At last the detective came back on the line. “There’s a smell about the man, but he’s never been charged with anything.”
“What do you mean, ‘a smell’?”
“Well, he wanted to buy a hotel out Aberfoyle way, but the owner didn’t want to sell. Then things started happening.”
“Like what?”
“The hotel had a good chef. He left and subsequently reappeared working at one of Ionides’s hotels, the one in Glasgow. Then the other staff started to disappear. Then the hotel was closed down after a health scare. Cockroaches found in the kitchen. The owner lost so much business he was forced to sell out to Ionides and at a cheap price, but we couldn’t prove anything. Then in Stirling, there was the business of the illegal immigrants. When he started up there, it was all local staff and soon after they started work, they were replaced by foreigners – Filipinos, I think they were. Got a buzz they hadn’t work permits and raided the place. Turned out to be the case. Somehow Ionides got off with it. Claimed he hadn’t known, that they had said they would supply the documents, and since they had all been recently hired, the sheriff let him off. That’s all I’ve got.”
Hamish thanked him and rang off. If, he thought, his mind racing, Ionides had been into dirty tricks before and planned some more in Lochdubh and Fergus had found out, what a ripe source of blackmail. What had he found? A letter? Perhaps a fax. Ionides wouldn’t E-mail any planned campaign against the Tommel Castle Hotel in case his E-mail got hacked into.
Clarry appeared and said nervously, “I’m off to do my cooking at the hotel.”
“All right,” said Hamish absently.
“Do you think I can do it? I’ve never cooked on a large scale before.”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll see you later, maybe. I’ve got to talk to the colonel. Has Lugs been fed?”
“Yes, and walked. He’s sleeping in his basket.”
Clarry left. Hamish phoned Mr. Johnston, the manager of the Tommel Castle Hotel. “Can you give me the address of that chef who walked out on you?”
“Wait a minute, Hamish, and I’ll look for you.”
Hamish waited patiently. Then Mr. Johnston came back on the phone. “He’s living in that bed and breakfast, Mrs. Ryan’s, down by the bridge.”
“Right. What’s his name?”
“Jeff Warner.”
Hamish thanked him and rang off.
He got in the Land Rover and drove to Mrs. Ryan’s boarding house. Mrs. Ryan answered the door to him and said that Jeff was in his room. “Just show me which one,” said Hamish. She led the way up the narrow wooden staircase, her carpet slippers, worn down at the back, flip-flopping on the treads. “Is he in trouble?” she asked. “I keep a decent house.”
“No, no trouble at all,” said Hamish.
“That’s his room.”
“Right.” Hamish knocked at the door and called, “Police.”
A squat, burly man answered the door. He reeked of whisky. “What’s up?” he asked.
“I chust want a word with you,” said Hamish, aware that the landlady was listening avidly.
“Come in.”
The room was small and sparsely furnished. There was a narrow bed in one corner covered in a pink candlewick bedspread, one easy chair, a small television set, a wardrobe and a washstand basin.
“What d’ye want?” asked Jeff.
“You left the Tommel Castle Hotel?”
“So what? That a crime?”
“I want you to tell me if you have been offered a job at the new hotel.”
“Why?”
Hamish was tired and Hamish was hungry. “Chust tell me!” he shouted.
“Och, well, what’s the harm in it? I’m a good chef and the new lot offered me more money.”
“But the new hotel isn’t open yet.”
“Aye, but they’re paying me until I start, and it’s a damn sight more than that tight-arsed colonel was giving me.”
“I want you to come down to the station tomorrow morning to make a statement to that effect.”
“Whit is this, man? I mean, whit’s wrong wi’ me wanting a better job?”
“Chust do as you are told.”
“Oh, all right. But it seems daft to me.” Hamish left him and went out to the Land Rover. He was about to climb in when he suddenly froze. Pink. The thread he had taken from the fence at the Curries’ had been pink. Heather had said there were pink sheets in the new hotel rooms. Jeff’s bedspread had been pink. Then he climbed in. Colonel Halburton-Smythe was going to have to talk.
? Death of a Dustman ?
7
—William Shakespeare
As Hamish returned to the police station, he could hear a whirring sound coming closer. He shielded his eyes and looked up at the sky. A helicopter was coming in to land behind the hotel. There was only the pilot in it.
He phoned Jimmy Anderson. “Look, there’s been a bit of a new development. Is there any chance of getting a search warrant for the new hotel?”
“You’d need a rock solid reason. What is it?”
“It’s just that I’ve been given the impression that Fergus thought he was onto big money, and the only big money around is Ionides, the new owner.”
“And that’s all you’ve got?”
“Well, not only that, but he’s got a shady record.”
“But nothing criminal. We went into all that. I told you, Hamish, you’re that desperate it should turn out to be an outsider that you’re clutching at straws. The answer is no, sonny, and there’s something else you should be thinking of.”
“What’s that?”
“If he thought he had a big cheese to blackmail, why aren’t you thinking of Colonel Halburton-Smythe?”
Hamish fell silent.
“Well?” demanded Jimmy. “Or is it that your girl friend’s father is beyond suspicion?”
“She’s not my girl friend,” said Hamish hotly. “I am looking into all aspects of the case, that’s all.”
“Get me something concrete on Ionides, and I’ll have your search warrant. There’s something wrong about you and this case, Hamish. I think your mind’s beginning to wander. Not holding out on me, are you?”
“No, no,” lied Hamish, now anxious to get off the phone. “I’ll let you know if there’s anything further.”
He sat chewing his knuckles in a sudden fit of nerves. What if he really was clutching at straws? What if Priscilla’s father should turn out to be guilty?
There was a knock at the kitchen door. Hamish went to answer it, sure that it would not turn out to be any stranger. They always knocked at the front door.
Josie Darling was standing there when he opened it.
“What is it?” asked Hamish.
“Can I come in?”
He stood back. She hobbled into the kitchen on stiletto heels and sat down in a chair. “You’ve been asking
