“I thought you might. Now I’m going to use your bathroom and then we’ll be on our way.”
Hamish disappeared through the back of the cottage. “So you won’t be staying for tea?” the seer asked Maggie.
“No, we have to be going. We should have been back last night.”
“You’ll be a successful young woman, that you will,” said Angus in a low crooning voice. “You say you despise being treated as a sex object but you’ll use that very sex to get to the top. You’re a hard-bitten quean, young as you are.”
Maggie jumped to her feet, her face flaming. “I’ll wait in the car,” she snapped.
When Hamish came back, he looked around. “Where’s Maggie?”
“In the car.”
“Did you say something to her?”
“Och, no, the lassie wanted to be on her way.” The seer was confident that Maggie would not tell Hamish what he had said, and neither she did.
“Did you thank the Wellingtons for putting you up?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, them; I didn’t see anyone this morning, so I just left.”
Hamish gave a click of annoyance at the back of his throat. “Go back to the village and stop at Patel’s, the grocery shop.”
Maggie did as she was told. Hamish went into the shop and emerged carrying a box of chocolates. “We’ll call at the manse and you give that to Mrs Wellington and thank her for her hospitality.”
“How much?” mumbled Maggie. “I’ll pay you for them.”
“No need.”
Maggie was suddenly desperate to get out of Lochdubh. In the masculine world of the police force, she was used to men flirting with her, men making passes at her, but never men correcting her social manners.
Mrs Wellington thanked Hamish warmly for the chocolates. He said it was Maggie’s idea. “Oh, yes,” said Mrs Wellington. “Thank you, Miss Donald.” Maggie had a sinking feeling that the minister’s wife had already judged her as a hard, ungrateful piece of work who wouldn’t dream of buying chocolates for her.
She drove out of Lochdubh with a feeling of relief. Never given much to introspection, she nonetheless felt she was leaving some rather nasty insights into her character behind.
It was with a feeling of relief that she dropped Hamish at the boarding-house.
She then drove straight to the police station. The station sergeant leered at her. “Hey, Maggie, show us your knickers.”
“Cheeky sod,” retorted Maggie, batting her eyelashes at him, happy to be back in a safe, familiar world.
Deacon put his head round a door and saw her. “Welcome back, Maggie,” he said. “Bring us some tea and get some o’ thae doughnuts frae the stores and we’ll hear whit ye have to say.”
Maggie grinned. “Right, boss.” As she turned to leave, she had the satisfaction of hearing Deacon say over his shoulder to someone in the room behind her, “That’s a grand lassie. She’ll go far.”
Hamish went up to his room and sat on the bed and stared bleakly into space. Then he looked about. There was no sign of Towser’s food or water-bowl or his leash. There was a soft knock at the door.
He rose wearily and opened it. Miss Gunnery stood there. “I took the liberty of taking away Towser’s things from your room, Hamish. I hope I did the right thing.”
“It wass verra kind and thoughtful of you, Miss Gunnery.”
“I’m sorry I was so cross about you going off with that policewoman. I’ll take you into Skag for a drink, if you like.”
“Aye, that would be fine.”
When they were seated in the pub, Hamish asked, “What’s been happening?”
“Well, drama after drama. Dermott Brett’s wife arrived. Did you know he and June weren’t married? His name had been in the papers. There was such a scene. She said she was divorcing him. It turns out that the children are Dermott’s. He was leading a double life for years, but he would never tell his wife because he said she couldn’t live with it and she would do something mad like commit suicide, and the one good thing that’s come out of it is that she actually wants rid of him, so he can marry June. He said, “Do you know, I never needed to have gone through all this?””
Hamish’s interest in the case was suddenly revived. “I wonder what that could mean,” he said slowly. “It could mean that he had no reason after all to kill Harris. What else?”
“Cheryl and Tracey were picked up this morning on the Dungarton Road trying to hitch a lift. The police have them along at the station.”
“Why were they running away?”
“Well, what I gather from that policeman, Crick, who’s started gossiping because he’s now bored with the whole thing, is that they were fed up with the dreadful food, the lack of talent and the police harassment.”
“Sounds reasonable. And what of Andrew and Doris?”
“It’s so sad. They go for walks together, but they are so solemn. It’s almost as if fear and worry are killing any love they might have had for each other.”
“And the children? What of the Brett children?”
“As soon as the wife appeared, June fortunately saw her coming and took the children out through the back door and kept them away all day. With any luck, June and Dermott can now get married after the divorce and the children need never know.”
“At least they’re English,” said Hamish with feeling.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“If they were Scottish, under Scottish law they would stay bastards for the rest of their lives. Being English, they will be legitimized as soon as the parents are married. But how did Dermott manage to keep up the deception for so long?”
“Like Harris, he’s a travelling salesman, mineral water. He’s away a lot. He must work hard and earn a good lot of money to keep two households running.”
“Does he have any children by his marriage?”
“No, I gather not, from the informative. Crick. And June changed her name to Brett by deed poll.”
Hamish’s brain, which had been temporarily frozen by grief, suddenly seemed to be working again. That brothel! He had forgotten about that.
“I’ve a few calls to make,” he said. “I’ll see you later. I tell you what…” He thought of all Miss Gunnery’s many kindnesses over the death of Towser. “I’ll take you out for dinner tonight. There’s a good Indian restaurant in Dungarton. Do you like curry?”
Miss Gunnery’s eyes shone. “Love it.”
“Then that’s a date.”
Hamish left her and walked along to the end of the main street to where he thought the house was that he had seen Harris leaving. It was a trim Victorian villa, set back a little from the road.
He went up and rang the bell. A plump woman, looking at first glance like any other Skag housewife, opened the door. She was wearing a summer dress and low-heeled shoes. Her brown hair was ferociously permed into hard curls and ridges. Her blue-grey eyes were hard and watchful and her mouth was small and thin, with a disappointed droop at the corners. She did not say anything, merely stood back to let him enter. She led the way into what in more respectable days would have been the front parlour. It looked a bit like a dentist’s waiting-room. There were copies of glossy magazines on a low table in front of a sofa. A few occasional chairs stood about. A black marble clock ticked sonorously from the mantelpiece. Some dried pampas-grass in a bowl filled up the hearth. The room smelt of disinfectant and furniture polish.
“Well, whit can we dae for you?” she asked, folding her arms, her little eyes ranging up and down him.
“I am a police officer,” said Hamish, “and I want to ask you a few questions.”
“Here, now, I have nae quarrel wi’ the police at all.”
“I am not here to question you about running a brothel.”
An angry flush rose up her face. “This is a respectable bed and breakfast, I’ll have ye know. It’s that Simpson creature you’re wanting. I could hae you for slander. Off wi’ ye.”
Feeling foolish, Hamish made for the door. “Where does the Simpson woman live?”
“Next door.”
