As Hamish walked back to his station, he suddenly stood stock-still. He had been focussing on the four men. What if Angela turned out not to be the only local who had parted with money? He had to see Milly again. He walked to the offices of the Highland Times and told Matthew Campbell, the editor, to get down to Strathbane because he’d just heard a rumour that Angela Brodie had been arrested. Then he went back to the police station to wait through the long day for the evening news.
At six o’clock, he switched on the Scottish television news. Floods here, road accidents there, murder in Glasgow. “Come on,” he muttered.
And suddenly there was Angela outside Strathbane police headquarters, her eyes red with crying. Blair had been at his worst until Elspeth had demanded a lawyer for her.
Then it switched to Angela in her kitchen telling her sad story to Elspeth. Hamish breathed a sigh of relief. She came over very well. Angela exuded goodness.
Henry Satherwaite ran a small publishing firm in Edinburgh called simply Scottish Literature. He published new authors and had built up a surprisingly successful business with steady sales. He had read Angela’s first book and had thought it very good. He promptly packed an overnight bag, got his car out of the garage, and headed for the Highlands.
Jimmy Anderson called on Hamish that evening. “Come ben,” said Hamish, eyeing him warily, hoping the foxy detective had not jumped to the same miserable conclusion as he had himself—that there might be more conned villagers in the neighbourhood.
“So your friend has got herself in hot water wi’ Blair,” said Jimmy. He raised the glass of whisky Hamish had poured him and said, “Rummel, rummel roon the gums, look out stomach here it comes. Ah, that’s better.”
“It’s your liver, not your stomach you should be worried about.”
“Oh, I’m fine. But have you thought?”
“Thought what?”
“These con artists just keep on going. They jist can’t keep their paws off other people’s money. Your friend Angela Brodie might not be the only one.”
“Maybe,” said Hamish.
“Aye, I should guess definitely, which widens the investigation.”
“Have you suggested this to Blair?”
“Not yet.”
“Wait a bit.”
“Won’t do, Hamish. Do you want me to go all telly on you and say, I will give you twenty-four hours? Sorry. I left a memo on the fat yin’s desk.”
“I’d better get over to Drim in the morning.”
“Why not Lochdubh?”
“Who, for instance?”
“Could be anyone. He could ha’ promised thae Currie sisters face-lifts. I’ve dealt with fraudsters and cons before, Hamish, and it’s amazing how easily people are tricked out of their money. Besides, the captain’s wife said that he didn’t mix wi’ any of the folk from Drim.”
“Any murders in Edinburgh just after Philomena’s?”
“Only one odd one. A brass nail fell out o’ the window o’ her flat in the Royal Mile to her death. Place went on fire.”
Correctly interpreting brass nail to mean “prostitute,” Hamish asked, “Suspicious circumstances?”
“You could say that. Bruises on her ankles made it look as if someone had bent down and heaved her out. The fire was started at the fireplace.”
“Did she have a pimp?”
“No, an independent lady called Sarah Brogan.”
“It would be a good idea to give the Edinburgh police the photos of our four men and see if anyone in the tenement recognised one of them.”
“I suggested that and was told by Daviot to stop flying off at mad tangents.”
“I’ll try to catch Elspeth,” said Hamish. “I hope she hasn’t left for Glasgow. She might look into it for me.”
“What about another dram?” asked Jimmy, raising his empty glass.
“Not when you’re driving.”
“Calvinist,” said Jimmy. “I’m off.”
Betty Close packed slowly. She was reluctant to leave. She wondered whether to plead with Elspeth to keep her job, because she had a nasty feeling she might be sacked when she returned to Glasgow.
She heard Hamish’s voice along the hotel corridor. “Might be a story for you, Elspeth.”
Betty waited until she heard the door of Elspeth’s room close. She crept along the corridor and pressed her ear to the panels of Elspeth’s door. She heard Hamish say, “It’s a long shot, but when Philomena left that bar, she left with a woman described as small and plump, but she wouldn’t want to be recognised and could have padded herself with something and altered her appearance. The waitress said she seemed to have difficulty speaking, which might mean that her cheeks were padded with something to alter her face. Now, after Philomena’s murder, a prostitute in the Canongate seems to have been shoved out of the tenement window of her flat and then the place was set on fire. Maybe you could get photos of our four suspects and ask if anyone has seen one of them on the day she died.”
Betty heard Elspeth reply, “I don’t know if I’ll have time to do anything, Hamish. It’s such a long shot. I have to get back first and secure my job. Leave it with me.”
“What about that creature who put the tape recorder in the station?”
“Don’t know. She’s been summoned back to Glasgow. I’ve got her a plane ticket from Inverness. I can’t bear the idea of her company on the road back. You’d better go,” said Elspeth. “I’ve got a lot to do.”
Betty scuttled back along the corridor. She sat down in her room, engulfed with a sudden wave of hate for Elspeth. She would get over to Edinburgh as soon as she could and see if she alone could solve the murders.
Hamish went over to Drim in the morning, stopping only once to let the dog and cat out to play in the heather.
He then drove down into Drim and parked outside the shop. He sat for a moment looking at the gale whipping little whitecaps down the long black loch.
A dingy-looking black-headed gull stood at the edge of the water and surveyed him with contempt, then flew away.
Hamish climbed down from the Land Rover, opened the door of the shop, and went in. Jock Kennedy was behind the counter. “Where’s Ailsa?” asked Hamish.
“Up at the hoose. What do you want to be bothering her for?”
“Just a helpful gossip.”
“Oh, well, you know the way.”
Jock had knocked down an old fishing cottage at the back of the shop and replaced it with a rather awful pebble-dashed bungalow. The builders had not allowed for the fierce gales funnelled down the loch. The old cottage had stood side-on to them with very thick walls. The new building was on a little rise facing down the loch. Hamish clutched his cap and rang the bell.
Ailsa answered it and said, “It’s yourself. I’ve just put the kettle on.”
Hamish eased past her and walked into the kitchen. He noticed that despite the double-glazing on all the windows, little draughts were somehow escaping into the house. The kitchen was cold.
“Tea?”
“Aye, that would be grand,” said Hamish.
He waited until Ailsa made a pot of tea and put it on the table with two mugs. “Now,” she said. “What brings you?”
Ailsa was still a good-looking woman, Hamish noticed, with her thick red hair and creamy skin.
“Did you see that bit about Angela on the telly?” asked Hamish.
“Aye. Poor soul.”
“Well, it couldnae help but cross my mind that there might be other folk that the captain took money from.”
Ailsa’s eyes became blank. “Now, I would not be knowing about that.”