“I don’t think there was time for rigor to set in,” said Hamish. “Maybe Titchy Gold actually saw a dummy before she went to bed and someone killed the old man during the night and substituted his body for the dummy. But she’d need to be a verra heavy sleeper.”
He turned away and almost bumped into Jimmy Anderson, who was grinning all over his narrow foxy face. “Blair says you’re to help in the search, starting wi’ the servants’ room.”
“Meaning he’s put his foot in it with Enrico?”
“Aye. He bashed on like the bigot he is and the wee Spaniard taped the lot and is threatening to send it to Daviot if Blair doesn’t toe the line.”
Hamish went downstairs and met Enrico in the hall and asked him to take him to the quarters he shared with his wife.
Enrico led him down to the basement. He and Maria shared two rooms beside the games room, a bedroom and a small living room. He stood in the doorway and watched Hamish. “If you are looking for that tape,” said Enrico, “I have it in my pocket.”
“And I’d keep it there,” said Hamish with a grin. Enrico waited while Hamish carefully went through drawers and cupboards. “I’m only the first,” said Hamish. “The forensic team will go through everything as well, including the kitchen. You’d better check your knives and see if any are missing.”
“I have already done so,” said Enrico. “A jointing knife is missing.”
“When did you discover that?” demanded Hamish.
“Earlier on. It was the first thing I looked for.”
“Why didn’t you tell me or Blair?”
“I found it after my interview with you and before my interview with Mr Blair. Had he treated me with more courtesy, I would have told him.”
Hamish shook his head. “You cannae go around questioning the niceties of police behaviour in the middle o’ a murder inquiry.”
“No?” Enrico patted the pocket of his dark jacket which held the tape. “When Mr Blair calms down, he will realize that anyone in this house could have taken the knife from the kitchen at any time. I did not have any birds to joint in the last couple of days, so it could have been missing at any time during that period.”
Hamish looked around the living room again. It was neat and clean but somehow characterless: three–piece suite, coffee table, bookshelves with some magazines and paperbacks, and two pot plants. Above the fireplace was a framed photograph of the Ramblas, the main street in Barcelona.
“You said your wife was very religious,” said Hamish slowly. “But there are no religious paintings here, no crucifix, no religious statues.”
“I said my wife was religious,” said Enrico. “I am not.”
Hamish looked thoughtfully at him. Enrico’s dark brown eyes looked blandly back.
“I’ll be talking to you later,” said Hamish.
He went up to the library and told the furious Blair about the knife and about the fact that there was no way of getting that tape. “I don’t think Enrico will send it off unless you start accusing him of deliberately tampering with the evidence – which you could have done,” said Hamish, “if you hadn’t put his back up. There’s one thing you could do, however.”
“And whit’s that?”
“Get Mrs Jeffrey Trent in here and accuse her of having paid the servants to lay out the body and clean the room.”
Blair goggled at Hamish.
“Aye,” said Hamish. “A guess. But a good one, I think. Enrico and Maria are not the sort to become sentimental about the death o’ their late master. They’re hard-headed. They already own property in Alicante and it’s my belief they’ll leave after the reading of the will, no matter who is the new master or mistress here. It was only hope of getting something in that will that kept them here. When the body was discovered, Mrs Jeffrey ran straight to her son’s room and found him gone. For some reason, she’s protecting him. The reason could be that she’s simply a rather neurotic and possessive mother.”
“Oh, well, I’ll give it a try,” said Blair sulkily.
“And make it official,” said Hamish. “Recorder and all.”
When Jan came into the library, Blair, Anderson and Hamish were there and there was an official tape recorder on the desk in front of Blair.
“How much did you pay Enrico to lay out the body and clean the room?” demanded Blair.
She went a muddy colour. “Who says I paid them?”
Hamish’s quiet Highland voice interrupted. “It will be easy to find out. Whatever it was, I doubt if you would have that amount of ready cash on you. So you would give him a cheque – a cheque which will show up at your bank.”
“I want a lawyer,” she said faintly.
“Mrs Jeffrey Trent,” intoned Blair, “I must warn you that you have a right to remain silent, but everything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”
She suddenly collapsed and began to cry. Through gulps and sobs, she said she was overwrought. She had not been trying to protect Paul. She thought old Andrew had died because of a joke that had gone wrong. That was her story and she was sticking to it.
When she was finally allowed to leave, Blair said with satisfaction, “I’ve got that bloody Spaniard now. Taking money to pervert the course o’ justice.”
“And he hass still got you,” said Hamish. “He’s got that tape.”
Blair swore viciously.
Then the phone rang. It was the Inverness police. Paul Sinclair and Melissa Clarke had been picked up at Inverness station and were being brought back to Arrat House.
¦
Melissa had never been so happy. She was sitting on a red plastic seat in Inverness station beside Paul. The London train was almost due to arrive.
They had skied across country as far as Lairg, where they had taken the train to Inverness. After arranging for the skis to be sent back, they had gone for lunch and had joked and laughed and giggled like schoolchildren.
They would come back to the Highlands on their honeymoon, thought Melissa dreamily. Although Paul had not proposed marriage, she was sure he would, some time in the near future.
Her mind was filled with glorious images of snow-covered moorland and soaring mountains. She felt tired and happy and her face still tingled from the exercise and the cold, biting air.
Policemen came into the station, policemen of various ranks. Two guarded the entrance. Melissa watched them with that rather smug curiosity of the law-abiding watching the police looking for some malefactor.
Her wool ski cap was suddenly making her head feel itchy. She pulled it off and her pink hair shone under the station lights.
And then all the police veered in their direction.
An inspector stood before them. “Paul Sinclair and Melissa Clarke?” he asked.
Paul blinked up through his glasses. “Yes, that’s us. What’s up? Has anything happened to Mother?”
“You are to accompany us,” said the inspector stonily.
Bewildered, they rose to their feet. Two policemen relieved them of their rucksacks. They walked out of the station. A white police car was waiting in the forecourt. They got in the back. A thin policewoman got in beside them and two policemen in the front. The car sped off.
“What is this?” demanded Melissa. “What has happened?”
The man in the front passenger seat slewed round. “Mr Andrew Trent was found murdered this morning at Arrat House. We are taking you back there for questioning.”
Paul buried his face in his hands.
“But what has his death to do with us?” protested Melissa. “We left at dawn this morning.”
“Although the body was found this morning,” said the policeman, “it is estimated that Mr Trent was killed the night before.”
“How…how was he killed?”
