Death of a Hussy

∨ Death of a Hussy ∧

6

I am a conscientious man, when I throw rocks at sea-birds I leave no tern unstoned.

—OCDEN NASH

NOW, THOUGHT HAMISH MACBETH, IF I PHONE BLAIR AS A good copper should, Blair will tell me I’m talking rubbish and then slide along to the super and put it in as his own idea. If I am as unambitious as I keep telling Priscilla I am, then why should I bother? But damn it, I do bother.

He went into the police station office and pulled forward the typewriter and began to type out a report. When it was finished, he drove to the hotel, and despite Mr. Johnson’s caustic remarks about mooching scroungers, he ran off three copies of the report on the hotel’s photocopying machine. Then he headed out towards Strathbane.

He found, as he drove into the town, that he was experiencing a slight feeling of dread, as if he would never escape again. He was glad he had left Towser behind in Lochdubh. The poor animal would probably think he was going back to the police kennels.

He drove to the police headquarters and left three of the reports plus the plastic bag with the sparking plug and scrap of felt at the desk: one of the reports to go to Detective Chief Inspector Blair, one to Superintendent Peter Daviot, and one plus the bag to go to the forensic department. Then he went back out into the night.

He decided to celebrate with a drink before returning to Lochdubh. He cast his mind back over his busy day. He had not had anything to drink so he could indulge in a small glass of whisky without being in any danger of being over the limit.

Soon Hamish was standing at the bar of an unlovely pub called The Glen, which he had recently patrolled on his beat.

It still reflected the Calvinistic days when drinking was a sin and the only point in going to a pub was to get drunk. There was a bar along the end of a small room. The floor was covered with brown linoleum. There were two tables, a bat tered upright piano, a juke box, and a fruit machine. The whole place smelled of beer, disinfectant, damp clothes, and unwashed bodies, the habitues of The Glen dating from the days when a bath was something you had before you went to see the doctor.

“Evening, Hamish,” said the barman. It had been a source of great irritation to P.C. Mary Graham that the locals on the beat all called Hamish by his first name. “Hivnae seen yiz for a long while.”

“I’m back in Lochdubh,” said Hamish. “I’ll hae a dram.”

“This one’s on the hoose,” said the barman. “Ye’re sore missed, Hamish. That blond scunner’s aye poking her nose in here, looking for trouble.”

Correctly identifying the ‘blond scunner’ as P.C. Graham, Hamish thanked him and then turned and looked around the busy bar. Several of the locals called greetings to him and he nodded cheerfully back. The customers were not working class, rather they were underclass, the denizens of the dole world who lived from one drink to the next. The juke box fell silent. A local who rejoiced in the nickname of Smelly MacCrystal lumbered to the piano. It was rumoured he had once been a concert pianist, but Hamish took that with a pinch of salt. All the habitue’s of The Glen claimed to have been something important at one time, from professors of English literature to jet pilots. But when only half drunk as he was that evening, Smelly could play well and he played all the old and favourite Scottish songs.

“Comeon, Hamish,” shouted someone. “Gieusasong.”

Hamish turned red with embarrassment. He had drunk far too much on the evening of that wonderful day when he was told he could go back home and he had celebrated in The Glen by entertaining the surprised locals to a concert. He shook his head but found himself being propelled towards the piano. He shrugged and gave in.

P.C. Mary Graham quietly pushed open the door of the pub, hoping, as usual, to catch someone breaking the law. She stood there amazed.

Hamish Macbeth was standing by the piano, his fiery hair gleaming in the harsh neon lights of the pub. He was singing “My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose.” Hamish was blessed with a good voice, that kind of voice which is often affectionately described as an Irish parlour tenor. But Mary noticed only that Hamish Macbeth was leaning on the piano, singing, and surrounded by a group of dirty drunks, and he was not in uniform.

She turned and sprinted for police headquarters. As she arrived, panting and breathless, Superintendent Peter Daviot was just coming down the stairs. Now Mary should have reported to the desk sergeant who would have taken the matter higher, but she was too desperate to get Hamish into trouble to bother about the niceties of police procedure. Daviot had been looking for Blair without success. He had Hamish’s report in his briefcase. He had phoned the forensic department to learn they had not started to examine the car because Blair had told them the matter was not urgent.

He listened in amazement to Mary’s story. One of his officers was howling drunk in one of Strathbane’s sleaziest pubs.

“We’ll use my car,” said Daviot. He was always worried about the police force’s public image. He prayed one of the local reporters would not decide to visit the pub before he got there, the super being rather naive about the press and not knowing that if the papers wrote stories about every roistering copper, there would be little room on their pages for anything else.

He entered the pub just as Hamish was entertaining the company with a rendering of “The Rowan Tree.” Daviot stopped short, listening to the mellow voice soaring in the well-known sentimental ballad. Several of the drunks were crying.

Hamish finished his song to noisy applause and shook his head when they demanded more. Then he saw the super and walked forward with a smile which quickly faded as he saw P.C. Graham’s avid face behind the super’s shoulder.

“Evening, sir,” said Hamish mildly. “Did you get my report?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Daviot. “It should have gone to Blair, you know.”

“I sent him a copy as well,” said Hamish. “How did you know I was here?”

“P. C. Graham was most concerned about your behaviour. She said you were drunk.”

“I wonder why,” said Hamish pleasantly.

“I suppose because you are not in uniform and singing in a low pub.”

“This pub,” said Hamish firmly, “was on my beat. You are very concerned with police image, sir, and I think you will agree that if you get along with the local community, then people are more likely to come to you in time of need.”

“Just so,” said the super. “Just what I always say.”

“You will also agree that it iss verra important to get the facts right before troubling anyone. P.C. Graham should hae asked me a few questions. That way, she would hae found there iss no reason for me to wear uniform when off duty and that I wass not drunk.”

“You mean, she did not speak to you?”

“Not a word.”

Daviot swung round. “Get back to your beat, Officer,” he said sternly to P.C. Graham, “and then come and see me tomorrow.”

“Aye, that’s right,” said one of the locals, peering over the super’s arm. “Tell Typhoid Mary to get the hell oot.”

P.C. Graham threw Hamish a venomous look before she left.

“Come out to the car, Hamish,” said the super. “I can’t talk in here.”

Hamish waved goodbye and followed Daviot out.

In the car, Daviot opened his briefcase and took out Hamish’s report. “You say here that Mrs. Baird had employed a private detective agency to find out about these men?”

“Yes,” replied Hamish, “but I couldnae find any sign of it, nor of that book she said she was writing.”

“And what did Blair say to that?”

“He didnae seem interested,” said Hamish, wondering at the same time why sinking the knife in Blair’s fat back should make him feel so mean.

“Very well. Go back to Lochdubh and leave the matter with me. It is entirely your own fault, Hamish, that you are not in charge of this case. You have avoided promotion deliberately. I am not complaining. Good village policemen are hard to find. On the other hand, I think it is time you took a good look at yourself. You should be thinking of marriage, for example.”

“I always wonder why detectives get married,” said Hamish. “I mean, they’re hardly ever home and the only friends they have outside the force are villains.”

“A good, sensible wife would make allowances. It’s time you settled down. I know my wife got some nonsense into her head that you might marry Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, but I said to her you would be better off with some strong village girl to look after you and iron your shirts.”

“I am a dab hand wi’ the iron myself,” said Hamish defensively.

“Well, you’ll just need to go back to your regular duties and assist the detectives when and where they need you. You are a sore disappointment to me, Macbeth.”

And by that loss of his first name, Hamish knew the super was indeed angry with him.

But Daviot had given him a lot to think about. Blair would be back in Lochdubh on the morrow, throwing his weight around, and making life hell for everyone in general and Hamish Macbeth in particular. But to join the detectives, to live in Strathbane, thought Hamish as he drove slowly along the waterfront at Lochdubh. Would no one ever understand the happiness and contentment of the truly unambitious man?

Priscilla certainly did not. And there, as if his thoughts had conjured her up, standing outside the police station under the blue lamp, was Priscilla.

He jumped down from the car. “When did you get back?”

“Today,” said Priscilla. “Any chance of a cup of tea?”

Hamish led the way into the kitchen. He suddenly remembered that once when she had been in love with a yuppie called John Harrington, Priscilla had been a whole week in Lochdubh before she had thought to call on him.

John Harrington had been arrested for insider trading. Did Priscilla visit him in prison?

“See anything of that Harrington fellow?” he asked after he had made a pot of tea and they were sitting at the kitchen table.

“No, I can’t. He was out on bail and he skipped the country.”

“There was nothing about it in the papers,” said Hamish.

“It was in the English editions. They probably didn’t bother in Scotland.”

The bell went at the front of the station. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Priscilla.

Hamish shook his head. “It’ll be the press. Let them go and bother Alison. So you’re up for the summer. How are things at home?”

“Not very good. Daddy’s blood pressure is dangerously high. Brodie says he’s got to go on a diet, but Daddy says that’s a lot of rubbish. You can’t tell him anything. Something’s worrying him badly. Mummy says he won’t talk about it and just snaps that there’s nothing up.”

“You look tired,” said Hamish, studying her.

The beautiful oval of her face looked as flawless as ever, but her mouth drooped at the corners and her eyes were weary and sad.

Priscilla shrugged. “It wasn’t a very good homecoming, which is why I am here. I felt in need of a friend. What’s all this about Maggie Baird dying? Everyone thinks you a fool for saying it was murder. Tell me about it.”

So Hamish did, ending up with, “Of course, it can’t really be classified as murder since she died of a heart attack, so whenever we find out who rigged the car, he or she will be charged with manslaughter, but everyone knew about her weak heart, so to my mind, it’s murder.”

“And the obvious suspect is Alison.”

“Yes, it seems as if she inherits the lot. Money’s usually the root of all murders, or passion, but the guests seem a weak, mercenary lot. Maggie told them she would give her money to the one she married and that she didn’t expect to live long. Mind you, in that case, why didn’t whoever wait till she changed her will? But I can’t see Alison doing it.”

“Why not?”

“That one would dream about killing Maggie, but never actually do it. Or if by any remote chance she did, she would use poison. It’s more of a man’s murder. Crispin Witherington would know all about car engines. I’ll find out about the others.”

The kitchen door opened and Alison Kerr walked in. “Oh!” she said, looking at Priscilla in dismay. Priscilla half rose to leave, saw the look in Hamish’s eye, and sat down again, putting an affectionate hand on Hamish’s arm.

“Hamish!” said Alison, taking a chair on the other side of Hamish and gazing into his eyes. “You have to do something. The press keep badgering me. They ring the bell and shout through the letterbox. What am I to do?”

“You get Mrs. Todd to move into one of the spare bedrooms,” said Hamish wearily, “and you get her to answer the door, and before you do that, you shut the gates to the house and don’t open them unless you want to drive out.”

“But you have to come up and tell these reporters they are trespassing!”

“I cannae do a thing. There are no laws of trespass in Scotland. You’ve got four men in the house. Can’t one of them cope?”

“Peter’s been marvellous. He brought me down here. He’s waiting outside. He knew the press would be coming so he parked his car outside, a little down the main road. So we crept out through the garden when the press weren’t looking.”

“Did ye no’ think of just walking through them and saying ‘No comment’? Obviously not. Get Mrs. Todd. She’ll handle them.”

“But I can’t pay her to stay all night!”

“You phone the solicitors in the morning,” said Hamish patiently, “and make sure you inherit. If you do, you ask them for what money you need. You could even put a down payment on a car.”

“A car! Oh, Hamish, you are clever,” said Alison, throwing her arms around him, all her anger at his previous cruelty forgotten.

“Yes, yes,” said Hamish testily, unwinding her arras from about his neck. “I would appreciate it, Alison, if you would phone me next time you want to come here. As you can see, I am entertaining company.”

Alison blushed. Priscilla gave her a cool look and said, “Your friend must be wondering what’s keeping you.”

“I’m going,” said Alison crossly. “You don’t own Hamish, you know.”

“My, my. Isn’t money the wonderful thing,” said Hamish as Alison went out, slamming the door behind her. “The worm’s beginning to turn.”

“I don’t like that girl one bit,” said Priscilla.

“Och, she’s all right. She’ll soon be married to another car.”

Alison tried to remind herself on the road home that she should be grieving for Maggie, but she could not feel particularly sad. How much had Maggie left? Thousands! And a car! A darling little car, all her very own.

“We’ll look through her papers as soon as we get back,” said Peter with a smile. “I know what you’re thinking about. You want a car of your own.”

“Oh, Peter, you’re sometimes so perceptive, you scare me,” breathed Alison.

Alison had not searched for the will before, feeling it would be just too vulgar and insensitive. But she and Peter went straight to the study as soon as they got in and began to search through the desk. Alison was beginning to despair when Peter found it in the very front of the top drawer where it suddenly seemed to materialise in that irritating way that things do when you want them desperately – as if the household imps had got tired of the game of hide and seek and decided to let you find whatever it was you were looking for.

Alison opened it up. Her own name seemed to leap up at her and then she read on, frowning.

“What is it?” asked Peter. “Hasn’t she left you anything?”

“Yes, but this is a new will. This is a copy. She must have stopped off in Inverness on her road home and made out a new one. Listen! She says that if I die, the money and the proceeds from this house and her place in London are to be divided equally among the four of you, “the only men who ever really loved me,” that’s what she says.”

Peter looked at her thoughtfully. “Then you’d better just hope that one of us isn’t the murderer,” he said.

Alison did what Hamish had suggested. The lawyers said their Mr. Brady was on his road to see her and she could make any arrangements with him. But, yes, they would most certainly advance her any money she wanted.

Mr. Brady arrived and read out the contents of the will to a stunned audience. For Maggie had been worth over a million pounds in investments and property. “No wonder,” said Peter dryly, when the lawyer had left, “that they were so keen to lend you money.”

Mrs. Todd agreed to live in. She demanded three hundred pounds a week. Alison blinked slightly at that but readily agreed to pay her. The terror of the press receded. Mrs. Todd gave them all a piece of her mind and then firmly locked the main gates in their faces.

And while all this was going on, Hamish was dealing with a new superior. Blair had been taken off the case, although detectives MacNab and Anderson had been left on it. This detective chief inspector was called Ian Donati. His parents had come from Italy and settled in the Highlands. He was thin and sallow with clever black eyes and a lilting Highland voice. A Highland Italian, thought Hamish, thank God, having all the average Scotsman’s respect for Italians.

Donati produced Hamish’s report and questioned him closely. “As you seem to have a record for solving murders, I think it would be better if you accompanied us to Baird’s house and sit in while we interview everyone all over again,” said Donati. “Forensic men were working all night on that car to come up with the same results as your local mechanic.” His manner was polite and impersonal.

Before they went into the bungalow, Anderson drew Hamish aside. “Why did ye land poor auld Blair in the shit?” he asked. “Blair’s a good steady worker.”

“I thought you didnae like the auld scunner!” exclaimed Hamish.

“I’d rather hae him than Donati.”

Hamish grinned. “Your common nose has been put out o’ joint. Donati’s too classy for ye. No swearin’, no slacking off, no boozing.”

“Well, he shouldnae give himself airs. His folks own a restaurant in Strathbane.”

“And your dad spent most of his life on the dole. You’re an awfy snob, Anderson. That man’s a breath o’ fresh air to me. Come on.”

The guests and Alison and Mrs. Todd did not like Donati. They found his quiet, dry manner and probing questions terrifying. Hamish watched and listened. Without quite saying it, Donati seemed to lay the cold facts out before the four guests: all were reported to be in need of money and were prepared to marry a woman that none of them had professed to like anymore. They all secretly blamed Alison for having dished the dirt on them to the police, not knowing it was Mrs. Todd who had told the police in no uncertain terms that she had overheard each of the men saying that Maggie had changed a lot and all for the worse.

The four men then gave their fingerprints and signed their statements and were told they could leave any time they wanted provided they let the police know where they could be contacted. But all said they had taken leave from work and would stay. It was obvious to Hamish that Alison was to be the new target for their affections and perhaps Peter Jenkins had been clever at getting in first.

But Peter Jenkins thought that Alison might be capable of falling for, say, the pop singer and shrewdly thought that Alison clung to him because, until the reading of the will, he had been the only one to be particularly nice to her.

He was therefore relieved when Alison the next day asked him shyly if he would drive her down to the solicitors so that she could pick up a cheque from them. He readily agreed. Alison, desperate to buy a new car right away, did not even want to wait until the cheque cleared so Peter said he would put a down payment on a car for her and she could pay him as soon as she got the money. Alison spent a happy afternoon at a showroom out on Inverness’s industrial estate looking at and trying out cars. To Peter’s surprise, she fell in love with a bright red mini, the cheapest new car in the showroom. Made bold by Alison’s timidity, he got the salesman to phone the solicitors and found to his relief that the showroom would accept Alison’s cheque right away and cash it as soon as the lawyer’s cheque cleared, for Peter knew he had very little left in his personal account.

That evening, it was Alison who was the centre of attention and she blossomed under it, convincing herself that her personal charms were the reason for all this sudden adoration.

And while they all fussed over Alison and paid her compliments, Donati was sitting with Hamish Macbeth in the Lochdubh police station. An efficient man, he had phoned Scotland Yard when he had first been put on the case, directly after Daviot returned from the pub after speaking to Hamish. He had asked Scotland Yard to phone all the private detective agencies in London. Scotland Yard had quickly found the right one and had faxed the agency’s report to Strathbane.

“And here it is,” said Donati, still with that precise, dry manner. “I’ll run through it for you. Crispin Witherington is in bad trouble. Financially, I mean. He’s been in trouble in the past. He was at the centre of an investigation into stolen cars a good time ago. He was making money hand over fist. Although nothing could be proved against him, it’s my guess he went straight and, not being a good car salesman or a good manager, proceeded to lose money.

“James Frame is another steady character. From research into Maggie Baird’s background, it seems she often moved about that half-world of the west end of London frequented by rich criminals, drinking with the Kray brothers, that sort of thing. Oh, he knows cars. He worked, get this, at one time for Witherington. Nothing ever pinned on him. That gambling club’s been raided several times for drugs but nothing ever found.

“Peter Jenkins. Good family. Educated Westminster and Christchurch, Oxford. Not a good degree. Fourth in history. Did what ex-public school boys with iffy degrees in history do – joined an advertising agency as a copy writer. Worked up to the management side. Got inheritance. Started his own firm. Did well for a bit, mainly owing to brilliant partner who recently pulled out and went into separate business and took some of the best accounts with him. Needs money or firm will fold. No money left in the family. Only child, parents dead, rich uncle was the last hope.

“Steel Ironside, nee Victor Plummer, comes from village in the Cotswolds, must have adopted that accent. Sprang to fame in the late sixties during the drug culture and anti-establishment years. Was quite good-looking in a pretty, unisex sort of way, you’d never think it now to look at all that grey hair. Back in prominence in the seventies with protest songs. His hit, “We’ll Change the World,” is still sung at demonstrations but hardly by the type of people who’ll pay any royalties. He wrote it. Married to some noisy slag in Liverpool. Two kids. Never sends them any money. Into drugs but who wasn’t in that sort of world, nothing serious. Done a few times for carrying hash through London airport but always for himself. Never pushed or supplied. What a right lot of lulus our Maggie Baird picked.”

“Who else would fall in love with a prostitute?” said Hamish primly.

Donati looked at Hamish in surprise, and then bent his head quickly to hide a smile. “Aye, maybe you’re right,” he said. “But the only one with a motive is Alison Kerr.”

Hamish clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “I believe they all were in love with her at one time. She wasnae, I gather from Alison who was typing those memoirs which have mysteriously disappeared, the kind to just demand money for services rendered. It was all done under the guise of love. You know, clothes, jewels, payment disguised as presents. They’re all weak men with king-sized egos. Maybe one of them nursed a lifelong grudge and wanted to get back at her. She’d developed a real bitchy manner. Could have tipped one of them over the edge. One of them could have known about the will, the new one Brady told us about. Och, but he would have to get rid of Alison.”

“Exactly. I think we’d better warn her, don’t you?”

Alison was getting ready for bed when Mrs. Todd knocked at the bedroom door to say ‘thae polis’ were back again. Alison opened the door. “Do I have to see them?” she asked weakly. She was wearing one of Maggie’s white satin nightdresses with a white satin negligee trimmed with maribou. Mrs. Todd looked shocked. “I’m surprised at you, lassie. Wearing a dead woman’s clothes.”

“These were new,” said Alison defiantly. “She’d never even taken them out of the box.”

“Well, you are not seeing the polis until you make yourself look decent,” said Mrs. Todd, folding her arms across her aproned bosom.

Alison wanted to scream that she was mistress of the house and would wear what she liked, but she sulkily went back into the bedroom and soon reappeared in one of her old skirts and a sweater.

“Now, that looks like my wee lassie again,” said Mrs. Todd. “Come along and I’ll stay with ye. It’s that Macbeth that gets my back up. Too young for the National Service. He should hae been drafted as a young man. A stint in the army would hae knocked some o’ the laziness oot o’ him. I remember during the war when I was in the army…” But Alison closed her ears. She was tired of Mrs. Todd’s lectures. I’m fed up with her, thought Alison mutinously as she followed Mrs. Todd down the stairs, but how can I get rid of her? I know. I’ll sell this place and get away from her that way.

The new millionairess walked into the sitting room and both policemen rose at her entrance.

“You may leave us,” said Donati to the housekeeper.

“No, I’ll stay right here,” said Mrs. Todd.

“Do as you are told, woman!” snapped Donati.

“I’ll be in the kitchen, Alison, if you want me,” said Mrs. Todd, and Alison thought, She’ll need to start calling me “Miss Kerr.”

Donati said, “We have established that Mrs. Baird died because someone deliberately tampered with her car. It was manslaughter!”

Alison let out a whimpering sound. Her eyes sought those of Hamish Macbeth. Hamish stood like the epitome of the bone-headed police officer, hands behind his back, eyes on the middle distance.

“If you did not have any hand in this attempt, then we fear your life may be in danger,” said Donati in that emotionless voice of his.

“Me! Why?”

“Because the four men here stand to benefit from your death. Unless, of course, the criminal is lucky enough to get you to marry him.”

Alison began to cry. Hamish reflected he had never known anyone in his life before who could cry as much as Alison Kerr.

Donati remained unmoved. “A policeman will be on constant guard at the house. Tell him if you notice anything suspicious.”

Alison scrubbed her eyes. “Can I have Hamish?” she pleaded.

“No, I need Macbeth on this case and he has his village duties as well. A policeman from Strathbane will be assigned to you. Now, I am sorry to keep you further but you must tell me more about that book you were typing. Did she mention any of the four men in it?”

Alison shook her head. Hamish, glancing at her, noticed a sudden flash of alarm in Alison’s eyes and wondered what she had just remembered.

“Well, I must ask you for the names of some of the men in the book Also, did Mrs. Baird have any special friend in her heyday, I mean around about the time these four men here would have been on the scene?”

While Alison talked, Hamish found himself beginning to feel useless. Donati was asking all the questions that he, Hamish, would normally have asked behind Blair’s fat back. It was very hard to feel clever and superior with Donati around. And Blair’s hatred and jealousy of him, Hamish reflected, was a compliment in a way. Donati treated him as an intelligent policeman on the beat should be treated, nothing more. I’m jealous, thought Hamish ruefully.

When they had left, Alison threw herself into Mrs. Todd’s sturdy arms and sobbed her heart out. “Now, then,” said Mrs. Todd, “you come upstairs and I’ll tuck you into bed. There, there. You poor thing. Men!”

All Alison’s thoughts of asserting herself and getting rid of Mrs. Todd disappeared. It was lovely to be mothered.

But as soon as Mrs. Todd had switched out the light and left, Alison began to tremble. Which one of them would kill her for the money? Money was so important. She couldn’t sleep. The wind sighed through the trees outside, a mourning sound. She shivered despite the centrally heated warmth of the room.

And then she heard a soft sound outside her door. She switched on the bedside light. The door handle began to turn. Alison opened her mouth to scream but the door opened quickly and revealed Peter Jenkins. “What do you want?” asked Alison harshly.

He came and sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “That detective made me feel like a criminal.” Peter was wearing a paisley silk dressing gown over his pyjamas and his hair was tousled. Alison found she could not feel afraid of him.

“I’m awfully scared,” she said. “I can’t sleep either.”

He took her hand in his. “I’ll sit with you for a bit.”

“Thank you,” said Alison shyly.

They fell silent, looking at each other. Then Peter slowly bent his head and kissed Alison gently on the mouth. She wrapped her arms around him and the next thing he was lying on the bed and a few kisses later, in the bed, and a few more and they had both managed to divest themselves of their nightwear with that strange agility of people who are determined to make love.

Their lovemaking was brief but satisfactory to both. Heaven, thought Alison just before she drifted off to sleep in Peter’s arms, almost as good as driving.