Death of a Dreamer

∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧

7

To see her is to love her,

And love but her forever,

For Nature made her what she is,

And ne’er made anither!

—Robert Burns

Hamish was about to retreat when Bessie woke up suddenly, saw him, and let out a scream. Jock awoke at the sound and struggled up against the pillows.

“I’ll see you downstairs in the lounge, Jock,” said Hamish.

Hamish sat in the lounge and began to wonder if he had been gravely wrong in his assessment of Jock’s character. Jock had seemed to him like an easy-going man, only interested in his work.

Betty Barnard entered the lounge. “Hamish! What brings you here?”

“I want a word with Jock. He’ll be down any minute.”

“Mind if I stay?”

“I would like a word with him in private.”

“I am his agent.”

“But not his lawyer,” said Hamish. “Please, Betty.”

“I heard that American had been found dead.”

“Yes.”

“So what’s that got to do with Jock?”

“I’ve got to check where anyone connected with Effie was last night.”

“What’s the death of this American got to do with Effie?”

“Here’s Jock,” said Hamish. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Betty went off, and Jock sat down opposite Hamish. “I know it looks bad,” he said. “But it gets a bit lonely up here.”

Hamish raised his eyebrows. “I would have thought with your agent being here and your ex-wife in Lochdubh, not to mention painting Priscilla, that you’d have enough company.”

“Come on, Hamish. I felt like a wee bit of sex, and the lassie was willing.”

“Where were you the night before last?”

“Let me see. I had dinner in the hotel with Betty. We stayed up late, and then we went to our rooms. She’ll confirm it.”

“I’m surprised Effie knew where Geordie’s Cleft was.”

“She probably asked someone.”

Her mobile phone, thought Hamish suddenly. I can’t remember anyone ever finding her phone. He stood up. “That’ll be all for now, Jock, but don’t leave Lochdubh.”

“It was a suicide. Can’t you leave it alone?”

“Hal Addenfest, the American who was staying here, was murdered. I think the two deaths are connected.”

Hamish left the lounge, leaving Jock staring after him.

To Hamish’s dismay, Jimmy Anderson, followed by police and detectives, entered the hotel. Jimmy was brandishing a search warrant.

“Do you have to do this?” asked Hamish, thinking uneasily of the effect on the hotel guests and subsequently on Priscilla. The guests may not have bothered to check out when they heard the news of the murder, but he was afraid a lot of them would do so after getting their rooms searched.

“Fraid so,” said Jimmy, knocking at the manager’s door. “He was hit with some sort of blunt weapon. He stayed here. We’ve got to look.”

“There was no blood around his head,” said Hamish. “Was he killed elsewhere? Did forensic find anything?”

“Yes, their little bloodshot eyes found a patch of blood further up the beach. Nothing else. That shingle won’t hold footprints. They had to work fast before the tide covered everything up as far as the seawall. Want to join in the search?”

“I think I’ll go back down to the village. The locals might tell me things they wouldnae tell you.”

♦

Elspeth Grant, who worked for the Bugle in Glasgow, was summoned by her news editor as soon as she got into the office.

“There’s a murder in Lochdubh,” he said. “Some American tourist. I want you to get up there right away.”

“But Matthew Campbell, who’s now the local reporter, covers that area. You know he’s good. He used to work for you.”

“He’s been getting sloppy since he was married. You know the area, you know the local copper, get home and pack a bag and get off as fast as possible.”

“I’ll take a plane to Inverness and hire a car once I get there.” Elspeth hoped the news editor would argue about the expense and maybe decide that, after all, the coverage should be left to Matthew. But he said, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Elspeth did not want to see Hamish Macbeth again. She had been in love with him, and he had rejected her. The hurt had been deep, and so she had refused to accept any phone calls from him.

She was able to pack a bag, drive to the airport, and book herself on the eleven o’clock plane to Inverness. At the airport, having left her own car at Glasgow airport, she hired a car and set out for Sutherland.

She drove steadily up towards Lochdubh, her anger at the job dissipating as she found herself once more back over the highland line.

Elspeth decided to book in at the Tommel Castle Hotel. She hoped any story she might get would be worth all this expense.

♦

Hamish started off by going again to see the two boys who had found the body. He guessed, rightly as it turned out, that they would be kept out of school to recover from their shock.

They were evidently beginning to feel excited and important, but they had nothing further to add. Sean said he thought he had heard the plop of a seal diving out on the lake, but that was all either of them had to add.

Hamish then went from house to house, questioning one after the other, only breaking off to go back to the police station to feed the dog and cat and take them for a walk. No one had seen anything, and most were cross at being questioned by Hamish when they had already been questioned by police.

Jimmy called in at the police station in the early evening. “I’m knackered – and that police cell bed last night was as hard as hell,” he said. “I’m off home. We’ll all start first thing tomorrow and go over everything again. There was nothing sinister in any of the rooms. We’ve got the police in Glasgow checking up on those three – Jock, his ex-wife, and his agent. Brighton police are looking into the sister’s background. I may have some results tomorrow. From what I gather from the guests, this Hal Addenfest was a right pill. Maybe someone ran into him by moonlight on the beach and picked up a rock and hit him with it.”

“He must have walked down there to meet someone,” said Hamish. “His car’s still at the hotel. He wouldnae go down there in the middle o’ the night for no reason at all.”

“Well, we’ll see. I’m off.”

Hamish changed out of his police uniform and showered, then dressed in a pair of old corduroy trousers and faded tartan shirt.

He went out to the deep freeze in the shed and was rooting around to see if there was something for his dinner when he heard a car arriving. He walked out of the shed and found to his delight that it was Betty.

The last rays of sun were glinting on the blonde streaks in her hair. She was wearing a dark blue silk trouser suit and high heels.

“Hullo, copper,” she said. “I thought you might like a meal out, so I’ll take you to the Italians if you’re free.”

“That would be grand,” said Hamish. “Come in, and I’ll dress in something better. I’ve still got a report to send over, but I can do it later.”

He was in the bedroom changing into his one good suit when he heard someone else arrive. He finished dressing quickly and went into the kitchen. Priscilla was sitting at the table with Betty.

“I thought you might like some dinner, Hamish,” said Priscilla, indicating a casserole on the table. “But Betty tells me you are going out for dinner, so you can put it in the fridge and have it tomorrow.”

Because of the warm evening, the kitchen door was open. Elspeth Grant walked in.

Hamish stared at her. Her hair, which had been straightened the last time he had seen her, was now back to its usual frizzy style. Her silver eyes – Gypsy eyes – surveyed him and then the two women at the table.

“I’m up covering the murder,” said Elspeth. “I was going to take you for a meal, but I see you have company.”

“This is Betty Barnard,” said Priscilla in a cool voice.

“Betty is a guest at the hotel. We are both too late. Betty is taking Hamish for dinner. Go ahead, Hamish. We’ll let ourselves out.”

“See you,” said Betty cheerfully. “Come along, Hamish.”

♦

There was a long silence after Hamish had left. Then Priscilla said, “I brought him this casserole. Shame if it goes to waste. Why don’t we both have dinner?”

“All right,” said Elspeth. “Is that woman going to be Mrs. Macbeth?”

“Betty? No, I shouldn’t think so. She’s an artists’ agent. Her client is Jock Fleming.”

“Who is Jock Fleming?”

“I’ll pop this in the oven, and I’ve got a bottle of wine here,” said Priscilla. “We’ll have a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Elspeth felt intimidated by Priscilla, watching her as she moved about the kitchen with quiet efficiency. Priscilla was wearing tailored white linen trousers with a white linen blouse. Elspeth reflected that when she wore anything made of linen, it seemed to crease as soon as she got it on, but Priscilla’s ensemble showed not a wrinkle, and her hair was smooth and golden. Elspeth nervously dragged her fingers through her own hair trying to flatten it and only succeeded in making it look messier than ever.

Priscilla opened the wine and poured two glasses. “The casserole will only take a few minutes. Right, I’ll begin at the beginning…”

♦

Hamish did not enjoy his dinner. He kept wondering what Priscilla and Elspeth were talking about. Seeing Elspeth again had been a shock.

“I keep asking you how the investigation is going on,” said Betty, “and you mumble something but don’t seem to be listening. I know about Priscilla. The whole of Lochdubh knows about Priscilla, but who’s the other one?”

“A reporter, Elspeth Grant. She used to work on the paper here.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Were you romantically involved with her?”

Hamish stiffened. Betty, amused, thought if Hamish were a cat, his fur would stand on end. “I haff neffer asked you about your private life, Betty,” he said, “and I don’t wish to discuss mine.”

“Okay, Sherlock. Now we’ve got that out of the way, have you any suspects?”

“I’m waiting until all the background on everyone comes in,” said Hamish.

“Me included?”

“I should think so. You and everyone else staying at the hotel.”

“I’m a clean-living girl. They can dig away. I’m surprised you’re free for dinner. I thought your bosses would be hounding you.”

“No. That scunner, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, is laid up in hospital with a broken leg and a broken collarbone, and Detective Jimmy Anderson is in charge of the case. He knows it’s pointless now to go over old ground until we know more about the people involved. Nice not to be harassed.”

“Macbeth,” said a voice behind him.

Hamish swung round and looked up at the figure of Superintendent Peter Daviot looming over him. Hamish got to his feet.

“Why aren’t you out on the case?” asked Daviot.

“Because, sir, everyone’s been pretty much interviewed and Anderson is waiting for the background checks.”

“I’m sorry to spoil your dinner, but I want you to walk along to the police station with me. There is a lot to discuss.” He smiled at Betty. “I am sorry, miss, but this is serious stuff.”

Betty gave a little shrug. “Don’t mind me.”

♦

At least Priscilla and Elspeth will have left, thought Hamish. But when he opened the kitchen door, it was to find the pair finishing their meal.

Daviot knew them both and murmured a greeting while a flustered Hamish explained he would have to ask them to leave.

Priscilla asked after Mrs. Daviot as she efficiently cleared the table and put the dirty dishes and glasses in the sink. Then she and Elspeth left.

Daviot sat down at the table. Sonsie jumped onto the chair opposite and fixed the superintendent with unblinking eyes.

“Good heavens, Macbeth. That’s a wild cat. You shouldn’t be keeping an animal like that!”

“She’s domesticated.” Hamish lifted his cat down onto the floor and sat down opposite Daviot.

“Now, this business of a murdered American tourist is serious,” said Daviot. “This sort of thing can damage tourism. We have contacted his ex-wife, who is flying over to make funeral arrangements. He had a card in his wallet with her mobile phone number. We could not find any close family. Have you any idea why he was murdered?”

“Yes,” said Hamish. “It all ties in with the murder of Effie Garrard.”

“The artist? But that was suicide.”

“I think not, sir.” Hamish explained about the visitors to Effie’s cottage and about the bottle of wine and the note.

“I never saw any report about that note or bottle of wine.”

“Her sister, Caro, who is up here, told the police in Strathbane, but they said Effie was mad and had probably made the whole thing up.”

Daviot scowled. “I’ll see about this when I get back to headquarters. So what ties Effie to this American?”

“He took her out a couple of times. He had ambitions to be a writer, and he noted down everything everyone had said in a notebook. I asked to see what she had said, and Mr. Addenfest replied that he knew the police thought it was suicide but he had proof that it was murder and would only show the contents to my superiors.”

“And why didn’t you report this?”

“Because I was told the case was closed and to leave it alone.”

“And there’s no sign of the notebook?”

“No, not on the body or in his room.”

Daviot rapped his fingers on the table, an irritating sound. Then he said, “We have a new detective constable, Robin Mackenzie.”

“What’s he like?”

“She. Keen as mustard. I want her to work closely on this case with you, and I want you to give her the benefit of all your local knowledge. Anderson will handle the broad picture, and I will be in charge.”

“When does this detective arrive?”

“I asked her to report to you first thing tomorrow morning. We must all work night and day on this. No time off for anyone.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better go. I have a late-night party to attend at the Freemasons. Then tomorrow morning, I have to get my new suit from the tailor. I’ll be over in the afternoon to see how you’re getting on.”

“I do not want to be obstructive, sir, but would not this Detective Mackenzie be better working with Anderson? I work better alone.”

“You what? This isn’t the Wild West with a lone sheriff. Do as you’re told and give Mackenzie all the help she needs.”

After Daviot left, Hamish felt quite low. The case was difficult enough without being saddled with some pushy woman detective. He assumed first thing in the morning meant around nine o’clock. He set the alarm for eight and went to bed, feeling mildly hungry because he’d only eaten the first course before Daviot had taken him away, but felt too tired to cook anything.

♦

Hamish was awakened at six in the morning by a banging on the front door. He struggled out of bed, went to the door, and shouted, “Come round to the kitchen.”

He put on a dressing gown and went and opened the kitchen door.

“I’m Robin Mackenzie,” said his visitor.

“Come ben. What time d’ye call this?”

“I was instructed to report early.”

Robin Mackenzie was a fairly small woman with dark brown hair worn in a French pleat. She had small dark brown eyes, a long straight nose, and a wide mouth. She was wearing a white blouse, suede jacket, and tweed skirt. Her black patent leather shoes had low heels.

“You are not what I expected,” she said, looking up at the tall, unshaven figure of Hamish with his flaming red hair tousled from sleep.

“What did you expect?” asked Hamish.

“Someone fully dressed and in uniform, for a start.”

“I’ll make you some coffee and get dressed.”

The dog and the cat wandered in. She looked at them but made no comment, and thank goodness for that, thought Hamish.

When the coffee was ready, he served her a mug of it and took himself off to the bathroom to shower and shave.

Robin looked around the kitchen. She had grown up in South Uist in the Outer Hebrides and had left as soon as she could to fulfil her ambition of becoming a detective. She had heard reports of Hamish’s brilliance and how he always managed to avoid promotion, and she had wondered why. Being stuck in a highland police station out in the wilds, she thought, would be as bad as being back in South Uist.

She thought Hamish was probably some eccentric and the stories about him had been wild exaggerations. Hadn’t Blair often told her that Macbeth was some highland idiot who just occasionally got lucky?

Hamish came back, dressed in his uniform, and said, “Just a minute. I’ve got to let my hens out.”

Robin suppressed an exclamation of irritation.

When he returned, Hamish then fussed about filling up the animals’ water bowls. When he finished, Robin said impatiently, “Can we get started?”

“I’ve got to walk my beasts. Come with me, and we can talk as we go along.”

I should have brought a camera, thought Robin. No one would ever believe this.

As they strolled along the waterfront, Hamish told her everything he had found out.

After he had finished, he said, “I thought we might go up and see the sister, Caro Garrard. You question her, and I’ll see if there is any variation in her statement. Then we’ll try some of the others. It’s ower early. We’ll need to wait a bit until folks wake up.”

Nessie and Jessie Currie peered through their net curtains. “He’s got a lassie with him,” said Nessie. “Oh, my, she must have spent the night. She should be warned.”

“Warned,” echoed Jessie.

Robin noticed that two small women were approaching them. Hairnets covered their tightly permed hair, and they were wearing identical dressing gowns over flannel men’s pyjamas. On their feet, each wore a pair of Snoopy slippers. The morning sun glinted off their glasses.

Hamish saw them and said hurriedly, “Let’s get back to the police station.”

“Not so fast!” shouted Nessie.

“So fast,” echoed her sister.

Hamish groaned and stopped. “Young woman,” said Nessie, “they may have loose morals in the cities, but in Lochdubh, we are decent, God-fearing people.”

“I am Detective Robin Mackenzie,” said Robin, her fluting South Uist accent cutting through Jessies usual echo. “I arrived at the police station at six o’clock this morning to begin work. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Just came out to say welcome,” mumbled Nessie, and the twins bolted back towards their cottage.

“If the rest of the inhabitants are as deranged as that pair, I’m not surprised there have been two murders up here,” said Robin.

“They’re very nice women,” said Hamish defensively. He hated any of the inhabitants being criticised by outsiders.

They walked back to the police station. “I’ll fix us an omelette for breakfast,” said Hamish.

In the kitchen, Robin noticed that the cat and dog stared at each other for a long moment and then slouched out. “Where are they going?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Your cat and dog.”

“I don’t know,” said Hamish crossly, lifting the lid of the stove and dropping in slices of brown peat. He knew exactly where they had gone. They had gone back to his bed to continue sleeping, but he did not want to tell her that.

“I’m chust going out to get some eggs,” he said.

Bloody women, thought Hamish as he collected fresh eggs from the hen house. I’m surrounded by them.

He returned to the kitchen and began to beat up the eggs for an omelette.

Robin watched him. Her heart was sinking rapidly. She should be out there with the experts, not stuck in this kitchen with this lanky policeman and his weird cat and weirder dog.

The omelette was excellent but the coffee dreadful. She edged her cup aside.

“I’ll make us some tea,” said Hamish. “That coffee’s a disgrace, and so I shall tell Patel.”

“Is it instant?”

“Yes, it’s called High Mountain Blue. It was on special offer. I think it’s made from the sweepings on the floor after they’ve processed the real stuff. After we see Caro, the sister, I think we should pay a visit to the seer, Angus Macdonald.”

This is truly awful, thought Robin. I’m stuck with a copper who believes in clairvoyants.

Hamish saw the expression on her face and grinned. “Angus is an old fraud, but he bases his so-called predictions and insights on listening closely to gossip.”

Caro Garrard looked at them wearily when they arrived on her doorstep. “More questions?”

“Just a few,” said Hamish amiably. “May we come in? This is Detective Mackenzie.”

“Don’t be long,” Caro said. “I slept badly last night, and I was planning to go back to bed.”

They sat down round the work table. Hamish removed his cap. A sunbeam shone on the rich red of his hair. I wonder if he dyes it, thought Robin. She cleared her throat and took out her notebook.

She took Caro over everything she had told Hamish. Caro wearily replied to her questions. Then Robin asked, “Just how furious were you when you discovered she had been passing your art off as her own?”

“I was very angry,” said Caro. “Oh, it wasn’t just that. It was an accumulation of all her other troubles I’d had to put up with. I sometimes think I would be married now if she hadn’t messed things up for me. No, I didn’t kill her. That murder wasn’t done by someone in a hot rage. It was cold and calculating.”

♦

“I think she did it,” said Robin as they got back into the Land Rover.

“Why?” asked Hamish.

“She was calculating enough to initially hide the fact that she was not in Brighton but up here, having it out with Effie.”

“We’ll see.” Hamish drove in the direction of the seer’s cottage. He stopped the car at the foot of a hill and said, “We’ll need to get out and walk. His cottage is up there.”

Angus’s cottage was perched on the top of a hill with a winding path leading up to it.

The seer opened the door to them just as they arrived on his doorstep. “Come ben,” he said. “What have you brought me?”

Hamish had forgotten that Angus always expected a present. “I haven’t had time,” he said. “We’re in the middle of an investigation. Look, I’ll get you a salmon later.”

“A real one out o’ the river,” ordered Angus, “and not one o’ thae ones out o’ the fish farm.”

Robin looked around the living room curiously. It was a low-ceiling room with an armchair on one side of the fire and two ladder-back Orkney chairs on the other. There was a table covered with the remains of breakfast by the small window set deep into the thick stone wall. The air was scented with peat smoke from the smouldering fire. Angus put an old blackened kettle on a hook over the fire. Hamish knew the seer had a perfectly good electric kettle in the kitchen but used the old·fashioned way of boiling water to impress visitors.

Angus sat down in the armchair, and Robin and Hamish took the chairs on the other side of the fire. “And who is this young lady?” asked Angus, stroking his long grey beard.

“I am Robin Mackenzie,” she said. “I am a detective who has been sent up here to work closely with Constable Macbeth.”

“And hating every minute of it,” said Angus. “Poor wee lassie sitting there thinking, what am I doing stuck here with this loon?”

Robin’s face flamed. “Nothing of the kind.”

Angus heaved himself to his feet. “Kettle’s boiled. I’ll just get the cups and an ashtray for you, Miss Mackenzie.”

“I don’t smoke!”

“Yes, you do,” said Angus, disappearing into the kitchen.

Hamish looked amused. “Is he right?”

“I’m trying to give up,” said Robin. “Oh, what the hell.” She took offher jacket and, rolling up the sleeve of her blouse, ripped off a nicotine patch and threw it on the fire. She replaced her jacket, opened her handbag, and took out a packet of Bensons. Hamish watched hungrily as she lit one up. He had given up smoking a long time ago, but the craving for a cigarette had never quite left him.

Angus made tea and poured cups and then, when they were served, sat down again. “You’ve come about the murder of that artist,” he said.

Robin started. “So you think that was murder?”

“Oh, aye.”

“So who did it?”

Angus closed his eyes. “I see four people circling around her like the buzzards. I see…”

Robin leaned forward expectantly but the seer only emitted a gentle snore.

“Come on,” said Hamish. “We won’t be getting any more out of him today.”

♦

“Where now?” asked Robin.

Hamish stared down the hill to the village. “I see a mobile police unit has been set up. Time to visit Jimmy and see what he’s found out.”

As the Land Rover bumped over the heathery hill tracks towards the village, Robin wondered uneasily what Hamish had thought of the seer’s accurate reading of her thoughts. She was beginning to sense a sharp intelligence behind Hamish’s laconic manner and feared she had misjudged him.

“That remark of Angus’s about me thinking you stupid was not correct,” she said.

“Oh, it probably was,” said Hamish. “Don’t worry about it.”

He drove along the waterfront and parked in front of the mobile unit.

He and Robin mounted the shallow steps and went in. Jimmy Anderson was sitting behind a desk studying a computer. “You’re just in time, Hamish. What are you doing here, Robin?”

“Superintendent Daviot has asked me to work with Hamish.”

“He has, has he? Both of you come and look at this.” He handed them a computer printout.

It was a statement about Jock Fleming. On two occasions, he had been charged with assault and drunk and disorderly. One of the charges concerned his wife. She had used as grounds for divorce his attack on her where he has broken two of her ribs.

“I’m slipping,” mourned Hamish. “I thought that man was just an ordinary cheerful chap. Will we go and see him?”

“No, I’ll do that,” Jimmy said.

“Any other horrible news?”

“The ex-wife used to be a hooker and a drug addict.”

“Michty me! Anything else?”

“Caro Garrard had a nervous breakdown, but it was a long time ago, just after she left art school. I’d like you both to go and see Dora Fleming. Find out why she was lying. Find out why she is pursuing a violent ex-husband.”

“Where does this woman live?” asked Robin as they left the mobile unit.

“A boarding house, just along the waterfront here.”

“What’s she like?”

“Defiant, coarse, sometimes a really broad Glasgow accent and sometimes it’s modified.”

“Who’s this bulldog in tweed bearing down on us?” asked Robin.

“Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.”

“Hamish Macbeth,” boomed Mrs. Wellington, “just who is this female?”

“Manners,” chided Hamish. “Robin, may I present Mrs. Wellington. Mrs. Wellington, Detective Constable Mackenzie.”

“That’s all right, then,” said Mrs. Wellington. “I thought for a moment you were playing fast and loose with another female.”

“Are they all like that in this village?” asked Robin. “I mean, is it inbreeding or something?”

“Chust bloody-minded nosiness, that’s all.”

“Hamish!” called a voice.

Hamish swung round. Elspeth came hurrying along the waterfront. She was wearing jeans and a faded T·shirt. “We should get together soon,” said Elspeth.

Hamish introduced Robin and then said, “I honestly don’t know when I’ll be free.”

“You owe me some of your time,” said Elspeth.

“Call round at the police station at nine this evening,” said Hamish. “I should be through by then.”

Elspeth’s odd silver eyes surveyed him. “Enjoy your dinner?”

“Yes, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind…”

“Enjoy it while supplies last,” said Elspeth. “There’s misery coming from that quarter.”

Hamish made a sound of disgust and walked on rapidly. Robin hurried to keep up with him.

“What on earth was she talking about?”

“Oh, she thinks she’s psychic.”

“Really? I hope we’re nearly at this boarding house. I’ve had enough of nutters for one day.”

But at the boarding house, Mrs. Dunne said Mrs. Fleming had decided to walk up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to see her ex-husband.

“Why, I wonder?” said Hamish. “We’d better drive up there, Robin.”

♦

When they reached the hotel, Hamish said, “I’ll get Mr. Johnson to send someone up to fetch her down here. I don’t want to end up stepping on Jimmy’s toes.”

Mr. Johnson told them to wait in the lounge. There was no sign of Bessie, the maid. Hamish decided to interview her later.

Dora Fleming came in and slumped down in an armchair opposite them.

“You lied to me,” said Hamish.

“Whit?”

“You got a divorce from Jock because he had been beating you.”

“So I didnae like to tell folks that while he’s paying alimony.”

“And why did you really come up here?”

“He was behind a bit wi’ the payments. It’s all right now.”

“Why are you still here and visiting him, too?” asked Robin.

“He’s the father o’ ma weans.”

“How did you meet him?” asked Hamish.

The heavy accent dropped from her voice as she said, with a toss of her head, “It was at a gallery opening in Glasgow.”

“So it was not while you were working as a prostitute?” asked Robin.

Hamish had heard of people’s eyes turning red with rage and had put that description down to poetic license, but now he could swear he saw red glints of fury in Dora’s eyes.

“You bastards!” she howled. “You never let a body alone to lead a decent life.”

“How did you meet Jock?” asked Hamish patiently.

“It was at a gallery opening,” she said sulkily. “A man friend – okay, a client – was a bit drunk, and when we was finished, he said he’d take me to a party. That’s where I met Jock at the gallery. He said he’d like to do a portrait of me.”

Hamish surveyed her. “I thought Jock only painted landscapes and that this portrait of Miss Halburton-Smythe was a one-off.”

Dora gave a contemptuous sniff. “That agent o’ his told him to stick to landscapes because portraits werenae his thing, but Jock said it was a good chat-up line.”

I must see Priscilla, thought Hamish anxiously. If Angela is right and jealousy was behind the murder of Effie, then she could be at risk. Or if Jock did it, she’ll still be at risk.

He got to his feet. “Could you carry on with the questioning, Robin?”

Robin looked at him severely. “And just where do you think you are going?”

“I’ve got to pee,” said Hamish.

He headed toward the door. Now for Priscilla.