Death of a Maid

∨ Death of a Maid ∧

6

Marriage is a step, so grave and decisive that it attracts light-headed, variable men by its very awfulness.

—Robert Louis Stevenson

Hamish returned to Lochdubh and went straight to the newspaper office in search of Terry the Geek.

Terry was sitting with his feet on his desk, drinking apple juice and eating a whole-wheat salad sandwich.

He grinned when he saw Hamish. “Looking for Elspeth?”

“No, I need your help. It’s not very legal. But I’d rather you came with me to the police station and did it there.”

“Sounds like fun.” Terry finished his sandwich and followed Hamish along to the police station. In the office, Hamish switched on the computer. “Here’s what I want you to do, Terry. First of all, I would like you to try to access the forensic report and autopsy report on Mrs. Gillespie’s death.”

“Can’t you just ask for them?”

“It would take too much time, and even if I finally got them, Blair would be shouting at me to keep to my part of the job.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“There was, I believe, probably a request put into the procurator fiscal for permission to view the suspects’ bank accounts. See if there’s anything on results.”

“Leave me to it.”

♦

Hamish did not feel like asking Jimmy for any more information because Jimmy would demand whisky and Hamish felt guilty about the idea of the detective driving back to Strathbane when he was over the limit.

He decided to visit Angela Brodie. He let the dog and cat out for a run, telling them not to follow him. He felt Angela had had enough of their company.

The doctor’s wife was, as usual, sitting at the end of a cluttered kitchen table, scowling at her computer.

“Can’t you get a desk somewhere?” exclaimed Hamish. “How can you concentrate among the cats and the dirty dishes?”

“Sit down, Hamish. I can work better in the kitchen than anywhere else. Coffee?”

“No, thank you,” said Hamish. He wasn’t over-fussy about germs, but the sight of Angela’s cats lying on the table amongst the breakfast debris put him off.

“Am I interrupting you?” asked Hamish.

Angela switched off the computer with a sigh. “No, I’m glad of a break. How’s the case going?”

“Too many suspects and not enough clues.”

“Have you seen Mrs. Gillespie’s bank statements?”

“Yes.”

“So was she a blackmailer?”

“She certainly had more money than she could have possibly earned. It came in a few hundred from time to time. No large amount.”

“I’ve heard she was a ferocious bingo player,” said Angela. “Are you sure she wasn’t just lucky?”

Hamish stared at her, his mouth open. Then he said, “Where did she play bingo?”

“At the Catholic church hall in Braikie on Thursday nights.”

Hamish groaned. “I’d better get over there. Who runs it?”

“Ask the priest, Father McNulty.”

“I’m off. Damn! If it turns out the woman was chust lucky at the bingo, that blows the whole motive and a raft o’ suspects clear out o’ the water.”

Hamish went back to the police station. Terry was still working busily. “It’ll take a wee bit of time,” he called.

“Stick with it,” said Hamish. “I’ve got to go to Braikie.”

He whistled for his dog and cat and put them in the Land Rover and set off for Braikie.

♦

The Catholic church, St. Mary’s, was situated up a side street off the main street. It was a modest, unassuming building, flanked on one side by the church hall and by the priest’s home on the other.

He went up to the priest’s house and knocked on the door. Father McNulty himself answered. He was a small, bespectacled man with a perpetually worried look.

“It’s about the bingo,” said Hamish.

“Oh, not again,” groaned the priest. “The Free Presbyterians are aye whining about gambling.”

“No, it’s something else.”

“Come in. I was just about to have a cup of tea.”

Hamish followed him into a gloomy living-room-cum study. A large desk was heaped with papers, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. A card table was set up in front of the fire with a squat teapot and one cup and saucer.

“I’ll get another cup,” said Father McNulty.

Hamish waited impatiently until he returned. “Pull a chair over to the table,” said the priest, “and help yourself. Now, what do you want to know about the bingo?”

“Did the late Mrs. Gillespie win much at bingo?”

“The poor woman that was murdered? Yes, she did from time to time. She was lucky.”

“How much are the prizes?”

“We have a good attendance. Not big prizes, but often three or four hundred pounds.”

“Was she a member of your congregation?”

“No, not many of them who come to the bingo are.”

Hamish sipped his tea and winced. It was very strong. “The thing is,” he said, “she had more in the bank account than she should have. I assumed she had been blackmailing people. So if the money came from lucky wins on bingo, that puts paid to that idea. Did you pay cash?”

“Yes. But if that were the case, why was her friend Mrs. Samson killed?”

“We don’t know yet if she was killed. It looked like a heart attack. But you’re right! Her room was ransacked, and she had retrieved a package of something from Mrs. Gillespie on the morning after Mrs. Gillespie was murdered. Someone obviously wanted what was in that package very badly.”

The priest had a mild, gentle look. “Perhaps what she wanted was power.”

“Explain.”

“Perhaps money wasn’t the main motive. Mrs. Gillespie had been a cleaner for a long time. Then she starts to snoop around. Imagine what it would mean to her to suddenly have her employers – her rich employers – dancing to her tune. Maybe a bit of money here and there, yes, but irritating other things. Maybe she wants a run down to Inverness, and one of them has to drop everything and take her. Maybe she sees an ornament and knows it’s a prized possession and demands it. Things like that. Mrs. Gillespie, you see, was not liked.”

Hamish suddenly remembered Queenie Hendry. All Mrs. Gillespie had demanded was cream cakes. He realised it should have struck him as surprising at the time that she had not demanded more.

“Do you know anyone she worked for who might have moved out of the area?”

“There was a Mrs. Forest. She left to live in Cnothan.”

Hamish had a sudden idea. “Who runs the bingo? You?”

“No, one of my parishioners, Miss Greedy.”

“I would like a word with her.”

“She works in the gift shop in the main street. Why do you want to see her?”

“Is there any way the bingo could be rigged?”

“My dear man! Miss Creedy is a decent woman.”

“It’s amazing what decent women will do if they’re being blackmailed.”

♦

The gift shop was called the Treasure Box. The window held a display of tartan dishcloths, tartan tea cosies, paperweights, and a jumble of other touristy items. Hamish wondered how the shop survived. Braikie had few tourists. The postcards in the rack beside the door were bleached by the weather.

Hamish opened the door and went in. There were no customers. “Miss Creedy?” he asked the woman behind the counter.

“Yes. What is it, Officer?”

Miss Creedy was very thin. She was wearing two sweaters and a tweed skirt. The shop was cold. She had a long, indeterminate sort of face and anxious brown eyes. Her hair was dyed an improbable shade of gold.

Hamish plunged right in. “The late Mrs. Gillespie was very lucky at the bingo.”

“Yes, very lucky.”

“Did it not strike you as unusual that someone should win so often?”

“Not at all. Some people are just lucky.”

“Was she blackmailing you?”

Miss Creedy took a step back behind the counter. “That’s ridiculous,” she said shrilly.

Hamish sighed. “We believe Mrs. Gillespie was a blackmailer. If she had anything on you, I will find it out. It would be better to tell me now.”

“I have led a blameless life,” she shrieked. “How dare you even suggest such a thing?”

“Calm down. Now, tell me how the numbers are drawn. Is there a spinning ball with wee balls with numbers inside it?”

“No, the numbers are folded up in slips of paper by Father McNulty and then put into a large box. I just pull out the slips of paper and read the numbers.”

“How many games a night?”

“Six. We break for refreshments in the middle of the evening.”

“So six boxes of numbers.”

“No, just the one. After each game, I give the box a good shake.”

“I’ll be talking to you again,” said Hamish.

♦

It could be done, he thought as he drove back. Miss Creedy could give Mrs. Gillespie a bingo card before the game. She could have two boxes. In the first might be just the numbers on Mrs. Gillespie’s card. After that, the box with all the numbers would be produced.

His stomach gave a rumble, and he had a sudden longing for decent food. He called at the police station. “Won’t be long,” said Terry. “Nearly there.”

“I’m going to the Italian place for some food. Want to come?”

“I’d rather keep on with this. You go yourself, and I’ll be finished by the time you get back.”

When Hamish walked into the restaurant followed by his dog and cat, the first thing he saw was Elspeth and Luke, sitting at the table at the window.

Sonsie and Lugs slouched off to the kitchen, where they knew, from previous visits, that the Italian chef would spoil them.

Hamish felt he was being childish in not stopping at Elspeth’s table to say hullo. He sat down at a table near the kitchen and as far away from them as possible. Elspeth waved to him, but he pretended not to notice.

“Your boyfriend’s snubbing you,” remarked Luke.

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

Luke took her hand. “Then he’s a silly man. What about marrying me, Elspeth?”

“Oh, sure.”

“I mean it. Why not? We’re both reporters. We both get on well. What about it?”

Elspeth looked amused. “How old·fashioned of you. I thought these days couples had affairs lasting, say, ten years and then decided to get married.”

Elspeth glanced across at Hamish. Some imp prompted her to say, “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

“‘Maybe’ demands a celebration. Willie!”

Willie Lamont, the waiter who had once been a police constable, came rushing up. “Champagne,” said Luke.

“What’s the celebration?” asked Willie.

“Miss Grant is ‘maybe’ going to marry me.”

Hamish felt just as if a heavy wet stone had settled in his stomach.

Lucia, Willie’s beautiful Italian wife, came out of the kitchen to offer her congratulations.

“It’s a joke,” said Elspeth desperately, but Willie arrived with the champagne.

To Luke’s horror, Willie, who had given the bottle a good shake in the kitchen, opened it with a flourish and champagne sprayed all over the place.

“What do you think you’re doing?” shouted Luke.

“This is what they do at Le Mans,” said Willie.

“Well, this isn’t Le Mans!” howled Luke, picking up a napkin and dabbing at champagne stains on his suit.

Lucia hurried off and came back with an unshaken bottle. “On the house,” she said, “and I hope you will both be very happy together.”

“Give the copper a glass,” said Luke.

But when they looked across the restaurant, Hamish Macbeth was gone.

♦

Hamish drove steadily towards Cnothan under a darkening sky which matched his mood. Black clouds were streaming in from the west.

It was nothing to him, nothing at all, he told himself savagely. If Elspeth wished to marry that dissipated reporter, it was her problem. His stomach gave another dismal rumble.

His cat and dog, full of food from the kitchen, slept peacefully in the back.

Cnothan was the least favourite place on his beat. He always thought of it as a sour, unwelcoming village. After a few enquiries, he found that Mrs. Forest lived in a cottage facing the dark loch, man-made by the Hydro Electric Board.

The cottage, like the others strung out along the loch, were relics of the old village, most of which had been drowned in the loch.

Hamish wondered what the previous inhabitants had been like. Maybe they had been warm-hearted and cheerful. Had many of them stayed on in the new village? How odd to think that down in the depth of the black waters were the remains of homes.

He knocked on the door of Mrs. Forest’s cottage and waited. He was about to turn away when the door opened and a bent, elderly woman stared up at the tall constable. She put a liver-spotted hand to her chest, her old eyes widening with alarm.

“It’s nothing serious,” said Hamish soothingly. “I’ve just got a few wee questions to ask about Mrs. Gillespie.”

“You’d best come ben.”

She stood aside. Hamish walked past her. She shut the door. “To your left,” she said.

Hamish walked into a low-ceilinged room. She settled herself in a chair by the fire and pointed to a chair opposite her. Hamish sat down and held his cap between his knees.

“I believe Mrs. Gillespie used to work for you.”

“Only for a short time. I moved here mainly to get away from her.”

“Why?”

She clasped her hands together tightly. “Do I have to tell you?”

“I will try to keep anything you tell me in confidence. She was blackmailing you, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. I suppose she was.”

“Please tell me what it was about.”

“I was in Glasgow during the war. I got pregnant by an American serviceman. Lovely man, but he got killed in action. It was considered a sin in those days. My parents had me locked up in a hostel for unmarried mothers. My baby, a boy, was taken away for adoption, but, at that time, I was kept on in the home, doing laundry, scrubbing, things like that. It was inhumane. I escaped one day with two of the other women, and we went straight to a newspaper office and told them everything that was going on. They splashed the story, and the place was closed down.

I kept the newspaper cutting, and the Gillespie woman found it. I had a wee collection of china figurines. She demanded them and said if I didn’t give them to her, she would tell everyone my secret. I loved those figurines. I told her I was going to the police. She panicked and said she had just been joking. I sacked her and told her if I heard one murmur of my secret in Braikie, I would go to the police. She left me alone after that, but the very sight of the woman turned my stomach, so I sold up and came here. Does this need to come out?”

“No,” said Hamish, “I’ll make sure it doesn’t. But murder is murder. I can’t see you having the strength to brain her with her bucket, but have you any idea who might have done it?”

“I really don’t know. But to be honest, if I did, I don’t think I would tell you. She got what she deserved.”

♦

When Hamish left, he wandered up the main street to a café and ordered a mutton pie and chips. Someone had left a newspaper on the table open at an article about poor diet.

He promised himself to start eating fruit and vegetables as he washed down the pie with strong tea. Then when he finished, he went back to Lochdubh, hoping there might be something in Terry’s investigations to give him a clue.

Terry had left the police station, but there was a neat pile of printouts beside the computer.

Hamish gave his pets water and then settled down to read. The forensic report stated that there were no prints on the handle of the bucket: it had been wiped clean. And that was that. No tyre tracks, no hairs, no threads of cloth, nothing. He was not surprised. He remembered all the police cars arriving. He remembered pointing out the signs of a scuffle in the gravel and Blair ignoring him and walking all over the evidence with his big boots. The autopsy report was what he expected. Her death had been caused by a massive blow to the head which had crushed her skull.

As yet, there was no autopsy report on Mrs. Samson. He turned to the various interviews of the suspects. He sighed. There seemed to be nothing there more than he had found out already.

It was dark outside, and the rising wind soughed round the building. He leaned back in his chair.

At least a good picture of the late Mrs. Gillespie was beginning to emerge. The reason for her blackmailing activities was power rather than money. How she must have enjoyed getting something as simple as free cream cakes!

His thoughts moved to Elspeth. Would she really marry that reporter? Did it matter? He thought ruefully that he had had ample time in the past to propose marriage to her himself. Was he playing dog in the manger?

He switched on his answering machine. He did not expect any messages from Blair. Puffed up with the idea of a documentary on him, Blair would do anything he knew to keep him in the background. There was a brief one from Jimmy. “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this, Hamish. Any suggestions? Found anything out?”

Then there was one from Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. “I’ve been reading about the murder, Hamish. I haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you getting on? Give me a ring if you’ve got the time.”

No, thought Hamish. I’m not going down that road again. I was all excited when I thought she was coming back to live here, but she only stayed for a short time and I barely saw her. He fought down that old treacherous feeling of longing. He realised the next message was from Shona Fraser.

“We’re not going to go on with the documentary on Detective Chief Inspector Blair. I’ve been doing research on you, and I guess you acted stupid to get out of the television thing. But I’ve found out something interesting. I’ll call at the police station at nine this evening and let you have it.”

Oh, dear, thought Hamish. A Blair with fame snatched from him would be in a filthy mood and would soon be on the phone to vent some of his spleen on one local constable.

Hamish typed out a report of everything he had learned that day including his views that Mrs. Gillespie had only wanted power not money and might have contrived to win prizes at bingo by blackmailing Miss Greedy. He explained that it would account for the lack of any large sums being drawn out of the suspects’ bank accounts. Then he sent it on to Jimmy.

He glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. He took the dog and cat out for a walk and then returned to the station and took a venison stew out of the freezer and heated it up on the stove. Then he divided it equally among the three of them.

He went through to his living room and lit the fire. He switched on the television set and then surfed the channels until he found a fictional program on forensic investigation and settled down to watch. One minute he was marvelling how these forensic researchers could visit the scenes of crimes without any protective clothing whatsoever, shaking long hair and DNA all over the place and trudging around dead bodies in uncovered shoes, when he fell asleep.

He woke abruptly and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. He wondered if Shona had called and he hadn’t heard her. But he knew that in the past no matter how heavily he slept, a knock at the door always awoke him.

He stretched and yawned. Maybe she had changed her mind.

♦

Archie Maclean, the fisherman, swallowed the last of a cup of extremely strong tea and went up on deck. He was wearing a tracksuit under his oilskin. He kept clothes on board, for he knew his bullying wife expected him to go to sea in his suit and collar and tie. “You’re the skipper,” she always said, “and should look the part.”

His boat, the Sally Jane, bucketed through the increasingly high waves as she headed out from the loch towards the Atlantic. The earlier clouds which had threatened rain had disappeared, and a full moon rode the skies.

They were nearly at the entrance to the loch when Archie, who was about to go up to the wheelhouse and take over, spotted a rowing boat cresting a wave. Why it had not been overturned was a miracle. He nipped up to the wheelhouse and said to his mate, Harry, “There’s a wee rowboat in the water. Pull her ower and let’s have a look.”

Harry reduced the speed. Archie unhitched a pair of binoculars and then let out a hiss of alarm. “There iss some cheil lying in the boat. Pull alongside.”

He ran back to the rail and called to the other three men who made up his small crew. “Get a grappling iron and pull her in.”

It was a difficult job with the waves heaving the Sally Jane up and down. “Bring a light,” shouted Archie.

A grappling iron was attached to the rowing boat. Archie shone a powerful torch down into it. A young girl lay sprawled in the bottom facedown.

“Bang goes a night’s fishing,” said Archie. “There’s blood on the back o’ her head. I’ll phone Macbeth.”

♦

Hamish Macbeth stood on the harbour, waiting for the fishing boat to come in. In the distance, he could hear police sirens. He was wearing the blue forensic suit all police officers were now expected to wear when inspecting a crime. He felt guilty about it. He had worn it when he had been cleaning out the hen run on a wet day. It had subsequently fallen off a hook on the back of the kitchen door, and Sonsie had slept on it.

He thought miserably of forensic programmes he had watched on television. “Ah, I have one hair here!” some forensic scientist would say triumphantly. God only knew what they would find if they ever took away his protective clothing for examination.

The sirens sounded nearer. Lights were going on in the cottages along the waterfront.

♦

Elspeth woke up suddenly in her room at the hotel. She heard the wail of the sirens as police cars sped past and down the hill to Lochdubh. She went out of her room and hammered on the door of Luke’s room.

He opened it and stood looking Wearily down at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled strongly of booze.

“I’ve heard lots of police cars going past,” said Elspeth. “Come on. Get dressed!”

Luke groaned. After an unsuccessful evening trying to get Elspeth into his bed, he had resorted to comfort from a bottle of whisky.

“You go,” he said. “I’ll follow you down.”

“We’ve only got the one car!”

“I’ll wake someone up and take one of the hotel cars.”

Luke retreated into his room and shut the door. Just five minutes more sleep, he thought. He fell facedown on the bed, not waking until the morning.

♦

The fishing boat came nearer. Jimmy shivered. “Did Archie say who it was?” he asked Hamish.

“He chust said a wee lassie. Oh, God, Jimmy, I chust hope it isnae who I think it is.”

“That being?”

“Shona Eraser. She phoned earlier and said she had something to tell me. She said she would come to the police station, but she never arrived.”

A woman police inspector was waiting, flanked by a woman police sergeant.

“Look at them,” said Jimmy. “It’s all this political correctness. The whole Northern Constabulary will soon be filled with damn women.”

“If it iss Shona,” muttered Hamish, “what could she have found out that I couldn’t?”

“Beats me. Amazing if it wasn’t Blair who killed her. He was flaming mad when he was told that the television documentary was cancelled.”

“Where is the auld scunner?”

“Probably nursing a hangover. Here comes trouble!”

Hamish walked forward. “You! Macbeth!” barked Police Inspector Mary Cannon. “Go and knock on doors and see if anyone heard anything.”

Hamish trudged off. The pity of it was, he thought, that the hotel on the harbour had been boarded for years. The pub beside it still closed at eleven o’clock in the evening. There was no cottage looking directly onto the harbour.

The lights were on in Patel’s store. Patel was the epitome of the Indian businessman. He knew that crowds of people even in the middle of the night meant a good sale of sandwiches and hot coffee.

Hamish pushed open the door and went in. Mr. Patel was just carrying a plate of sandwiches through from the kitchen at the back.

“What’s going on, Hamish?”

“A dead body in a rowing boat. Archie caught it when he was out at the fishing. Did you see anyone at all? I would guess down by the harbour or approaching the police station. It’s a young lassie. I can’t see anyone going to the trouble of putting a dead body in a rowing boat and floating it out to sea. My guess is that the girl was hit from behind with a hard enough blow to kill her. Then she was toppled over the sea wall but fell into one of the rowing boats. The murderer went down the stairs but maybe heard someone coming and slashed the painter so that the boat drifted off. The tide would be on the turn.”

“I didnae see anyone, Hamish. Coffee? I’ve made some fresh.”

“No, I’d better get on with it.”

Hamish opened the shop door and looked outside. Mary Cannon believed in blanket coverage. Policemen were knocking at doors all along the waterfront.

Where was Shona’s car? That is, if the dead girl was Shona.

Then he recognised it. It was parked a little away from the police station. His heart sank. Had he been so heavily asleep that he had not heard her knock?

He took out his torch because the car was parked between two street lights and in the shadow. He shone the torch around it and then saw a tyre iron lying on the ground.

Hamish picked it up gingerly with one gloved hand and walked over to where Mary Cannon was directing operations.

“I found this, ma’am,” said Hamish. “There’s blood on the end of it, and I think this is the murder weapon. I found it beside that television researcher Shona Fraser’s car. She left me a message saying she was going to call on me this evening because she had some information for me. Shona Fraser was supposed to be doing research for a documentary on Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Oh, here comes Mr. Blair.”

“Go over to the forensics’ van and get yourself an evidence bag and seal this and mark it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As Hamish moved off, he heard Blair saying, “I’m in charge here.”

Then came Mary’s frosty reply: “Everything is in hand.”

Blair: “This is a job for detectives, and you aren’t a detective.”

Mary: “Are you questioning my ability?”

Blair: “Och, no, sweetheart. Just you run along and get a cup of tea or something.”

Mary: “Don’t patronise me!”

Blair: “Look here, you boot-faced hag. You’ll stop getting your knickers in a twist and do what you’re told. God help the force the day the beaver patrol takes over.”

Mary swung round to her listening sergeant. “You’ve heard all of this? Then type up a report, and I will deliver it to Superintendent Daviot in the morning.”

Hamish, almost out of earshot, could hear the frightened Blair beginning to wheedle and beg.

After he had delivered the tyre iron and was heading back, he found himself confronted by Elspeth.

“What’s happened, Hamish?”

“I cannae tell you wi’ all my masters looking on. Over there, that woman is Police Inspector Cannon. You’ll need to ask her.”

Hamish went back to the car and began to search around it again. Then he shone his torch inside. A handbag was lying on the passenger seat.

Mary Cannon came up behind him.

“Her car?”

“Yes.”

“See if it’s locked.”

Hamish tried the handle on the passenger side, and the door opened. “Her keys are still in the ignition,” he said.

“Bring that handbag into the police station, and we’ll look through it. I’ll tell forensics to tow this car away for examination. I will join you shortly. Don’t open the bag until I am there.”

Hamish went into the police station. He stripped off the forensic suit, hung it on a peg behind the door, and lit the stove. He boiled up water for coffee and put sugar, milk, two cups, and a plate of shortbread on the table.

The kitchen door opened just after he had made the coffee, and Mary walked in. If it hadn’t been for her stern features, she would have appeared a motherly woman. She had a full face and brown eyes. Her figure was matronly. She took off her hat and rubbed her eyes. “Gosh, I’m tired.”

“Coffee?”

“Yes, just black.”

Then Hamish realised Mary’s eyes were widening, and she was reaching for the canister of CS gas on her belt. He swung round. Sonsie was crouched there, staring out of yellow eyes.

“Don’t!” he yelled. “It’s my cat. Sonsie, go back to bed.”

The cat slouched off.

“That’s a wild cat,” said Mary accusingly.

“It’s very domesticated,” said Hamish soothingly. “Besides, they’re all hybrids now. I doubt if you could find a genuine wild cat in the Highlands.”

Lugs pattered in, looked up at Mary out of his odd blue eyes, and walked out again.

“Do you have a whole menagerie in this police station?”

“No, no,” said Hamish, pouring coffee. “Just the two beasts.”

“Right, let’s get down to business. May I have a piece of shortbread?”

“Go ahead.”

Mary tried to take a bite. “This is made of bricks.”

Hamish flushed. “It wass made by my friend Mrs. Brodie. Herself iss not very good in the cooking department.”

“Okay. We need fresh gloves.” Hamish went through to a cupboard in the office and came back with a packet of latex gloves.

They both put on a pair, and Mary opened the handbag. “Get some clean paper, and I’ll tip this lot out.”

Hamish came back with sheets of computer printing paper. Mary gently turned the contents out onto the paper.

There was the usual clutter one would find in any woman’s handbag: house keys, wallet, driving licence, two pens, comb, lipstick, strong mints, a packet of tissues, address book and notebook, one earring, and an invitation to the opening of a new restaurant in Strathbane.

Mary looked at the driving licence. “Yes, it’s Shona Fraser. You look at the address book, and I’ll look at the notebook. Lock the door first.”

Hamish raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to be interrupted,” she said. “Do it!”

Hamish locked the door and returned to the table. “This is in shorthand,” complained Mary. “I have speed writing, but I can’t read shorthand.”

“I’ll read it,” said Hamish.

He quickly scanned through the contents. At first, there were enthusiastic notes about the proposed documentary and then comments such as “I don’t think Macbeth is as stupid as he would like me to think. But Blair, now, is stupid.”

Hamish flipped to the end. “I decided to go and see some of the suspects on my own just to see if we could do a documentary on the murder. I couldn’t believe it. Got to see Macbeth…,” Hamish read. “That’s the last item. She must have been struck down when she got out of the car. She was a little thing. She was dragged across to the sea wall and tipped over. But it was high tide, and three rowing boats which are tied up just under that bit opposite where her car was parked would be afloat. The body lands in one of them. Our murderer goes down the steps but hears some noise above and, frightened of being discovered with a dead body, cuts the painter and pushes the boat out to sea. If Archie hadn’t spotted it, the boat would have gone out to the Atlantic on the receding tide, been tipped over, and the body might not have been found.”

A sudden hammering at the door made Hamish jump. Then they heard Blair’s voice. “If you’re in there, you lazy hound, get out here!”

They sat in silence until they could hear him retreating.

“You know,” said Mary thoughtfully, studying Hamish, “I’ve heard a lot of stories about you, how you didn’t want promotion and all that. I didn’t believe it. Everyone is ambitious. But I can see what you mean now. My husband’s business is doing well, and there’s no need for me to work. I listen to Blair yapping, and I think, I don’t need this. No more being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night with a phone call. No more nasty remarks against women in the police force. No more horrible surprises dumped in my locker. I’ll see this case through, and then I’m off. I’d better get back to the scene and give this to the forensic boys. Have you an evidence bag?”

Hamish nodded. He went to the office and brought a large one back. Mary put the address book and notebook in the handbag, and Hamish sealed it up.

“Mrs. Gillespie is being buried at eleven o’clock today,” said Mary, getting to her feet. “I suggest you attend the funeral. It’s at St. Mary’s. See who turns up, and then I would like you to get into plain clothes and something to cover that red hair of yours and keep a watch on the professor. See what he does and where he goes. Leave it to the afternoon because he’ll be interviewed in the morning. Police and detectives will interview the other suspects. We’ll get onto this Creedy woman you mentioned in your notes and see if we can get her to confess she rigged the bingo. I managed to pick up a copy of your notes tonight before I left headquarters and read them on the road over. Get some sleep. I’ll tell Blair I sent you off somewhere.”

Hamish let her out and locked the door again behind her. If only someone like that had Blair’s job, he thought before taking himself off to bed.