“Who is Jock Fleming?”
“I’ll pop this in the oven, and I’ve got a bottle of wine here,” said Priscilla. “We’ll have a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Elspeth felt intimidated by Priscilla, watching her as she moved about the kitchen with quiet efficiency. Priscilla was wearing tailored white linen trousers with a white linen blouse. Elspeth reflected that when she wore anything made of linen, it seemed to crease as soon as she got it on, but Priscilla’s ensemble showed not a wrinkle, and her hair was smooth and golden. Elspeth nervously dragged her fingers through her own hair trying to flatten it and only succeeded in making it look messier than ever.
Priscilla opened the wine and poured two glasses. “The casserole will only take a few minutes. Right, I’ll begin at the beginning…”
♦
Hamish did not enjoy his dinner. He kept wondering what Priscilla and Elspeth were talking about. Seeing Elspeth again had been a shock.
“I keep asking you how the investigation is going on,” said Betty, “and you mumble something but don’t seem to be listening. I know about Priscilla. The whole of Lochdubh knows about Priscilla, but who’s the other one?”
“A reporter, Elspeth Grant. She used to work on the paper here.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Were you romantically involved with her?”
Hamish stiffened. Betty, amused, thought if Hamish were a cat, his fur would stand on end. “I haff neffer asked you about your private life, Betty,” he said, “and I don’t wish to discuss mine.”
“Okay, Sherlock. Now we’ve got that out of the way, have you any suspects?”
“I’m waiting until all the background on everyone comes in,” said Hamish.
“Me included?”
“I should think so. You and everyone else staying at the hotel.”
“I’m a clean-living girl. They can dig away. I’m surprised you’re free for dinner. I thought your bosses would be hounding you.”
“No. That scunner, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, is laid up in hospital with a broken leg and a broken collarbone, and Detective Jimmy Anderson is in charge of the case. He knows it’s pointless now to go over old ground until we know more about the people involved. Nice not to be harassed.”
“Macbeth,” said a voice behind him.
Hamish swung round and looked up at the figure of Superintendent Peter Daviot looming over him. Hamish got to his feet.
“Why aren’t you out on the case?” asked Daviot.
“Because, sir, everyone’s been pretty much interviewed and Anderson is waiting for the background checks.”
“I’m sorry to spoil your dinner, but I want you to walk along to the police station with me. There is a lot to discuss.” He smiled at Betty. “I am sorry, miss, but this is serious stuff.”
Betty gave a little shrug. “Don’t mind me.”
♦
At least Priscilla and Elspeth will have left, thought Hamish. But when he opened the kitchen door, it was to find the pair finishing their meal.
Daviot knew them both and murmured a greeting while a flustered Hamish explained he would have to ask them to leave.
Priscilla asked after Mrs. Daviot as she efficiently cleared the table and put the dirty dishes and glasses in the sink. Then she and Elspeth left.
Daviot sat down at the table. Sonsie jumped onto the chair opposite and fixed the superintendent with unblinking eyes.
“Good heavens, Macbeth. That’s a wild cat. You shouldn’t be keeping an animal like that!”
“She’s domesticated.” Hamish lifted his cat down onto the floor and sat down opposite Daviot.
“Now, this business of a murdered American tourist is serious,” said Daviot. “This sort of thing can damage tourism. We have contacted his ex-wife, who is flying over to make funeral arrangements. He had a card in his wallet with her mobile phone number. We could not find any close family. Have you any idea why he was murdered?”
“Yes,” said Hamish. “It all ties in with the murder of Effie Garrard.”
“The artist? But that was suicide.”
“I think not, sir.” Hamish explained about the visitors to Effie’s cottage and about the bottle of wine and the note.
“I never saw any report about that note or bottle of wine.”
“Her sister, Caro, who is up here, told the police in Strathbane, but they said Effie was mad and had probably made the whole thing up.”
Daviot scowled. “I’ll see about this when I get back to headquarters. So what ties Effie to this American?”
“He took her out a couple of times. He had ambitions to be a writer, and he noted down everything everyone had said in a notebook. I asked to see what she had said, and Mr. Addenfest replied that he knew the police thought it was suicide but he had proof that it was murder and would only show the contents to my superiors.”
“And why didn’t you report this?”
“Because I was told the case was closed and to leave it alone.”
“And there’s no sign of the notebook?”
“No, not on the body or in his room.”
Daviot rapped his fingers on the table, an irritating sound. Then he said, “We have a new detective constable, Robin Mackenzie.”
“What’s he like?”
“She. Keen as mustard. I want her to work closely on this case with you, and I want you to give her the benefit of all your local knowledge. Anderson will handle the broad picture, and I will be in charge.”
“When does this detective arrive?”
“I asked her to report to you first thing tomorrow morning. We must all work night and day on this. No time off for anyone.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better go. I have a late-night party to attend at the Freemasons. Then tomorrow morning, I have to get my new suit from the tailor. I’ll be over in the afternoon to see how you’re getting on.”
“I do not want to be obstructive, sir, but would not this Detective Mackenzie be better working with Anderson? I work better alone.”
“You what? This isn’t the Wild West with a lone sheriff. Do as you’re told and give Mackenzie all the help she needs.”
After Daviot left, Hamish felt quite low. The case was difficult enough without being saddled with some pushy woman detective. He assumed first thing in the morning meant around nine o’clock. He set the alarm for eight and went to bed, feeling mildly hungry because he’d only eaten the first course before Daviot had taken him away, but felt too tired to cook anything.
♦
Hamish was awakened at six in the morning by a banging on the front door. He struggled out of bed, went to the door, and shouted, “Come round to the kitchen.”
He put on a dressing gown and went and opened the kitchen door.
“I’m Robin Mackenzie,” said his visitor.
“Come ben. What time d’ye call this?”
“I was instructed to report early.”
Robin Mackenzie was a fairly small woman with dark brown hair worn in a French pleat. She had small dark brown eyes, a long straight nose, and a wide mouth. She was wearing a white blouse, suede jacket, and tweed skirt. Her black patent leather shoes had low heels.
“You are not what I expected,” she said, looking up at the tall, unshaven figure of Hamish with his flaming red hair tousled from sleep.
“What did you expect?” asked Hamish.
“Someone fully dressed and in uniform, for a start.”
“I’ll make you some coffee and get dressed.”
The dog and the cat wandered in. She looked at them but made no comment, and thank goodness for that, thought Hamish.
When the coffee was ready, he served her a mug of it and took himself off to the bathroom to shower and shave.
Robin looked around the kitchen. She had grown up in South Uist in the Outer Hebrides and had left as soon as she could to fulfil her ambition of becoming a detective. She had heard reports of Hamish’s brilliance and how he always managed to avoid promotion, and she had wondered why. Being stuck in a highland police station out in the wilds, she thought, would be as bad as being back in South Uist.