Death of a Maid

∨ Death of a Maid ∧

9

My barmie noddle’s working prime.

—Robert Burns

Hamish opened the door. “Come in, quick,” he said.

Elspeth slid in. She looked tired. “Great story, Hamish. I’ve been filing stories since I got back from Glasgow, and I haven’t had any sleep.”

“I think I’ll have a whisky,” said Hamish. “Feel like joining me? I felt at one moment I’d made an awful mistake. I could see the poor Currie sisters with their eyes streaming with tear gas and some of the locals being shot with stun guns.”

“I’m surprised our divine leader didn’t fly up. He and his wife breathe photo opportunities.”

“Maybe he was frightened he’d be massacred. Whisky?”

“Yes, I’ll join you, and then I’m going to bed.”

“Alone?”

“What sort of question is that?” demanded Elspeth angrily. “And what right have you to ask it?”

“I’m sorry,” said Hamish. “I don’t know why I asked that. Stop bristling at me and sit down. You look like Sonsie when the cat’s fur is up.”

“Where are the beasts?”

“Out for a walk. I lifted them out through the kitchen window.”

“How will you know when they want back in?”

“Sonsie leaps up and raps on the glass.”

“What came over that police inspector? Daviot said there were to be no arrests. Made a good story, though.”

“You didn’t, did you?”

“We all did. Why did she do it? She struck me as a career police officer.”

“I think she likes the authority her position gives her. I think someone like me really annoys her. Where’s Luke?”

“Up at the hotel with the other press. Mr. Johnson will be glad when the story dies down because he can’t give any tourists a booking. The press have taken up most of the rooms.”

“Isn’t that good for business?”

“Not really. The hotel relies on regulars to come back year after year. Most of the press will be gone by tomorrow.”

Hamish poured two shots of whisky and put a jug of water on the table.

“Aren’t you going to open your mail?” asked Elspeth, looking at a few unopened letters on the kitchen table.

“Probably bills. I’ll look at them tomorrow.”

Elspeth flipped through them. “Here’s one that looks personal, and the postmark’s Inverness.”

“Let me see.” Hamish opened the envelope and scanned the letter inside.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Probably,” said Elspeth. “What is it?”

“It’s from Mr. Abercrombie, that student’s father, you know the one who claimed that Sander had stolen his book. He says a woman came to visit him the other day and said she was a friend of his son’s and that they’d been at university at the same time. She was shocked to learn Sean was dead. She said she remembered Professor Sander had given him a job typing out his manuscript, a book on Byron. She said Sean went a bit mad after that and started claiming the book was his own. He kept swearing to come off the drugs.”

“So that’s one blackmailing theory out the window,” said Elspeth.

“No, on the contrary. There must be something else. Someone as pompous as the professor wouldn’t put up with a bossy charwoman unless she had something on him. Inspector Cannon wanted me to follow him. Maybe she was on to something. I think I’ll get back on it tomorrow. I’ll have a talk to the stepdaughter first. She may have remembered something.”

“I’ll come with you,” volunteered Elspeth.

“You’ll get me in trouble. I’m not supposed to have civilians in a police vehicle unless I’m arresting them.”

“But, idiot, we’ll take my car. You don’t want to be seen tailing him in a cop car.”

“Forgot that. I took Angela’s car the last time. But the neighbours saw me parked out all day and called the police.”

“A couple is better camouflage. Let’s guess it’s something to do with where he goes outside Braikie. In order to go to Strathbane or Inverness, he’d need to go along the main street. So we wait there.”

Hamish still hesitated. Elspeth surveyed him with amusement. “Yes, Hamish, we will take your odd animals so you don’t need to sit there working up courage to ask Angela to look after them for you.”

“Thanks. Angela was getting fed up with me. I’ll meet you here about noon. That’ll give me time to go and see the stepdaughter.”

♦

The following day was fine, with only an edge of cold heralding the coming of the long, dark Scottish winter. The very mountains in the distance were blue, as if taking their colour from the cloudless sky above.

The sea opposite Heather Gillespie’s house was calm. Seals lay on the beach, basking in the sunlight. At the sound of Hamish’s approaching vehicle, they started to waddle towards the sea like so many arthritic and elderly gentlemen.

To Hamish’s surprise, Tom Morrison, Heather’s ex-husband, answered the door. “Surprised to see me?” he said with a grin. “We’re back together. We’ll be getting married again next month.”

“That’s grand,” said Hamish. “Is Heather at home?”

“Come in. I’ll get her.”

When Heather appeared, she looked happy. Hamish hoped it would not turn out that she had murdered her mother in a fit of rage. He suddenly wondered why it was when he had been stalking the professor that the neighbours had all noticed his presence and yet had seen no one at all on the day of Mrs. Gillespie’s murder. Could someone have masqueraded as a postman, or as someone the neighbours would expect to see?

He realised Heather was looking at him with amusement. “I’ve asked you two times if you want tea or coffee,” she said.

“Sorry, I suddenly thought of something. Nothing for me, thanks. I wondered if you had remembered anything about your stepmother that might be useful.”

“I don’t think I can. Apart from humiliating me and breaking up my marriage, I don’t really know what else she got up to.”

“Did she ever hint that she had some sort of power over any of her employers?”

“No, she was too busy exercising power over me and Dad. I’m glad she’s dead. Dad’s cancer has gone into remission. They say it’s a miracle.”

“I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, what with the murder of your mother and getting your marriage back together, but when you get a quiet moment, think of anything she might have found out about anyone and let slip.”

She promised and Hamish left. Now to meet Elspeth and follow the professor.

♦

It was a long and boring day for Hamish and Elspeth. As evening approached, Hamish began to feel irritable because of the attraction Elspeth held for him. He wanted to say something and yet feared a rejection. Also, he knew Elspeth would settle for nothing less than marriage, and he really didn’t feel he wanted to get married.

Suddenly Elspeth said, “There he goes!” They set off in pursuit of the professor.

Elspeth was driving. “Keep well back,” Hamish warned her. “The roads are so empty, and we don’t want him catching sight of us.”

Professor Sander took the Strathbane road, and Hamish groaned. “Maybe that bookshop he visited last time is open late. He’ll buy books and head back home. A whole day wasted.”

“May as well keep going,” said Elspeth, negotiating a hairpin bend. “I’ll be glad when we get to the straight bit. That way I can keep him in sight from a long way off.”

As soon as she saw the professor’s car disappear into the town, she accelerated.

“I’ve lost him,” she mourned.

“No, you haven’t,” said Hamish. “I just saw him turning into the multi-storey car park.”

There were two cars now behind the professor looking for parking spaces. Professor Sander parked on the third floor. Elspeth slid her car into a bay a little way away.

When the professor got out and walked to the lift, they both headed for the stairs and sprinted down.

The streets were busy, so they were able to follow him easily without being seen.

Then, to their surprise, their quarry turned into a McDonald’s.

“We can’t go in there,” said Elspeth. “He’d see us.”

“Let’s wait across the road. He surely won’t be long. It’s fast food.”

After only twenty minutes, Sander emerged and headed for the car park.

“The wee scunner is going home,” complained Hamish.

“You never know,” said Elspeth. “Let’s get the car and follow.”

But the professor’s car veered off on a road down to the docks. They followed, hanging well back.

“Stop here,” said Hamish. “He can’t go much further. This road’s a dead end. Let’s get out and have a look.”

Keeping in the shadow of dark warehouses, still smelling of soot, they crept forward. The professor’s car had stopped, but the engine was still running.

Three youths emerged from the shadows. “I hope he isn’t going to be mugged,” muttered Elspeth. “Then we’d have to do something.”

They saw Professor Sander lower the car window. “Is it drugs?” whispered Elspeth. “Seems to be some sort of deal going on.”

Then two of the youths melted back into the shadows, and one went round to the passenger side of the car and got in.

“Not drugs,” said Hamish. “Rent boy. In the front of the car so a quick blow job. Should be over soon.”

“Are you going to arrest them?”

“I got a good look at the boy from the light in the car when he leaned over with the others. He’s over age.”

“But still…”

“It goes on the whole time in this dump of a town,” said Hamish wearily. “Prostitutes, rent boys, drugs, the lot. But now I can call on him tomorrow and find out if this is the reason Mrs. Gillespie may have been blackmailing him. I am not going to single the professor out and ruin his life. Can you imagine what Blair would make of this?”

“I heard Blair had been suspended.”

“Probably back on the job. The way that man oils up to his superiors is little short of genius. Let’s go.”

They walked back to Elspeth’s car and got in.

“I’m beginning to think Braikie is a den of iniquity,” said Elspeth.

“I’m sure none of us would like our private lives dug into,” said Hamish.

“Can I come with you to the professor’s tomorrow?”

“Now, Elspeth, how do I explain bringing the press along? And remember, all this is off the record. Stop the car when we’re clear of the town. I need to feed the beasts, and I’m right hungry myself.”

♦

Back home, Hamish checked his answering machine and was surprised to find there were no messages for him at all. He had been sure that either Blair or Mary Gannon would have been on the phone, demanding to know what he was doing.

He washed and undressed and got into bed, followed by the dog and cat. “You’d better stay here yourselves tomorrow,” he told them. He suddenly found himself wishing that Elspeth, instead of his animals, were lying beside him. But Elspeth was no longer interested in an affair. It would need to be marriage.

♦

Hamish was prepared to handle the matter of the rent boy delicately – and wished for years afterwards that he had done so – but Professor Sander greeted him with an initial tirade about police harassment and the stupidity of local coppers which he put down to inbreeding.

So Hamish came right out with it. “What were you doing soliciting a rent boy in Strathbane last night?”

Hamish had been kept on the doorstep. The professor’s face turned a muddy colour. “Come in,” he said faintly.

Hamish followed him into his study. Professor Sander sank down into a chair and stared at the floor.

“Is that what Mrs. Gillespie had on you?” Hamish demanded.

“I invited one of them back here.” The bluster had left the professor, and Hamish had to strain to hear what he was saying. “We got drunk and he stayed the night. When I came down in the morning, I found him in the kitchen with Mrs. Gillespie. It was after that the blackmailing started.”

“What did she ask for?”

“Money, of course. But also, she treated me like a servant. If she wanted to go to Inverness, say, I had to drive her. One time, I had to buy her an expensive new television and DVD player. I couldn’t go to the police.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No, I did not. When I saw her dead, all I felt was relief.” Then some of his old bluster came back. “You must have been following me,” he said. “That’s harassment. You bring me down, and I’ll have you out of a job. I have powerful friends.”

So instead of reassuring him that he would keep the matter quiet, Hamish said, “You’ll need your powerful friends. You’ll be hearing from me again.”

He drove to the Tommel Castle Hotel, where Elspeth had told him she would be waiting to hear how he had got on.

She listened carefully and then turned those odd silver eyes of hers on him. “Did you not tell him you wouldn’t be reporting him?”

“I was going to, Elspeth, but he began to get all pompous again, and I wanted him to sweat a little. What is this? You were all for me reporting him.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” said Elspeth. “I know he’s a pompous prick, but look at it this way. All that investigation into his book must have put him under a lot of strain. He’s probably been behaving himself for quite a bit. Then when he thinks he’s safe, he heads off to Strathbane to – er – celebrate. He’s probably now thinking of headlines in the papers.”

“A man picking up a rent boy doesn’t make a story these days.”

“But frightened people always think they’ll be top of the news. Hamish, I’m begging you. Go and tell the man you’re going to keep it quiet.”

“Elspeth, when I left him, he seemed quite recovered. Oh, okay, I’ll go back and put his mind at rest.”

She followed him out to the car park. “You may be too late. Look at the sky!”

Black clouds like long fingers were trailing in from the Atlantic.

“It chust means the rain’s coming,” said Hamish angrily.

He drove off slowly, aware of Elspeth watching him go. Rubbish, he thought. He realised he hadn’t had any breakfast, so instead he went to the police station and fried sausage, bacon, and eggs and ate leisurely. Then he fed the dog and cat and let them out for a walk before driving off reluctantly in the direction of Braikie. The wind was strengthening, and the sky above was black.

There was a flash of lightning followed by a tremendous crack of thunder. Damn Elspeth and her fancies, he thought. The rain came down, whipping across the landscape.

He was glad the tide was out as he reached the shore road, but out in the Atlantic, huge waves lit by flashes of lightning were rearing up. It seemed like the end of the world, as though the sea were coming back to claim its own, to claim all the glens it had flooded of old. There was something about Sutherland on a bad day, thought Hamish, that made the human race feel like temporary inhabitants of an increasingly angry planet.

He got out of the Land Rover in front of the professor’s house and ran up the short drive. He had forgotten to wear his oilskin, and his regulation sweater and trousers were soaked by the time he reached the shelter of the porch.

He rang the bell. No answer. The professor’s car was in the drive. He tried the door handle. The door was not locked.

Probably drinking himself silly, thought Hamish. “Professor Sander!” he shouted.

The thunder rolled, but further away.

Hamish went into the study. Maybe gone to bed. He went upstairs, located the professor’s bedroom, but it, too, was empty.

Hamish began to feel more cheerful. Elspeth and her thoughts! The man had probably decided to walk to the shops and had got caught in the rain.

But why didn’t he lock the door? asked a little voice in his head.

He shrugged and decided to make a thorough search so that he could report to Elspeth that all was well. The sitting room was empty.

He opened the kitchen door, looked in, and then froze.

From a meat hook in the ceiling hung the lifeless body of Professor Sander.

What have I done? thought Hamish. He took out his phone and called police headquarters.

There was a sealed envelope on the kitchen table addressed to the procurator fiscal. He longed to open it. What did it say? Did it say it’s because of Hamish Macbeth that I can’t live any longer?

He retreated to the hall and sat down on a hard chair by the door and waited.

♦

Blair arrived, followed by Jimmy Anderson, two policemen, and the pathologist. It would have to be Blair, thought Hamish.

“In the kitchen,” said Hamish bleakly.

“Stay where you are,” growled Blair.

So Hamish stayed. The forensic team arrived.

“So,” said Blair, confronting Hamish, “what were you doing here?”

Hamish thought quickly. “It was believed that Professor Sander had plagiarised his book on Byron. Some student had been accusing him of pinching his work. I had just received proof that this was not true and called to tell the professor. I found him dead.”

“Get to your feet when you’re talking to a senior officer. Well, it wraps those murders up.”

“How?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, get back to yer sheep, laddie, and leave things to the experts.”

Behind Blair’s fat back, Jimmy held up a piece of paper saying, “See you later.”

♦

Back at the police station, Hamish phoned Elspeth and told her the news. “I’d better get a police statement, Hamish. I’ll get over to Braikie right now. Luke had better come with me.”

Luke, thought Hamish after he had rung off. I’d forgotten all about him. He experienced a sudden sharp pang of jealousy.

He did his various crofting chores during the rest of the day. The storm had rolled away to the east, and the day was bright and chilly.

As the first evening star twinkled in the sky, he found his thoughts turning to Elspeth. But a nasty little cautioning voice in his brain asked him whether he would be so interested if she had not arrived with Luke. He tried not to pay any attention to it. He could just see Elspeth living at the police station. It could be fun. He would have company during the long, dark winter months. She would not like to be idle, but she could surely get her old job on the local paper back again. Then it would be rather grand to have a son. Would she want a big wedding? If she didn’t, his mother would.

His happy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Jimmy. “Well, that’s that,” said Jimmy. “Are you going to stand out here looking at your hens with a silly smile on your face all night, or can we go inside?”

Hamish led the way into the kitchen and took down a bottle of whisky and glasses from the cupboard.

“What’s what?” he asked.

“That letter Sander left. He said…wait a bit. I’ve taken a note of it.” He fished out a battered notebook and thumbed through the leaves. “Ah, here it is. “I am sorry for everything. Yes, I am guilty. I cannot bear to live with the shame. I would not survive in prison.” It’s signed with his name. So that’s that. We’re still trying to figure out why he killed Mrs. Gillespie except that the blackmailing old trout must have had something on him that Shona found out. Daviot’s thrilled to bits. Gave a press conference. All the press are going away. You’ll be glad of that.”

Hamish slowly poured two measures of whisky. “He didn’t do those murders, Jimmy.”

“Man, he as good as said so!”

Hamish told Jimmy about the rent boy and about how Mrs. Gillespie had been blackmailing him. “I should have told the professor I wasnae going to do anything about it. But he was so pompous that I decided to let him sweat for a little. God, I’ve as good as killed him.”

“Nasty wee man. No great loss,” said Jimmy heartlessly. “This whisky is foul, Hamish. What’s it called? Dream o’ the Glens. Probably made in Japan.”

“It wass on special offer. If you don’t like it, don’t drink it. Don’t you see the problem? If I tell Blair what I know, he may get me suspended or even fired. They’ll all be that furious that their precious case isnae wrapped up.”

“Hamish, I can’t really sit on this information. I mean, you don’t want a murderer getting off scot-free.”

“Could you give me a couple of days?”

“Hamish, this isn’t the telly where the senior officer says, “You have twenty-four hours.” And it’ll be worse for you if it looks as if you’ve been sitting on this information. Look, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll try to get hold of the rent boy who spent the night with the prof and got caught by Mrs. Gillespie. I’ll put in a report about that and suggest it might be the real reason for his suicide. I’ll hint that the rent boy was about to blow the gaff. They’ll hate me for it.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. There iss something nagging at the back of my mind.”

“He could have done it, Hamish.”

“Let me think about it. I wass surprised not to see Inspector Gannon at the scene.”

“She’s been transferred to Inverness. Blair, who, as you must have gathered, did not stay suspended long, was heard saying that they wanted none of that feminist crap in Strathbane. Daviot was furious with her for causing what he called ‘an unnecessary ruckus.’ Sad day for women’s lib. The few women police who hoped to rise in the ranks are furious as well, thinking that she’s ruined their chances of promotion.”

♦

That night, Hamish lay in bed but could not sleep. All the people he had interviewed kept swirling around in his head. Then he suddenly sat bolt upright. Mrs. Gillespie had recognised Dr. Renfrew from a television show. A blackmailer would immediately slot in a video or DVD to record the rest of it. Probably a video. But she had a DVD player. The professor said she had made him buy her one.

Maybe it was before that. He phoned the stepdaughter, Heather. Tom Morrison’s sleepy voice came on the line. “What do you want?” he asked sharply. “It’s two in the morning.”

“It’s urgent,” said Hamish. “I need to speak to Heather.”

He could hear a lot of grumbling, and then Heather’s voice came on the line.

“Did Mrs. Gillespie tape a lot of television shows?”

“You got me up in the middle of the night to ask that!”

“It’s important. Think!”

“Well, yes, but only a few. In fact I was going over to my dad’s today to throw out a lot of old stuff. There’s a box of videos in the attic.”

“What about DVDs?”

“Not them. She couldn’t get the hang of how to record them.”

“I’ll meet you at your father’s at seven in the morning.”

“Have a heart!”

“Well, make it eight.”

Hamish rang off. She liked the Trant Television’s reality shows. Maybe, just maybe, she had taped another show because there was someone she recognised. But wouldn’t that be too much of a coincidence? On the other hand, often in the past people had moved to the far north of Scotland to escape from something. How long, for example, had Fiona Fleming been living in Braikie? And the impeccable Mrs. Styles had been a gorgeous-looking girl in her youth from what he remembered of the photograph he had seen.

He barely slept that night. He was up early to shave and dress and feed the cat and dog. It was only after he had fed them that he realised his guilty conscience was making them fat because he was giving them too many meals.

Once more he took the road to Braikie under the chill light of a small yellow sun, rising above the mountains.

He was too early when he arrived outside Mr. Gillespie’s home. He sat in the Land Rover and fretted until, at last, Heather arrived.

She let him in and said, “Come upstairs, but quiet, now. Dad’ll still be asleep. I put a lot of stuff in the spare room. It used to be mine.”

She pushed open a door and said, “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got to have a cup of coffee. You’re just in time. The Salvation Army is sending someone round this afternoon to pick the lot up.”

Hamish ignored the plastic bags of clothes. “Where are the videos?”

“You’ll find them in that box over by the window.”

Hamish knelt down on the floor beside the box and began to go through them. There were various films, but six tapes were not marked at all. He’d need to go through the lot.

He carried them down to the kitchen. “Have you a video recorder here?”

“I haven’t seen one. I seem to mind she threw it out when she got the DVD player.”

Hamish wrote her a receipt for the tapes. He did not have any sort of recorder at the police station. Then he remembered that Angela Brodie had a video recorder.

♦

Angela was cooking breakfast when Hamish arrived. She was placing a plate of sausage, eggs, bacon, fried bread, and black pudding in front of the doctor.

“That’ll fur your arteries,” commented Hamish.

“Did you interrupt my breakfast to lecture me on diet?” asked Dr. Brodie, taking a swipe at a cat that was trying to drag a sausage off the plate.

Hamish explained that he needed a video recorder.

“There’s one in the living room,” said Angela. “Help yourself. It’s all over the news this morning, Hamish, that the professor committed those murders.”

“Maybe,” said Hamish.

He went into the living room, switched on the television, and slotted the first of the tapes into the video recorder. It turned out to be the one featuring Dr. Renfrew, amongst others. The next one, also Trant Television, was about shady car dealers. He watched it until the end in case Tom Morrison should appear, but there was nothing there. He took it out and changed it for another. It was an expose of the number of pirated goods in street markets. His heart sinking, he tried another. It was about antique dealers who faked antiques.

Angela brought him in a cup of coffee. He thanked her, wincing a little as he saw a cat hair sticking to the edge of the cup.

“Got anything?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Hamish.

“You looking for proof of something?”

“I was hoping to find some.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Hamish slotted in the fifth tape. He found himself looking at a programme about prostitution. He sighed impatiently as he listened to interviews with prostitutes. He was about to switch off the tape when the presenter said, “Of course, there are still top-flight models, as they are called, on sale at discreet clubs in London. We could not gain access, but we found a film which had been secretly taken at a club in Beauchamp Place in the early nineties.” Hamish watched the grainy film. Very beautiful girls were drinking with various men. Must cost a mint for one of those, thought Hamish. And then he saw a familiar figure come into view. Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson! One of the men went up to her and bent down and whispered. She nodded and called one of the girls over. Hamish watched, transfixed, but the brief film ended.

So that was what Mrs. Gillespie had on Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson, he thought, and Shona probably remembered that film.

What about her Glasgow alibi?

He decided to go straight down to Glasgow and see if Bella Robinson had returned.

On the way out, he pleaded with Angela to look after his animals just one more time and then, deaf to her complaints, hurried to the Land Rover.

He drove straight to Inverness airport and caught a plane to Glasgow. He hired a car at Glasgow airport and set out in the direction of Bearsden, getting lost a few times in Glasgow’s bewildering flyovers until he found the right route.

As he braked to a stop outside The Croft, he saw a car parked in the space in front of the house. He went up and rang the bell.

A small woman with dyed-brown hair and a heavily made-up face answered the door.

She looked alarmed when she saw Hamish.

“May I come in?” asked Hamish.

“All right. What’s it about?”

Hamish followed her into a living room furnished with a three·piece suite in white leather. A small crystal chandelier hung from the low ceiling, and a gas fire of fake coals hissed in the grate.

He turned to face her. “Why did you lie about Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson staying with you?”

“I didn’t know it was a police matter.” She had a voice which sounded as if it had been roughened over the years by whisky and cigarettes. “Crystal told me she was having an affair with a married man and his wife was getting suspicious. She said if the wife accused her of anything, she would say she had been staying with me, because she was going to spend the night with him at a hotel in Inverness.”

“Didn’t it strike you as odd when you heard about the murder of that television researcher?”

She twisted her heavily beringed hands and looked at the floor.

“You’re younger than she is,” said Hamish. “Were you one of her girls at that club in Beauchamp Place? Don’t lie to me. I can find out.”

“Yes, I was, and yes, I was frightened when I heard about the murder, so after the police had interviewed me, I cleared off.”

“Is her name really Barret-Wilkinson?”

“Yes, she married one of the punters. Did well for herself. Got a mint out of the divorce. I’d got out of the game with enough money to live comfortably. I wasn’t like the other girls. No drugs for me.”

“Did you think Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson might have killed Shona Fraser?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Sit down, won’t you?”

Hamish took off his cap and sat down. Mrs. Fleming would love this white furniture, he thought.

“It was in ‘93,” she said. “One of the punters wanted her. Crystal used to be on the game but was glad to get the post as a madam. She refused, but the owner, Freddie Ionedes, was in the club that night, and he ordered her to get on with it. I don’t know what the punter did to Crystal, but I heard her scream. Freddie ran upstairs. I heard him shouting, “Why did you kill him?” I couldn’t hear what Crystal replied. I was curious. I crept up the stairs. “You stupid tart,” Freddie was saying. “We’ll need to get rid of the body. I don’t want the police around here. I’ve got the half of Debrett’s downstairs.” I heard him coming to the door of the room, so I nipped back downstairs. I don’t know what they did with the body. After that, Crystal told me she was getting out of the life. The next thing I knew was six months later when she invited me to her wedding in the Chelsea registry office. A year later, one of the girls told me she had bumped into Crystal. She said Crystal had gone all tweedy and respectable. Crystal told her she was divorced and was going somewhere to start a new life and where nothing from her past could catch up with her. I should have known it was a lie when she told me she was having an affair. There’s nothing like being a working girl to put you off men for life.”

“You’ll need to make a sworn statement,” said Hamish.

“Will my past life come out? I’ve gone respectable, and I don’t want the neighbours to know.”

“I’ll try to keep it quiet. A detective will be calling on you soon. Don’t run away again, or they’ll find you. And do not contact Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson, or we will arrest you. What was her name before she married?”

“Crystal Jackson.”

♦

Hamish drove back to the airport, left the rented car, and caught the plane to Inverness. He had a sudden idea of how to clear up the murders, get back at Blair, and avoid any threat of promotion at the same time.

He had the tape with him in the Land Rover. In his pocket was a powerful little tape recorder. He had recorded everything Bella had said.

He went to police headquarters in Inverness and asked to speak to Inspector Cannon.

He had to wait some time before she appeared. “What is it?” she asked harshly. “Come to gloat?”

Hamish smiled. “How would you like to get your own back?”

♦

In an interview room, Mary Cannon listened in growing excitement as Hamish described all he had found out about Crystal Barret-Wilkinson. She listened to his taped interview with Bella and then took him to another room with a video player and watched the tape.

At last, she said, “It’s enough to get a warrant to search her house. But it’s still pretty circumstantial. If she gets a good lawyer, she could walk free or at least get a ‘not proven’ verdict.”

“I have a suggestion to make,” said Hamish. “It might just work…”

♦

Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson opened the door and looked haughtily at the tall policeman. “What is it now, Officer? It’s ten o’clock in the evening.”

“I’d better come in,” said Hamish. “I have come to accuse you of the murders of Mrs. Gillespie and Shona Fraser.”

“You’re mad. Oh, come in. This is rubbish.”

In her sitting room, Hamish removed his cap and sat down and regarded her steadily.

“Well?” she demanded.

“You’d best sit down.”

She sat down in a chair facing him.

“We have a videotape from Trant Television which shows you working as a madam at a club in Beauchamp Place in London. I also have this interview with Bella Robinson.”

She listened while he played the tape, the many rings on her fingers digging into her clenched hands.

“So,” she said when the tape finished, “I was a tart managing tarts, and it was a long time ago. I had nothing to do with the murders. The professor has confessed.”

“Not to the murders, he hasn’t,” said Hamish. “Mrs. Gillespie recognised you from the television programme and blackmailed you. You’ve had a lot of luck. Not at first, mind. I think you tried to run her down, but that didn’t work, so you followed her to Moy Hall to the clay pigeon shoot and tried to kill her there. You found out her schedule and simply waited outside the professor’s for her. Maybe you’d decided to try to talk her out of it or even threaten her to keep quiet. Whatever she said drove you into a mad rage, and you struck her down with her bucket. Then Shona Fraser called on you. Maybe she’d just decided to go around everyone and do a bit of detecting on her own. She, too, recognised you. Maybe you heard her outside phoning me on her mobile. You drove towards Lochdubh. Maybe you’d seen that Land Rover parked up on the hill.”

“What Land Rover?”

“Geordie McArthur’s.”

“Never heard of him.”

Hamish experienced a twinge of doubt. He felt she was telling the truth.

“Okay. So you used your own car. Maybe you hid in the shadows by the police station until you saw her arrive, then you struck her down. You dragged her over to push her into the water, but the body fell into a rowing boat. You went down the stairs, but maybe you heard someone and cut the painter and let the boat drift off.”

Hamish saw uneasily that she was beginning to relax.

“And you have forensic proof to back up all your wild imaginings?”

“We’ll get it. We’ll search this place from top to bottom.”

“Let me get this straight. You say you’ve come here to arrest me for two murders, but you are only a village constable. There are no high-ranking police officers, no detectives. Is this flight of fancy all your own?”

Hamish shuffled his boots. “It iss like this. I haff been working on my own. But I haff enough here to start a full investigation. It would save time if you came quietly.”

“Oh, I may as well come with you to police headquarters and show you up for the fool you are.”

She went over to the table where her handbag lay. She opened it and whipped out a gun and pointed it at Hamish.

She laughed. “You should learn not to confront criminals on your own.”

“So you did the murders?” Hamish regarded her steadily.

“Yes, I did, but you’re never going to prove it because you aren’t going to walk out of here alive.”

She shot Hamish Macbeth full in the chest and watched with satisfaction as he keeled over on the floor.