Constable Reid came puffing up behind me.
‘Did she have time to come round here and go up the path?’ I asked him.
‘Must’ve had,’ he replied.
‘But weren’t we more or less watching her the whole time?’
‘Cannae have been,’ said Reid. ‘Else where is she?’
I could not fault his reasoning and so I set off up the path, which meandered back past the cottage with its party of peeping children and on to where the motorcar awaited our return. The sergeant was there, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, displeased to have been abandoned by his underling, but of Fleur there was not a sign.
‘I’ll ask at the cottage,’ I said, turning back, but the sergeant stopped me with a throat-clearing sound that was almost a growl.
‘You’ll both have to walk home if you don’t come now, madam,’ he said. ‘We’re not a taxi.’
‘Likely we’ll pass her on the road,’ said Reid, stooping to the starter. ‘Maybe she just set off on her own for a wee breath of fresh air after yon.’
I nodded and climbed into the back seat, still craning around, expecting Fleur to appear from amongst the trees. It was not until later that I realised the absurdity of what he had said; one does not leave a seashore in search of fresh air. As it was, the motorcar bore me away while I sat on the edge of my seat, peering into the hedgerows and scanning the road ahead for a figure and ignoring the sick cold feeling inside me.
And since a sick feeling inside is not something one can tell of to a rather stupid police sergeant – or even a tolerably bright constable – I kept my worries to myself as the little motorcar descended to Portpatrick’s harbour and trundled around towards Joe Aldo’s shack there. Also, like a child at the approach of its bedtime, I was hoping that if I kept quiet the men would forget I was there. I wanted to soften the blow of what was sure to be a bald announcement from the horrid sergeant that a body had appeared and would Joe come and see it, please.
The little shack on the harbour was a very different place this Saturday luncheon time, thronged with people: a long queue of men and women snaking out of the door and coiling around the side, and on the bollards and lobster pots and the harbour wall itself there were gangs of little boys and girls, rabblesome families and courting couples all intent on the fragrant contents of the newspaper nests they held open in their laps. As we stepped down from the motorcar a gaggle of well-dressed but rather grubby little boys came tumbling out of the open doorway, holding folded newspaper cones of fried potato and stone bottles of ginger beer, and in spite of the recent sights in the cable station my stomach gave a slow, luxurious rumble.
‘That’s Mr Tweedie’s son!’ said the sergeant in tones of high astonishment. ‘The bank manager,’ he explained to me. ‘I don’t know what this place is coming to.’
‘Sodom and Gomorrah, Italian-style,’ I murmured. He did not hear me but Constable Reid gave an explosive snort which he turned into a cough with the skill of long practice.
‘You’re not a patron of Aldo’s then, Sergeant Turner?’ I said.
‘I most certainly am not,’ he said. ‘Mrs Turner won’t hear of it.’
The families and couples who had boggled to see the arrival of a police motorcar were now openly listening, all conversation stilled, only the rustle of newspaper and the crunch of batter disturbing the quiet around us (that and the hopeful screeching of a perfect battalion of seagulls with designs on the crumbs).
‘Take him through the back, Reid,’ said the sergeant, returning to his seat in the motorcar, ‘and I’ll come round and speak to him there, away from the frying pans.’ But I do not believe it was the cooking smells which troubled him. The sergeant simply did not care to jostle into the shack with the hoi-polloi, which gave no quarter to the comings and goings of anyone not in the queue for luncheon. Even as we watched, an emerging figure had to turn sideways to squeeze through in the small space left by a stout man in brown overalls with his eyes fixed on the counter.
This figure, once outside, revealed itself to be Alec. He was wiping his lips with his handkerchief and breathing hard, but when he saw me he broke into a jog.
‘Marvellous news, Dandy!’ he said. ‘Guess what?’
‘Alec, have you really just eaten fried haddock and chips?’ I said.
‘Certainly not,’ said Alec. ‘It was cod. The man is an artist.’
‘I’ve got news too, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘This is Constable Reid, Alec. Reid, this is my associate, Mr Osborne.’
‘Associate?’ said Reid.
‘Glad to make your acquaintance,’ Alec said, holding out a greasy hand. He says he can always tell by my introductions of policemen and the like whether I have filed the man under ‘idiot’ or have turned down the corner of his card as a possible ally. I am not sure I believe him; more like lucky guesses on his part, I should imagine (for one would rather not be so transparent when one is bent on detecting). ‘But my news first,’ Alec went on. ‘She was seen.’
‘Fleur?’ I said.
He gave me an odd look. ‘Mrs Aldo.’
‘Thank God,’ I said. ‘When and where?
‘Tuesday night,’ said Alec. ‘On the cliff path, heading for Dunskey Castle.’
‘Ah,’ I said. Reid and I exchanged a glance.
‘And…’ Alec began.
‘Could still be her, missus,’ said Reid. ‘Looks more like it now, if aught.’
‘What’s this?’ Alec said.
‘I’ve just come from viewing a body,’ I told him. ‘A woman’s body. Three days in the sea, washed up this morning.’
‘Just where it would wash up if it went in at the castle too,’ said Reid.
‘We came to ask Joe to take a look at it,’ I said, and we all three turned and looked in at the door. Over the heads of the waiting crowd we could just see Joe Aldo in his white hat and capacious white apron, tipping a sizzling basket of fried potatoes into a trough behind his glass counter.
‘Did your witness say anything about Mrs Aldo’s demeanour?’ I asked. ‘If she was walking alone at night on a cliff top it begins to look like suicide.’
‘She wasn’t,’ Alec said. ‘Walking alone, that is. She was with a man. And Dunskey Castle is a well-known local trysting place, I believe.’ He raised his eyebrows at Reid, who nodded and blushed a little, as though his knowledge of the spot might have been gained in his off-duty hours.
‘What man?’ I asked Alec.
‘My witness didn’t know him but she did go as far as to say she’d recognise the chap if she saw him a second time. She did go that far.’ He heaved a heavy sigh. ‘This is going to kill Joe,’ he said. ‘Absolutely kill him. He’s already beside himself even just hearing that she was seen with her lover.’
‘But he knew she had one,’ I said.
Alec nodded. ‘It’s one thing to suspect one’s wife of a dalliance, but it’s quite another actually to hear proof.’ He shook his head. ‘It hit him like a brick.’
‘He’ll need a good hard nut on him now, then,’ said Reid, not quite unkindly. ‘Cos here’s what I’m thinking. Maybe she fell and her fancy man didnae tell a soul so’s nobody would know his wee secret. And maybe she flang herself down and he kept that quiet. But most likely of all, if ye’re askin’ me, if he was up there with her…’
‘Quite,’ I said.
‘I agree,’ said Alec.
‘Aye,’ said Reid, ‘he pushed her.’
‘But the witness was sure she’d know the chap again?’ I said.
‘Seemed to be,’ Alec said. ‘Although to be perfectly honest she scooted off again before I could grill her.’