“Let’s have the real story.”
“I have a gallery in Brighton where I sell my stuff. He came in one day, and we got talking. Effie wasn’t there. She was already up here. I had two postcards from her pinned up behind my desk. They were scenic views of Lochdubh. He said it looked like a beautiful place and where was it? I told him Lochdubh in Sutherland. He took me out for a drink.”
“You had an affair with him,” said Jimmy flatly.
She hung her head. “It was a one·night stand. He left Brighton the next day.”
“And have you seen him since you have been up here?”
“I phoned him at the hotel. He shouted at me. He said he wished he’d never set eyes on my sister. He told me to leave him alone. He said he’d kill me if I told the police about our fling because they suspected him already and he didn’t want them knowing anything else.”
“I should charge you with withholding information,” said Jimmy heavily. “Is there anything else you haven’t been telling us?”
“No.”
“And there’s no way Effie could have known you had an affair with Jock?”
“No. I wanted to tell her, but I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Effie was always jealous of me. I felt it would only make her obsession worse if I told her. She would go mad trying to prove to me that she had succeeded where I had failed.”
“I want you to stay in Lochdubh and hold yourself ready for further questioning. PC Ettrick here will type up your statement. Report to the police unit in the morning and sign it.”
♦
Betty Barnard was walking along the waterfront in the morning when she saw Dr. Brodie leaving the police station. She stopped him. “Is Hamish ill?”
“He’s had a bit of a concussion, but I think he’ll be all right if he takes things easy.”
Betty let herself into the police station. She walked into the bedroom. “How did you get concussed, Hamish?”
“I slipped and struck my head on the bath.”
“I tell you what, that bed looks uncomfortable. Get up and sit in a chair in your living room, and I’ll clean the sheets for you. Do you have a washing machine?”
“It’s in a cupboard in the living room. It’s one o’ the kind you wheel up to the kitchen sink and put a hose on the tap, but don’t bother. I’m fine. You shouldnae be here.”
“Nonsense. You look dreadful. Up you get.”
♦
As Betty washed the sheets, she thought that the machine ought to be in a museum. The day was dry and sunny with a fresh breeze. She carried the sheets out into the back where there was a washing line and pinned them out to dry.
When she came back in to where Hamish was huddled in an armchair, she asked, “Where’s your clean linen?”
“In a cupboard in the bedroom.”
Betty put clean sheets and pillowslips on the bed and then helped Hamish back into it. “Now, what about breakfast?”
“I couldn’t eat anything, Betty. I think I’d like to go to sleep again. Thanks a lot.”
She dropped a kiss on his forehead. “You go to sleep, and I’ll see you later.”
♦
Hamish fell back into a deep sleep and awoke six hours later. He felt much better and ravenously hungry. When he went into the kitchen, he noticed Betty had cleaned up everything and laid the table with two fresh baps – those Scottish bread rolls that everyone always claims are never what they used to be – on a plate along with a pat of butter, a pot of jam, and a thermos of coffee.
He ate the baps and then fried himself a plate of bacon and eggs. Hamish found himself getting very angry indeed at whoever it was who had struck him.
He had just finished eating when Jimmy appeared.
“Is it all right to talk to you?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “I would have called earlier, but Dr. Brodie called in at the unit and said no one was to disturb you.”
“I’m better now. How did you get on with Caro?”
Jimmy told him. “If I were Blair,” he said, “I would arrest Jock. But we haven’t any hard evidence. I think that ex-wife of his and Jock did the murders. I think they’re both twisted and sick. God, I’d like to break them.”
“Where are they now?”
“Back here. They got lawyers. Nothing really to hold them on. Oh, I saw that Priscilla of yours.”
“She isn’t mine. What did she want?”
“She’s off back to London.”
“Did you tell her I was ill?”
“Yes, she sends her best wishes.”
Cold, chilly bitch, thought Hamish with a sudden burst of fury. Didn’t even bother to call to see if there was anything she could do for me. His fury was then replaced with a burst of gratitude for Betty’s kindness.
I’m tired of being single, he thought. I am damn well going to ask Betty to marry me.
“You know,” Jimmy was saying, interrupting Hamish’s thoughts, “I think if it wasn’t Jock or his wife, it could be Caro. She’s got a history of mental illness. She was furious with her sister for having pinched her work. She may have fallen in love with Jock herself. She covered up that she’d met him before. Then Hal told his ex that he was going to marry.”
“It’s an idea,” said Hamish slowly. “I mean, Hal must really have been a very lonely man. Nobody liked him. He’d be easy prey. Someone wanted that notebook of his.”
♦
After Jimmy had left, Hamish brought in his clean sheets, folded them, and put them in the cupboard. Then he dragged an old deck chair into the front garden and settled down with piles of notes he had made on the case.
The murders had been thought out, of that he was sure. But the murderer had been extremely lucky in that no one had seen him – or her. Jock Fleming seemed capable of arousing strong passions. Hamish began to wonder why Jock’s marriage had really broken up. Apart from his general womanising, Jock liked whores. Hamish was willing to bet that Jock knew Dora was a prostitute before he married her. So why had they divorced?
“Coo-ee!” Hamish looked up from his notes. Gloria Addenfest was standing on the other side of the hedge. “The funeral’s tomorrow,” she said. “Mr. Wellington’s been great. You going to be there? Eleven o’clock.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Hamish.
“See ya.” She waggled her fingers at him and walked off.
♦
If there was something Lochdubh liked more than a wedding, it was a funeral, especially when it was the funeral of someone they had not cared about one bit. When Hamish walked along to the church the next morning, black-clad figures were heading towards the church from every direction.
The church bell tolled out across the loch. Outside the church, the band of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders stood, getting their instruments ready, fighting for space with the television crews.
The church was full to capacity. Hamish found a pew at the back where he could observe the congregation.
In the front pew sat Gloria Addenfest in full Hollywood mourning: black cartwheel hat with thick black veil; black tailored suit.
The organist began to play ‘Abide with Me,’ and everyone shuffled to their feet as the coffin was carried in. Hymns were sung, a dignified sermon was delivered, there were readings from the Old and New Testaments, and then the small coffin was hoisted up and everyone fell in behind it for the procession up the hill to the graveyard, led by the pipe band playing a dirge.
Mr. Wellington read the words of the burial service. A lone piper played ‘Amazing Grace’ – what else? thought Hamish. I bet Gloria chose that – as the coffin was slowly lowered into the grave.
Then the whole band struck up ‘Scotland the Brave,’ and with pipes skirling and kilts swinging, they led the ‘mourners’ down the hill to the church hall.
The hall was lined with buffet tables with every sort of Scottish delicacy from smoked salmon to grouse in aspic to sherry trifle. A bar at the end was covered in whisky bottles and glasses. Someone had obviously advised Gloria not to waste her money on fine wines. There were tea urns and coffee urns.