At last, she said, “I think this is it.” She lifted out a yellow notepad. She took it over to her seat by the fire and began to go through it. “Yes, this is it,” she said. “Sean Abercrombie to see Professor Sander, March 10, 1996. Yes, I remember now. This Sean looked pretty awful, but he was politely spoken and said he had been a student of the professor’s at Glasgow University. I even took a note of his address. Here it is. I’ll tear this page out for you.”
Hamish looked at the address. Forty-five John Street, Inverness.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll just put these boxes back for you.”
“Leave them. Now they’re down here, I’d like a chance to go through them. Call back and let me know how you get on.” Mrs. Black ushered him out.
♦
Hamish decided that food came first. He remembered seeing a fish-and-chip shop on the outskirts of Strathbane. He drove there and studied the menu. He decided to forgo such Scottish delicacies as Mars bar and chips, Bounty bar and chips, deep-fried pizza slice and chips, and all the other things that made Scotland the unhealthiest place in the world, and settled for a haggis and chips for himself, white pudding and chips for Lugs, and fish and chips for Sonsie.
By the time they had all eaten, it was getting dark, but he decided he could not bear to wait until the following day before finding Sean Abercrombie and took the long road down to Inverness.
John Street was down by the Caledonian Canal. Number 45 was one of the neat little houses with gardens that had replaced the tower blocks.
He rang the bell. The door was answered by a middle-aged man with a shock of white hair. He was dressed in a checked shirt, stained grey trousers, and carpet slippers.
“Paid the parking ticket,” he shouted. “Police harassment, that’s what this is!”
“Nothing like that,” said Hamish soothingly. “Does Sean Abercrombie live here?”
“Not any longer. My boy is dead.”
“May I come in?”
“No.”
“Look, what happened to your son?”
“Drug overdose, the silly wee mucker. I slaved to give that boy all the opportunities I never had. He was brilliant at school. Got a scholarship to Glasgow University. Then he got on the drugs.”
“Your son seemed to think that a certain Professor Sander had stolen his work.”
“He was always raving on about something. Before the end, he’d go out at night calling to the aliens and shouting at the sky, “Come and take me home. The experiment is over.” Fair broke my heart.”
“Did he leave any papers, any manuscripts?”
“That he did. I made a big pile o’ them and burnt the lot.”
“Have you a photograph of him I could borrow? I’ll give you a receipt for it. One of the latest ones would be best.”
“What’s this about?”
“Maybe Sean was telling the truth and this professor did steal his work.”
“You’ll find out it was nothing but havers. Oh, wait there. I’ll get you a photograph.”
After a short time, he returned with a photograph.
Hamish studied it in the light shining out from the doorway. It was a photo of Sean in front of the house. He had a head of black hair gelled so that it stuck up all over the place. He had studs in his ears and a stud in his nose. He was dressed entirely in black. His face seemed set in a perpetual sneer.
“Thanks,” said Hamish, touching his cap.
♦
Now, he thought as he drove back to Lochdubh, I’ll take this photo to Professor Sander tomorrow and study his reaction.
Elspeth was waiting for him when he arrived at the police station. As he opened the car door, she wrinkled her nose.
“Have you been buying up a whole fish-and-chip shop?”
“What do you want?” asked Hamish, going round and opening the back to let the dog and cat out. He was still angry with her for the way she had stormed out of the pub.
“Just a chat.”
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
Elspeth opened her mouth to say Luke wasn’t her boyfriend, but decided against it. Let Hamish Macbeth think there were other men interested in her.
“Resting,” she said.
Hamish filled the animals’ water bowls. “I can’t tell you anything, Elspeth. Not yet. You know what Blair is like. He’s always looking for some excuse to get me into trouble.”
“Maybe I’ve got some bits and pieces that might help you. Or not. Mrs. Styles, like Mrs. Wellington, seems absolutely blameless. I can’t find out anything about Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson. Luke and I went to see her. The only mystery I can think of is why a divorced woman – she said she was divorced…”
“Missed that,” said Hamish, lighting the stove. “Sometimes I forget to ask the obvious. Go on.”
“Why a single woman should want to shut herself away in such a remote place. She goes away occasionally – to London, the locals think – but she does not seem to have any friends in the north. But she seems a pretty strong character, and I can’t see Mrs. Gillespie threatening her in any way.
“Now, Professor Sander. He huffed and puffed and told us to get lost. I sense something sleazy about that man.
“Mrs. Fleming seems the obvious one. According to the local gossips, she’s having an affair with Dr. Renfrew. He’s rich. Maybe she’s planning to be the next Mrs. Renfrew. Maybe she pushed her husband down the stairs, and Mrs. Gillespie guessed or found out something. You see, to all her clients, she was just a cleaning woman. Then after she’s ingratiated herself, she starts opening drawers and reading letters. She can’t have tried to blackmail Mrs. Fleming over the affair with Dr. Renfrew because that seems to be general knowledge.”
“Maybe Mrs. Fleming didn’t know that.” Hamish threw some slabs of peat onto the blazing kindling in the stove and put the iron lid down.
He turned and looked at Elspeth. Her hair was beginning to frizz up in the old way, and her Gypsy eyes gleamed silver. He felt that treacherous tug of attraction.
“Why don’t I change and take you out for dinner?” he said suddenly.
“Can’t,” said Elspeth. “Luke’s waiting for me. And have you forgotten the time? It’s eleven o’clock.”
“Then you’d better run along.”
♦
Hamish decided the following morning to visit Mrs. Samson before tackling the professor. He would need to impress on her that if that package had not gone up in the flames, then her life was at risk.
High Haven had once been a hotel, and five years ago it became an old folks’ home. Hamish always found such places depressing. For one thing, the walls were usually painted in pink and blue pastel colours as if for a children’s kindergarten.
He asked at the reception desk for Mrs. Samson and was told she was resting in her room. A nurse was summoned to show him the way.
The first thing Hamish noticed as they walked into the corridor where Mrs. Samson’s room was located was that there was no policeman on duty.
“Where’s the policeman?” he asked.
“He got called back to police headquarters yesterday evening,” said the nurse. “That’s Mrs. Samson’s room.” She knocked on the door. “Visitor for you!”
There was no reply. “Must be asleep,” said the nurse, opening the door. Then she let out a gasp and put her hand to her mouth.
The small room had been ransacked. Even the mattress had been ripped open.
And lying in the middle of the mess was the dead body of Mrs. Samson.
Hamish checked for a pulse but found none. He backed out of the room and called Jimmy.
While he waited for the whole murder circus to arrive, he wondered which one of the suspects could have been terrified enough to murder Mrs. Samson. Surely not Mrs. Fleming. The verdict on her husband’s death had been accident and would stay that way. He doubted if any evidence that she had murdered him would come to light. And the affair with Dr. Renfrew? Surely she must know by now that her affair was pretty general knowledge. Which one of them had such a momentous secret? The professor? Sheer vanity might have driven him to it. It seemed the only thing in his life of any merit was that book on Byron.