on the part of the landlords.
Hamish did not tell anyone that Jimmy Anderson had known what he was doing, considering that one of them in deep trouble was enough.
It was at the end of Hamish’s second day in London that the atmosphere suddenly thawed. It was actually said that the Met thought he had done good work and were prepared to forgive and forget. He was told that on his return, he should go back to his normal duties. There was to be no disciplinary hearing.
He was just leaving Scotland Yard when a familiar voice said, “Hamish!”
He turned round. Anna Krokovsky stood there, smiling at him. “We go for dinner,” she said.
“I’m rushing off to the airport to try to catch the plane,” said Hamish.
“Nonsense. You owe me dinner after all I have been doing for you.”
“Oh, that’s why…You spoke up on my behalf.”
“Of course I did. The fools. It would have taken them ages to find that body. There is a good Italian restaurant near here.”
Hamish gave in. It was turning out to be an expensive trip. In the short time between bouts of questioning, he had had to run out and buy a clean shirt and underwear. He had been lodged in a police flat with a large boozy constable who had a vehement hatred of the Scots and said so at great length.
“Why are you still here?” he asked Anna when they were seated in the restaurant.
“I am nearly finished. I leave for Russia next week.”
“Why did you go to the trouble of having Irena’s body flown home?”
“That was on the instructions of Grigori Antonov, her former protector. Strangely enough, he still seemed to retain an affection for her. Odd. He could have bought any pretty female he wanted. Now, from your investigations, it seems that Mark found out something about Mrs. Gentle that she did not want known.”
“There was that ‘bastard in every family’ remark,” said Hamish. “Could it be that Mrs. Gentle had had at one time an illegitimate child?”
“They are still searching the records.”
“The footprints in the flat were size seven,” said Hamish, “or so they told me. That surprises me because I’m convinced our murderer is still in the north. How long had he been dead?”
“A week. But you came down, planning to be here only for the day.”
They ordered their food.
“I did not for a moment think I would find another dead body,” said Hamish. “I was still looking for thon mysterious woman. I went to talk to Kylie Gentle again. She said something about Mark talking to Mrs. Gentle about a bastard and a skeleton in the closet.”
“So you think there might be some illegitimate member of the family lurking around?”
“Maybe not. Maybe ‘bastard’ was just a curse.”
“I feel if you dropped the whole thing – you personally – then there would be no more threats on your life.” Anna rolled a generous forkful of linguine and thrust it into her mouth. Tomato sauce rolled down her chin like blood.
“I cannae do that!” exclaimed Hamish. “Leave a murderer on the loose?”
“Why not? Cases are unsolved every day.”
“Is this what you do in Moscow? Have three murders and chust walk away?”
“If my life was threatened, I might,” said Anna. “You should be flattered. Our murderer obviously rates your intelligence highly.”
“I think it’s because I put it about that Irena had told me something significant.”
“And do you know anything?”
“Not a thing,” said Hamish. “You’ve got tomato sauce on your chin.”
“But surely the murderer would expect you to convey any knowledge to the police.”
“Not if he or she is a secretive plotting madman or -woman. But it must be a woman. There are the footprints and the woman in the phone box.”
“Could be an accomplice.”
They talked on, turning over ideas, until Hamish glanced at his watch. “If I hurry,” he said, “I can catch the late-night flight to Inverness.”
“Go on, then. I will pay for this meal and put it on expenses.”
Hamish thanked her and fled. He did not return to the police flat, considering that he was only sacrificing some dirty laundry and a disposable razor.
When he finally arrived at the police station in Lochdubh, it was to find a message from Jimmy telling him to send over a full report and take a few days off.
¦
As he struggled along the waterfront the following morning, bending his lean form before a vicious gale, he decided to go to Patel’s and buy some groceries.
The shop was busy, and a poster behind the counter advertised the production of
Hamish bought a ticket. “Eight pounds!” he exclaimed.
“A lot of money was spent on the costumes,” said Mr. Patel. “You cannae hae kings and the like dressed in any auld things.”
Hamish gloomily paid up. The visit to London had made a hole in his dwindling bank balance. He bought groceries and then decided to take the presents for his mother over to Rogart and spend the day there.
He did not return until the early evening, feeling relaxed and comfortable and full of good food. He wondered
