Hamish waited until she came back with a laden tray. He brightened. Not only tea but also homemade scones. He was suddenly hungry.
“Did you know the dead woman?” he asked.
“Yes, I did. She was so nice and kind. She would fetch me stuff from the shops occasionally and drop in for a chat. She was from Glasgow but she said she liked the Highlands and when her husband died, she bought that trailer thing and moved up here. She said when she got tired of a place, she could move on. Of course her old car couldn’t pull that great thing but she said there was always someone locally with a truck to do it for her.”
“I don’t want to shock you, Mrs. Cathcart, but there was talk of her being a prostitute.”
“I am shocked. The malicious things people do say. She was a decent lady. One of the best. We became friends right away. I really will miss her. It was probably a poaching gang. They’re vicious, those salmon poachers.”
“But you never saw any men going near her home?”
“Not a one. Don’t you listen to that rubbish. The bad side to some of the highlanders is that they will make up stories.”
“Did she talk about anyone or did she say she had recently been parked over near Cnothan?”
“No, come to think of it, apart from telling me about her young days in Glasgow, she didn’t mention the last place she’d been.”
“And do you know if she was friendly with anyone apart from you?”
“I’m sure there was bound to be someone but she never said…Oh, God! It’s horrible!” She pointed with a shaking finger at the window.
Blair’s face, swollen with booze and contorted with anger, was glaring in the glass.
“It’s all right,” said Hamish soothingly. “It’s chust the boss.”
He went to the door and opened it.
“Whit the hell dae ye think ye’re doing, sitting there on yer arse drinking tea?” howled Blair.
“Mrs. Cathcart here was a friend of the deceased,” said Hamish.
Daviot loomed up behind Blair. “What is going on?” he demanded.
Blair swung round. “I was just asking Macbeth here what he thought he was doing drinking tea with some auld biddy.”
A gentle reproving voice from the doorway said, “I do not like being called an auld biddy. I have just been telling this nice policeman that the poor dear Mrs. McNulty was a friend of mine. You,” she said, glaring at Blair, “are a good example of why people in this country have lost the respect for the police.”
Daviot stepped forward. “I am sure the chief inspector did not mean to insult you. Please carry on, Macbeth.”
Hamish followed Mrs. Cathcart back indoors. “I think I’ve actually got enough for the moment,” he said.
“Just you sit down and finish your tea. It must be horrible working for a man like that.”
“Just one more thing,” said Hamish. “May I have another scone?”
“As many as you like.”
“Thanks. What I really meant to ask was, Did you ever go along to the shops with her?”
“I went the once.”
“Did she seem to be particularly friendly with any of the shopkeepers?”
“I remember there was a Mr. Tumulty at the craftshop. She seemed to be on good terms with him.”
“I’ll try there.”
“Drop by anytime.”
¦
Mr. Tumulty was a small, faded-looking man dressed entirely in grey. He had grey hair and grey watery eyes in a pale face. Hamish judged him to be in his fifties. The news of the murder had spread like wildfire. “This is terrible,” he burst out when Hamish entered the dark little shop. “Who would want to murder poor Fiona?”
“I gather you were friendly with her.”
“We got talking when she came in to buy one of my mohair stoles. She invited me back to her home for supper one night and I had a nice time. I escorted her to the kirk one Sunday. We’ve got a rare fine minister.”
“I have to ask you this, sir,” said Hamish. “Did you know that Mrs. McNulty was suspected of being a prostitute?”
“Never! A more respectable lady you could not wish to meet. That’s a nasty slander.”
“I’ll leave that for the moment. Did she seem to be frightened of anyone?”
“No.”
“When did you last see her?”
“I can’t exactly remember. I phoned her several times but I didn’t get a reply.”
“On her mobile?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll maybe get back to you.”
Hamish went outside the shop and called Jimmy. “I didn’t see a mobile phone in her place,” he said. “Can you get the men to look for it? If we knew who’d been phoning her, that would be a great help. And did she have a computer?”
“I’ll get them on to it. Getting anywhere?”
“The two people I’ve talked to so far think she was the epitome of respectability,” said Hamish. “What gets me is if she was on the game, how did she advertise?”
¦
For the rest of the day, Hamish trudged from door to door until he was weary. At last he joined his grumbling animals in the police Land Rover and set out for Lochdubh after checking with Jimmy.
He stopped halfway there and let them out for a run. The weather had turned cold again and he shivered as he walked up and down, waiting for the dog and cat to come back.
He eventually got them back by rattling their feed bowls. “You’ve been fed already today,” he grumbled, “but if you’re good, I’ll find you something when we get home.”
¦
As Hamish drove along the waterfront of Lochdubh, he suddenly stopped the Land Rover and stared ahead at the police station. It was a clear starry night, and he could see smoke rising from his chimney.
If someone wanted to ambush me, he thought, they’d hardly go to the trouble of lighting the fire. He drove on and parked outside. The kitchen light was on.
The door was unlocked. He opened it and went inside.
Elspeth Grant was sitting at his kitchen table. Hamish felt a sudden surge of gladness. She looked more like the old Elspeth than the citified one she had become recently. Her hair was frizzy and formed a halo round her face. Her peculiar silvery eyes looked at him seriously. She was wearing a black cashmere sweater over black corduroy trousers and black suede boots.
“Who’s dead?” asked Hamish.
“I came to ask you that. This murder over at Bonar. I went straight there but I couldn’t find you.”
“I meant the black clothes.”
“I was sent up here in a hurry, and put on the first things that came to hand.” The cat let out a slow hiss and Lugs glared up at her.
“I see your two wives are as jealous as ever,” said Elspeth.
“Just cut that out,” said Hamish. “I’d forgotten what a nasty piece of work you could be.”
“Simmer down. You’ve forgotten what a help I can be.” She fished in a bag at her feet and produced a bottle of whisky. “Want a dram?”
“I could do with one.” Hamish sat down with a sigh. “Then I need to eat something.”
“Have a glass and then I’ll take you to the Italian restaurant.”
“Can I take Lugs and Sonsie with us? They’ll give them something in the kitchen. And don’t look at me in that pitying way.”
“Sure. Bring them by all means.” Elspeth opened the bottle as Hamish put two glasses on the table. She poured them each a generous measure.
There was a knock at the kitchen door. “If that’s my photographer, get rid of him,” said Elspeth. “He’s the
