Hamish felt suddenly miserable. He did not want to ask any further questions but knew he had to.
“Who were these women?”
As if she sensed that he didn’t really want to know, Cheryl brightened visibly and something like a look of satisfaction came into her eyes. “Well, there was that fat Wellington cow, for one. “Dear Sean, I’ve just baked this cake specially for you.” Ugh. Then there was a wee wumman wi’ glasses who sounded like a jammed record.” Jessie Currie, thought Hamish. “Aye, and the doctor’s wife, too.”
“Anyone else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“How often did Sean beat you?”
She sat up in bed and hugged her thin arms about her body. “Get oot o’ here,” she muttered.
“All right, I’ll leave that question aside for the moment. Have you any idea what the relationship between Sean and these women was?”
“It couldnae hae been sex,” she jeered. “He strung them along so he could get presents o’ food and cakes.”
“Money?” asked Hamish sharply, remembering the missing hundred pounds.
“No,” she mumbled, her head going down again.
He tried and tried but Cheryl said she had nothing more to tell. As far as she knew, Sean enjoyed causing a flutter among the middle-aged women of the village, and yet Sean must have done something wrong, for after his death no one had a good word to say for him.
Hamish finally gave up and left. He stood outside the caravan and looked slowly around at the other caravans and ancient buses which were dotted about the field. He felt sad and weary and so had a sudden understanding of why these unlovely people stepped out of society and took to the road. No responsibilities, no rent, no jobs, unless playing the occasional gig could be called a job. No hard drugs; drink, glue, or hashish when they could get it. They helped each other out, romanticized their life-style, and often got other people to believe in that romance. Let other people pay the taxes to supply them with dole money, let other people build and maintain the roads they drove on, let other people clean up the mess they left behind; they were the Peter Pans who had found a way of never growing out of adolescence, and the rest of the world was one indulgent parent to see to their needs.
A small fine rain was scudding in on a warm west wind. The woman was still stirring that pot, although the fire had blown out. Hamish gave himself a mental shake. It was unlike him to stand moralizing in the middle of a damp field when he himself was hardly one of the world’s exemplary workers.
So what had Sean done with the women? he wondered as he drove north again. Had he talked them into some sort of mental crisis, like the one he had inflicted on the minister? He had undoubtedly possessed a certain magnetism. But what had he done to drive someone to bashing his face and head in? It had been a murder done in pure hatred.
Mrs Wellington, Angela Brodie, and Jessie Currie would have to be questioned again, and this time without their minders: Mrs Wellington without the minister, Angela without Dr Brodie and Jessie without Nessie.
Evening was settling down on Lochdubh as he drove down the hill in the heathery twilight. The fishing boats were setting out to sea. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys and a group of children were playing on the beach, their cries as shrill as the calls of seabirds. But the blackness, the malignancy that lay under it all would never go away unless he found out who had murdered Sean.
He went into the police station, thinking wryly that for all his impatience with Willie, he was becoming spoilt by being perpetually waited on.
But Willie was in the living room slumped in front of a television set. “Where did that come from?” asked Hamish.
“Mr Ferrari,” said Willie dully. “It’s an auld one o’ his. He’s got one of the new ones. This one disnae have the remote control.”
“That’s grand,” said Hamish. “What’s on?”
“I dinnae know and I dinnae care. I don’t like television.”
Hamish sat down opposite him, first turning off the set.
“Out with it, Willie.”
“It’s a serious matter and I don’t want tae have to put up with your usual levitation.”
“No levity, I promise.”
“I was at the restaurant,” began Willie.
“You’re always at that restaurant,” said Hamish impatiently.
Willie threw him a hurt look.
“I’m sorry,” said Hamish quickly. “What happened? Was it anything to do with Lucia?”
Willie nodded.
“Did you make a pass at her and get your face slapped?”
Willie sat up straight. “I would never lay a finger on that lassie if she didnae want it.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I shouldnae hae been listening,” said Willie. “Lucia said there was a new dish the cook, Luigi, wanted me to try. It was this morning and the restaurant wasn’t opened yet. So I was sitting at the table over by that auld fireplace and I could hear Mr Ferrari quite clearly. He was talking to someone in the room above, a man. I heard the name Sean Gourlay and that’s when I started to listen.”
“Mr Ferrari said, ‘Thon bastard’s dead and gone, thank goodness. I’m glad I was saved from killing him myself.’ The other man said something I couldnae hear and then Mr Ferrari said, ‘After what he did to Lucia…’ And then I couldnae hear any mair.”
“So did you ask him about it?”
“I couldnae,” wailed Willie. “If there was something between her and thon monster, I don’t want tae know.”
“I’m beginning to think not knowing iss worse than anything else,” said Hamish, half to himself. “Help yourself to a whisky, Willie. I’ll ask Ferrari.”
“He’ll know I was listening!” cried Willie.
“True, but I’ll tell him you couldn’t help it.”
As Hamish walked along to the restaurant, he turned over the names of the staff in his mind. There was old Mr Ferrari, and Lucia, who acted as waitress. Conchita Gibson, another distant relative who had married a Scotsman who had died of cancer the year before; Luigi, the cook; Giovanni, the under-cook; and Mrs Maclean, Archie the fisherman’s wife, who came in daily to clean, made up the rest of the staff.
The restaurant was fairly busy, for its reputation had grown so much that many of the customers motored long distances to eat there and the prices were still low enough to tempt the locals.
Lucia welcomed Hamish with a dazzling smile. She really is a stunner, thought Hamish. Poor Willie. Not a hope in hell.
He asked for Mr Ferrari. Lucia disappeared and then returned and led him through the back of the restaurant and up a flight of stairs to the flat over the shop.
“Come in, Sergeant,” cried Mr Ferrari. “Have a drink, but don’t stay too long, because I’ve a lot to attend to.”
“No drink,” said Hamish, “chust a few questions. Willie was here this morning.”
“Grand lad, that. Should be in the restaurant trade.”
“Maybe. The fact is he wass sitting next to the fireplace and he could hear something of what you were saying upstairs.”
All the wrinkles on Mr Ferrari’s old face settled into a sort of hard mask from behind which his eyes peered warily out.
“All he could gather,” went on Hamish, “wass that you were glad someone had killed Sean or you might have done it yourself after what he did to Lucia. Now who were you talking to and what did Sean Gourlay do to Lucia?”
“Like the television set?” asked Mr Ferrari.
“If that wass meant as a bribe, then you can be having it back!” exclaimed Hamish. Mr Ferrari looked at Hamish steadily.
“Don’t you see you are making matters worse for yourself?” said Hamish. “Tell me the truth.”
