Death of a Maid

∨ Death of a Maid ∧

7

If you want to win her hand,

Let the maiden understand

That she’s not the only pebble on the beach.

—Harry Braisted

Hamish thought that the day of the funeral for such as Mavis Gillespie should be black and ominous. But the sun shone and the birds twittered in the trees surrounding St. Mary’s. Heather, her daughter, was there with her father. That was the sum total of the mourners. There was not even one elderly soul of the kind who loved to attend funerals in the church.

Father McNulty did his best. Hamish, Heather, and Mr. Gillespie sang the hymns and listened dry-eyed to the service. Then they followed the coffin to the public cemetery, where the body was interred.

“That’s that,” said Heather. “Now we can get on with our lives. Come along, Dad.”

“A moment of your time,” said Hamish. “Are you sure neither of you have any idea who might have killed Mrs. Gillespie?”

“I can’t think of anyone,” said Heather. “I’ll need to get Dad home. He’s not well.”

Hamish went back to the police station, in front of which a mobile police unit had been set up. Television crews and reporters were everywhere. Avoiding questions, he went into the station and changed into a sweater and jeans and pulled a black wool cap over his hair.

Then, running the barrage of press questions again, he got into his Land Rover and headed to Angela Brodie’s home.

“What is it, Hamish?” she asked.

“I’ve two favours to ask. May I borrow your car? I’ve got to follow someone, and I can’t do it in a police vehicle.”

“All right. I’m not going anywhere today. That poor little girl! What an awful thing to happen. I’ve been interviewed five times since last night. The whole thing is so badly coordinated. What’s the other favour? Oh, I know. That dog and cat of yours.”

“You don’t need to take them in,” wheedled Hamish. “I’ve left food for them on the kitchen table, and all you need to do is feed them and let them out for a walk.”

“Hamish!”

“I know, I know. But when this case is over, you’ll never need to see them.”

“This is the last time.”

“Okay, Angela. I’m off.”

“Wait! You forgot my car keys.”

♦

Hamish parked Angela’s small Ford Escort at the end of the cul-de-sac where the professor had his house, and waited. He wondered whether the inspector really hoped he would find something out or whether she was smarter than Blair at getting him out of the case. And did she realise how hard it was to tail someone on usually empty highland roads?

The morning wore on. Hamish had packed a flask of coffee and a packet of chicken sandwiches and was just thinking about getting out an early lunch when the professor’s car backed out of his driveway.

Hamish waited until he had driven past, then eased out and followed him as far back as he could without losing sight of the professor.

Professor Sander parked in the main street and got out. Hamish parked between two other cars and watched. The professor went into the butchers and emerged holding a carrier bag. Then he went into the greengrocers. Hamish waited glumly while the professor did his shopping, going from shop to shop. When he stowed his groceries in his car and moved off, Hamish followed. Back to his home went the professor.

Hamish parked again at the edge of the cul-de-sac. He moodily drank coffee and munched sandwiches and waited.

It was a rare fine day with little wisps of cloud drifting across a pale blue sky. He began to feel sleepy. He hadn’t had much sleep the night before. His eyelids drooped. He let out a gentle snore. He drifted into a dream of chasing a black figure up and over the heather. He was just gaining on the anonymous figure when it turned around, revealing the face of Detective Chief Inspector Blair.

Hamish awoke with a jerk. Had he missed the professor? He climbed stiffly out of Angela’s small car and walked along the cul-de-sac. The professor’s car was not in the drive.

Hamish raced back to the car and drove into Braikie, scanning the parked cars as he went along. He drove out of Braikie. The professor’s car was a black BMW. He came to the crossroads where one road led to Strathbane and the other to Lochdubh. He took the Strathbane road.

He drove quickly, the twisting road in front of him so far empty of any other vehicle.

He topped the rise where a long, straight stretch of road led down from the hills and into Strathbane, and in the distance he saw a black car. He raced the car up to ninety, hoping it would stand the strain.

He put on the brakes just as the thirty-mile-an-hour speed restriction loomed up. He now recognised the BMW ahead.

He followed carefully, glad of the town’s increased traffic. The professor drove to the multi-storey car park in the centre. Hamish followed. The professor parked. Hamish parked a little way away and then, getting out, followed at a discreet distance.

He had a sinking feeling that Professor Sander had come to Strathbane for no other reason than more shopping.

They were on the fourth floor of the car park. The professor walked to the lift. Hamish took the stairs and waited outside the car park.

The professor emerged and Hamish followed. First the professor went to a large bookshop and spent a considerable amount of time inside. When he finally emerged carrying a plastic bag full of books, he headed straight back for the car park.

No, thought Hamish, I am not going to follow him all the way back to Braikie. What a waste of time! He suddenly wanted food, and good food at that.

He saw a small French restaurant and decided to eat there. Occasionally good restaurants would spring up in Strathbane, only to close down after a few months, defeated by the local population’s desire for nothing other than junk food.

He glanced at his watch. Seven in the evening. He pushed open the door and went in. The restaurant was divided into booths, separated from each other by wooden partitions topped with curtained brass rails.

The prices made him blink, but there was a set menu for twenty pounds. He chose lobster bisque, followed by sea bream and salad, and although he would have liked some wine, he decided to settle for mineral water instead.

“I can’t go on like this,” said a woman’s voice in the booth behind him. “People are talking. Why don’t you get a divorce?”

Hamish, who had been about to remove his wool hat, pulled it further down about his ears instead. He recognised that voice. It was Fiona Fleming.

“I can’t.” Male voice: Dr. Renfrew. “I have my position in the community to consider. Look, it’s been fun, but let’s just leave it now. People are beginning to talk.”

“I’ll tell your wife, you bastard. You can’t dump me just like that. You said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me!”

“Men say a lot of things in the…er…heat of the moment that they don’t mean. Look, Fiona, darling, we can still be friends.”

Ouch, thought Hamish. He’s for it now.

There came a splashing sound, and then the top of Fiona’s head appeared above the partition. Must have thrown her drink over him, Hamish guessed.

“I’ll make you sorry. I’ll make you wish you’d never been born,” howled Fiona.

No one ever says anything original when they’re hurt, thought Hamish.

Then came the sound of rapidly retreating high heels.

He heard the doctor calling for the bill.

If she did kill her husband, thought Hamish, that man’s life will be in danger. Even if she didn’t, I think she’ll turn really vicious.

He concentrated on eating his meal, wondering what to do next. Would Inspector Cannon really expect him to go on following the professor, day in and day out?

Hamish finished his meal and returned to Lochdubh. Television vans were drawn up along the waterfront. He prayed some other big story would break and take them all away.

Jimmy Anderson had seen him arrive and hurried over to the police station to join him.

“So what’s the latest?” asked Hamish.

“Shona was struck down with a tyre iron. Dumped in the boat. Pushed out to sea.”

“And no one saw anything?”

“Oh, they all saw something or heard something, but that was because of the bloody television cameras. Even those Currie sisters were wearing make-up and inventing things like mad.”

“How do you know they were inventing things?”

“I’m apt to discount reports of a tall black man with a scar.”

“Oh, dear. Still, I’d like to go through them just in case. There might be something there. Any report on the bank balances?”

“Nothing important, fifty pounds here, a couple of hundred there.”

They were standing together outside the police station. Hamish saw Mary Cannon approaching them from the police mobile unit.

“Well, Macbeth, anything to report?”

“No, ma’am. He shopped in Braikie, and then he went to Strathbane and bought books and went back home. But I was in a restaurant in Strathbane and I overheard Dr. Renfrew, who has been having an affair, telling Fiona Fleming that it was all over, and she threatened to make him sorry.”

“Write a report of that and let me have it. Was the professor in this restaurant?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then what were you doing in the restaurant?”

“It was obvious the professor was going back home, and I was hungry.”

“You were told to follow him, not disobey orders because you were hungry. Get back on it tomorrow. He’s our strongest lead.”

She turned on her heel and walked away. Mary had received a stern warning from Daviot not to get too friendly with Hamish, due to a spiteful report from Blair.

“Michty me!” said Hamish. “Didn’t anyone ask the professor what he was doing when Shona was getting bashed on the head?”

“I did. Got him up at dawn. Was he furious! Said he was in his bed fast asleep. No alibi, as he lives alone. Same with the rest of them.”

“It’s getting late and I’m tired,” said Hamish. “I am not going to hang around here, or she’ll find something to keep me up all night.”

♦

“Now what?” asked the manager of the Tommel Castle Hotel when Hamish arrived carrying an overnight bag and followed by his cat and dog.

“I really need a quiet night,” pleaded Hamish, “and I’m not going to get it if I stay at the police station.”

“Oh, all right. I can let you have a spare room, but that’s all you get. Leave the minibar alone, and breakfast is not included in this non-paying visit.”

♦

Elspeth was sitting in the bar with Luke when she saw Hamish arrive and then follow Mr. Johnson up the stairs.

“Back in a minute,” she said to Luke. He barely heard her. He was surrounded by other reporters, and all were busy making up legends about each other. Luke had not repeated his proposal of marriage, and Elspeth assumed he had proffered it because he wanted to tease Hamish. He made a few desultory tries to make love to her which she always rebuffed.

Hamish was just unpacking his bag when Elspeth knocked on his door.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said bleakly. “I was just going to bed. What do you want?”

“I want to talk about the murders.”

“Look, I’ve got a dragon of a police inspector on my back, and I can’t talk to the press.”

“I wanted to talk as friends.”

Hamish looked down at the small figure of Elspeth. She was casually dressed in a white Aran sweater, jeans, and smart black leather boots. Her odd silver eyes studied his face.

“All right,” said Hamish, suddenly remembering how useful Elspeth’s intuition had been in the past. “I can’t offer you a drink because the room’s free and I’ve been told not to touch the minibar.”

“Fine. I see Lugs and Sonsie have made themselves comfortable on the bed. I hope there’s room for you.”

“I’ll just push them to one side.”

There were two easy chairs in front of the window. They both sat down.

“Go ahead,” said Elspeth. “It’s all off the record.”

“Not a word to Luke!”

“Promise.”

Hamish outlined everything he knew. When he finished, Elspeth sat very still. Then she said, “Wouldn’t it be odd if we had two murderers here?”

“How do you mean?”

“Say Professor Sander did pinch that student’s work. He’s a very vain man. I can see him following Mrs. Gillespie down his drive, and overcome with rage, braining her with her bucket. Or Fiona Fleming might really have pushed her husband down the stairs, although I doubt it, and decided to get rid of Mrs. Gillespie once and for all.”

“But what about Shona Fraser?”

“Ah, I’m coming to that. Before she came up here, Shona Fraser worked in London for Trant TV. She worked as a researcher. Now, Trant TV specialises in reality television – you know, fly-on-the wall documentaries, exposures of famous people. They did a scam with that soap actress Bernice James. One of their reporters pretended to be a drug dealer and went to her hotel room to supply her with coke. They had a hidden camera and got her snorting coke on film. What if Shona had found out something about someone during her researches and they followed her up here and killed her to keep her quiet?”

“How do you know all this about Shona?”

“From the London press in the bar. You may not like the press, Hamish, but they sometimes can find out things the police can’t.”

“How long was Shona working for Trant TV?”

“I don’t know. I can easily find out. So can you.”

“It’s hard for me to get a bit of peace from my superiors these days. Could you…?”

“Very well. How can I contact you?”

“I’ll give you my mobile phone number. Is there anything serious between you and Luke?”

Elspeth hesitated. Then she decided it would be better to leave Hamish guessing. He had hurt her badly in the past, and she had no intention of letting him hurt her again.

“Mind your own business,” she said. “Any news of darling Priscilla?”

Hamish flushed angrily. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sonsie let out a slow hiss.

“I’d better go,” said Elspeth. “Your guard cat is getting upset.”

“Look, I’m very grateful to you for this stuff about Shona. There may well be something there. I’ve got to follow the professor again tomorrow. I feel it’s a waste of time.”

Elspeth had half risen. She sat down again. “I’ve a thought. What about Miss Creedy?”

“She may well have been fiddling the bingo results – but murder!”

“There are still people in this wicked world today who prize respectability, particularly in small towns and villages.”

“But Mrs. Gillespie couldn’t have threatened to expose her without exposing herself.”

“Look at it another way. She must have had something on Miss Creedy to make the woman even want to cheat.”

Hamish groaned. “I only wish I wasn’t stuck with the professor.”

“I really am off now, Hamish.” Elspeth stood up, and Hamish followed her to the door. “I tell you what, I might have a go at Miss Creedy myself.”

“Would you? That would be grand. I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow night.”

“Oh yeah, Sherlock? And like those previous times, you’ll fail to turn up.”

“I’m sorry about that. If I could just explain…”

“Forget it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

♦

Hamish showered and got into his pyjamas, lifted his grumbling pets off the bed, and got in himself. The cat leapt back on and lay beside him, and Lugs lay at his feet. He fell into a dreamless sleep, not waking until seven in the morning.

♦

Hamish left his pets at the police station and was getting into the Land Rover again when Mary Gannon came up behind him, making him jump.

Hamish swung round. “Just off to Braikie,” he said.

“See you keep on the job. Do not speak to the press. I know you show great insight and intelligence, but it is necessary in a big case like this that we all work together, and that means following orders. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s the stuff,” said Blair, coming up to join them. “That laddie needs a wumman’s firm touch.”

“Mr. Blair, if I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” snapped Mary.

“Och, come on. It was just a wee joke. The way you females take on.”

“Any more of that, and I’ll have you up before the board for sexual discrimination. Also for alcoholism. You stink of booze and at this time in the morning!”

Hamish got into Angela’s car and sped off, leaving them to it.

It was one of those grey misty days in the Highlands where all the colour is bleached out of the landscape and sounds are muffled. The mist grew thicker as he reached Braikie and parked at the end of the cul-de-sac.

It was one of the few times when he regretted remaining a mere policeman. He was out of the loop, away from recent discoveries and statements from the suspects.

Maybe he should have told the inspector about the possibility Shona had found out something about one of the suspects when she was working in London, but Mary would ask how he had come about such information and then would give him a row for discussing the case with a member of the hated press.

He was just bemoaning the fact that he had forgotten to bring coffee and sandwiches with him when a police car drew alongside. He rolled down the window.

“Driving licence and papers,” snapped one, “and get out of the car.”

Hamish uncoiled his length from Angela’s small car and pulled his police card out of his pocket, saying as he did so, “I’m PC Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. I’m here to watch the professor. Instructions from Inspector Gannon. What’s up?”

“The neighbours have been complaining about a sinister-looking man – that’s you – casing the houses.”

God bless them all, thought Hamish. He phoned headquarters and got patched through to Mary’s phone. When he finished explaining, she said impatiently, “It’s your fault for making yourself so obvious.”

“It’s hard not to be obvious in a highland town,” protested Hamish.

“You’d better leave it. Get back and put your uniform on and go over to Styre. Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson was not available when we called. Find out where she was the night before last.”

♦

Back to the police station, into uniform, picnic basket loaded up with people food and animal food, and off in the Land Rover with the dog and cat. Hamish whistled cheerfully. He was glad to get out of what had looked like a long and boring day.

As he mounted the crest of the hill above Lochdubh, the mist rolled up the mountain sides, and soon the sun shone out. The landscape was a blaze of colour: yellow broom, purple heather, and rowan berries as red as blood.

Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson was not at home. Her car was gone. Hamish drove down to the beach and let the dog and cat out. He unpacked the picnic basket, spread a rug on the beach, and ate a leisurely brunch after feeding Lugs and Sonsie.

The sea was calm with sunlight rippling on tiny waves plashing gently on the shingly beach. The air smelled of salt and peat smoke. From one of the little cottages of Styre came the sounds of a football match on the radio.

How far it all was from the bustle and grime of the cities and the miseries of murder, thought Hamish. But unless the murders were solved, a dark stain of suspicion and dread would be left.

Back to work. He packed everything up with a sigh. Time to see if Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson had returned.

When he went back to her house, he was in time to see her getting out of her car. She took a large suitcase out of the boot. Hamish approached her.

“What now?” she asked.

“Do you know a television researcher called Shona Fraser was murdered in Lochdubh two nights ago?”

“Yes, I heard it on the radio when I was driving north. What’s it got to do with me?”

“I have to take a statement from you,” said Hamish soothingly. “Where were you the night before last?”

“I was visiting a friend in Glasgow.”

“I’ll need the name and address.”

She sighed. “Come into the house, and I’ll write it down for you.”

Hamish followed her into the faux country house living room.

She went to a desk and wrote on a pad of paper and then tore a sheet off. “There you are. Bella will confirm that I was with her the night before last. And last night, I stopped at the Palace Hotel in Inverness.” She opened her handbag and took out a receipt. “There is my hotel receipt. Now, I’d like to get on with unpacking.”

That was that, he thought. He’d phone over the details, and Strathclyde police would check her alibi.

“Just one thing,” said Hamish. “Why did you choose to live in an isolated place like this?”

“I wanted a quiet life. I like it here. I could afford a house this size in such a remote place where I could not afford it in the city. Now, if you don’t mind…”

Hamish decided to drive to Lochdubh with this information rather than phone it over. That way, he might find out what else was going on.

He was climbing into the Land Rover when his phone rang. It was Elspeth.

“Good news, Hamish. Shona was working on the background of doctors who had been sued for malpractice, and one of the subjects was Dr. Renfrew. He had told a woman that the rash on her breast was merely caused by an allergy to her bra. He prescribed ointments. This went on for months. It got worse. By the time the woman decided to get a second opinion, it was found she had invasive cancer and it was well advanced. The fact that she didn’t lose her life was a miracle, but she sued Dr. Renfrew for malpractice. He was not struck off the medical register and he was heavily insured against malpractice suits, so he got away with it. He wouldn’t give an interview, but there were television shots of him leaving his house and shouting at the reporter. He came up to Braikie Hospital last year.”

“Elspeth, I’ll go and talk to him. If I phone this in, they’ll send a detective and I’ll end up never getting an idea of who was guilty.”

So Hamish phoned over a report of Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson’s alibi to the mobile police unit, saying he would type it up and deliver it later with the receipt.

The policeman who answered the phone said, “Wait a minute. The inspector’s just coming.”

“Talk to her later,” said Hamish, and rang off.

Now for Dr. Renfrew.

♦

At the hospital, he was told it was Dr. Renfrew’s day off. He got his address, which was some way out of Braikie.

The doctor’s home was a square Scottish Georgian house, a relic of the days when army officers were quartered in the Highlands after the Battle of Culloden.

It looked a dark forbidding sort of place, and the garden was unkempt with a small square of shaggy lawn and straggly bushes.

He rang the doorbell. It was answered by a harassed-looking woman.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Mrs. Renfrew?”

“Yes.”

“Is your husband at home?”

“Is this necessary? He’s already been interviewed by the police.”

“Something else has come up. I would really like to speak to him.”

“Don’t be long about it.”

She turned away, and Hamish followed her into a dark, stone-flagged hall. She pushed open a door and said, “Darling, it’s the police again.”

Dr. Renfrew was sitting in an armchair beside a smouldering fire. The day had turned warm, but the house was cold.

The doctor threw down the newspaper he had been reading and got angrily to his feet. “This is too much. I shall put in a complaint.”

Hamish turned round. Mrs. Renfrew was standing in the doorway.

“I think it would be better if we were alone, Dr. Renfrew.”

He hesitated only a moment and then said, “Elsie, go and do something or other and shut the door behind you.”

Elsie shut the door with unnecessary force.

“So what is it now?” demanded Dr. Renfrew. “I have already been asked to account for my movements the night that researcher was murdered, which, I may add, I consider the highest degree of impertinence.”

“Did you tell the police you had met Shona Fraser before?”

“What!”

“When she was working as a researcher for a London-based television company, she must have interviewed you for their programme on medical malpractice.”

His face turned a muddy colour. “I never saw her. Yes, they tried to interview me, but I either refused to answer the door or ran past them when I left the house or surgery. It was a genuine mistake. It’s all over now.”

“Except,” said Hamish slowly, “when Mrs. Gillespie recognised you from the programme and blackmailed you. What did she want?”

All the bluster had gone out of Dr. Renfrew. He said in a low voice, “A bit of money, here and there, not much. And drugs.”

“Drugs!” exclaimed Hamish. What was happening in the Highlands, he marvelled, when middle-aged charwomen turned out to be drug addicts? “What was it? Cocaine? Heroin?”

He gave a bleak smile. “No, nothing like that. Hyperex.”

“What on earth is Hyperex?”

“She had osteoarthritis. Hyperex was a drug for sufferers, but it was considered dangerous and we were told to withdraw all supplies. But we still had some at the hospital. She insisted it was the only thing that helped and said if I didn’t give it to her she would broadcast my malpractice suit all over Braikie. I’m glad she’s dead, but I didn’t kill her.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hamish. “But I’ll need to ask you to come with me to make a statement.”

He looked completely defeated. “I’ll get my jacket,” he said.

♦

At the mobile police unit, Blair was nowhere in sight, but Inspector Cannon was there. Hamish briefly explained what he had found out, not mentioning Elspeth’s name but saying instead that he had remembered seeing the documentary on television.

“Good work,” she said. “There’s been a burglary at a croft on the Strathbane road. It’s just come in. I want you to get over there and do the initial interview, and I’ll send along some fingerprint men if we can spare them. Here’s the address. Off you go while I get down to getting a statement from the doctor.”

Hamish opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again, quickly deciding any protest would be futile. But he felt very angry with her. He had given her the first real breakthrough in the case, and he was being sidetracked. They could easily have sent out a policeman from Strathbane.

He walked to his Land Rover and looked at the name and address. Geordie McArthur, The Sheiling, Strathbane Road. It was several months since he had called on Geordie. He liked to occasionally check up on people in the outlying crofts.

♦

As he approached, Hamish reflected it was a typical croft house. Outside were two rusting cars, an old television set, and a fridge.

Other people might decorate the outside of their houses with flower gardens, but your true crofter used it as a dump for discarded machinery and household goods in the dim hope that some bits might come in handy some day.

Geordie’s wife, a thin, leathery woman with a face set in perpetual lines of discontent, invited him in. She said Geordie was asleep and went to wake him.

Sutherland boasts some of the tallest men in the British Isles. Geordie’s head scraped the low ceiling when he came into the living room.

“So what was taken, Geordie?” asked Hamish.

“My Land Rover. Two nights ago.”

“And you’ve only got around to reporting it now! I’ll need the registration number and a description.”

“You can see for yourself. It’s parked round the back of the house.”

“Geordie. This is right daft. It’s been stolen or it hasn’t been stolen.”

“Look, I havenae used it for three days, right? Well, I checked the mileage, and there were miles on it that werenae there before. I always check the mileage because herself sometimes takes it out when I’m asleep.”

“Why shouldn’t she?” asked Hamish.

“I don’t want herself flitting off tae Strathbane to flaunt herself in front of other men.”

Hamish stared at the big man in amazement. Did he really see his downtrodden, weather-beaten wife as such an object of desire?

“Let’s see the Land Rover, Geordie.”

Geordie led the way round the back of the croft house to where the Land Rover was parked. There’s a full-blown murder case going on, Hamish thought, and here am I stuck with this loon.

“See,” said Geordie, “I leave the keys in it.” He opened the driver’s door. “I’ve got this wee book. I aye take a note of the mileage. Well, it had gained twenty miles. What’s up with you, man? You look like you’ve been struck by the lightning.”

For Hamish was suddenly standing stock-still, his eyes vague and his mouth open.

“Give me a minute, Geordie,” he said.

Hamish looked down the fields to the Strathbane road. Twenty miles would cover the round trip to Lochdubh. Could someone who didn’t want their car recognised have stolen the Land Rover for the sole purpose of killing Shona Fraser?

“Are you sure it wasn’t your wife?”

“Sure as sure. I keep an eye on her.”

Hamish thought, I’ll need to come back when this is all over and see what I can do for Mrs. McArthur.

“There’s another thing,” said Geordie. “Whoever took it gave it a fair cleaning.”

“Right,” said Hamish. “Stand away from it now, Geordie, and don’t touch it again. I’ll get a forensic team out.”

“I neffer thought you’d take it this serious.”

Hamish phoned and got through to Inspector Gannon by saying it was urgent and in connection with the murder of Shona. She listened to him and said she would send a forensic team out right away.

Hamish did not ask her for further instructions. He wanted time to think.