Hamish turned round. Mrs. Renfrew was standing in the doorway.
“I think it would be better if we were alone, Dr. Renfrew.”
He hesitated only a moment and then said, “Elsie, go and do something or other and shut the door behind you.”
Elsie shut the door with unnecessary force.
“So what is it now?” demanded Dr. Renfrew. “I have already been asked to account for my movements the night that researcher was murdered, which, I may add, I consider the highest degree of impertinence.”
“Did you tell the police you had met Shona Fraser before?”
“What!”
“When she was working as a researcher for a London-based television company, she must have interviewed you for their programme on medical malpractice.”
His face turned a muddy colour. “I never saw her. Yes, they tried to interview me, but I either refused to answer the door or ran past them when I left the house or surgery. It was a genuine mistake. It’s all over now.”
“Except,” said Hamish slowly, “when Mrs. Gillespie recognised you from the programme and blackmailed you. What did she want?”
All the bluster had gone out of Dr. Renfrew. He said in a low voice, “A bit of money, here and there, not much. And drugs.”
“Drugs!” exclaimed Hamish. What was happening in the Highlands, he marvelled, when middle-aged charwomen turned out to be drug addicts? “What was it? Cocaine? Heroin?”
He gave a bleak smile. “No, nothing like that. Hyperex.”
“What on earth is Hyperex?”
“She had osteoarthritis. Hyperex was a drug for sufferers, but it was considered dangerous and we were told to withdraw all supplies. But we still had some at the hospital. She insisted it was the only thing that helped and said if I didn’t give it to her she would broadcast my malpractice suit all over Braikie. I’m glad she’s dead, but I didn’t kill her.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hamish. “But I’ll need to ask you to come with me to make a statement.”
He looked completely defeated. “I’ll get my jacket,” he said.
♦
At the mobile police unit, Blair was nowhere in sight, but Inspector Cannon was there. Hamish briefly explained what he had found out, not mentioning Elspeth’s name but saying instead that he had remembered seeing the documentary on television.
“Good work,” she said. “There’s been a burglary at a croft on the Strathbane road. It’s just come in. I want you to get over there and do the initial interview, and I’ll send along some fingerprint men if we can spare them. Here’s the address. Off you go while I get down to getting a statement from the doctor.”
Hamish opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again, quickly deciding any protest would be futile. But he felt very angry with her. He had given her the first real breakthrough in the case, and he was being sidetracked. They could easily have sent out a policeman from Strathbane.
He walked to his Land Rover and looked at the name and address. Geordie McArthur, The Sheiling, Strathbane Road. It was several months since he had called on Geordie. He liked to occasionally check up on people in the outlying crofts.
♦
As he approached, Hamish reflected it was a typical croft house. Outside were two rusting cars, an old television set, and a fridge.
Other people might decorate the outside of their houses with flower gardens, but your true crofter used it as a dump for discarded machinery and household goods in the dim hope that some bits might come in handy some day.
Geordie’s wife, a thin, leathery woman with a face set in perpetual lines of discontent, invited him in. She said Geordie was asleep and went to wake him.
Sutherland boasts some of the tallest men in the British Isles. Geordie’s head scraped the low ceiling when he came into the living room.
“So what was taken, Geordie?” asked Hamish.
“My Land Rover. Two nights ago.”
“And you’ve only got around to reporting it now! I’ll need the registration number and a description.”
“You can see for yourself. It’s parked round the back of the house.”
“Geordie. This is right daft. It’s been stolen or it hasn’t been stolen.”
“Look, I havenae used it for three days, right? Well, I checked the mileage, and there were miles on it that werenae there before. I always check the mileage because herself sometimes takes it out when I’m asleep.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” asked Hamish.
“I don’t want herself flitting off tae Strathbane to flaunt herself in front of other men.”
Hamish stared at the big man in amazement. Did he really see his downtrodden, weather-beaten wife as such an object of desire?
“Let’s see the Land Rover, Geordie.”
Geordie led the way round the back of the croft house to where the Land Rover was parked. There’s a full-blown murder case going on, Hamish thought, and here am I stuck with this loon.
“See,” said Geordie, “I leave the keys in it.” He opened the driver’s door. “I’ve got this wee book. I aye take a note of the mileage. Well, it had gained twenty miles. What’s up with you, man? You look like you’ve been struck by the lightning.”
For Hamish was suddenly standing stock-still, his eyes vague and his mouth open.
“Give me a minute, Geordie,” he said.
Hamish looked down the fields to the Strathbane road. Twenty miles would cover the round trip to Lochdubh. Could someone who didn’t want their car recognised have stolen the Land Rover for the sole purpose of killing Shona Fraser?
“Are you sure it wasn’t your wife?”
“Sure as sure. I keep an eye on her.”
Hamish thought, I’ll need to come back when this is all over and see what I can do for Mrs. McArthur.
“There’s another thing,” said Geordie. “Whoever took it gave it a fair cleaning.”
“Right,” said Hamish. “Stand away from it now, Geordie, and don’t touch it again. I’ll get a forensic team out.”
“I neffer thought you’d take it this serious.”
Hamish phoned and got through to Inspector Gannon by saying it was urgent and in connection with the murder of Shona. She listened to him and said she would send a forensic team out right away.
Hamish did not ask her for further instructions. He wanted time to think.
∨ Death of a Maid ∧
8
I do not mind lying, but I hate inaccuracy.
—Samuel Butler
Hamish waited patiently for the forensic team to arrive. Geordie lit a cigarette, and Hamish sniffed the air longingly. He wondered if the occasional craving for a cigarette would ever leave him.
“Geordie,” he said, “I was going to leave this until later, but I’ll need to have a wee talk with you about the treatment of your wife.”
“Whit!”
“As far as I can see, you keep her a sort of prisoner. Why shouldn’t she take the car and go shopping if she feels like it?”
“She’ll meet ither men. She’ll waste my money on baubles.”
“Church-goer, are you?” asked Hamish.
“I am a staunch member of the Free Presbyterians.”
“I might have thought you a member of the Taliban. Your wife’s a decent middle-aged woman. The way you’ve ruined her looks is enough to put any man off.”
“What are you talking about? I treat that woman fair and decent. She gets three meals a day.”
“You’re out o’ the Dark Ages, that’s what you are,” said Hamish bitterly. “And you need some sort of therapy. I’ll be having a word with your minister.”
“Be damned to ye! Ye are an emissary of Satan.” Geordie swung a punch at Hamish, who dodged it neatly.
“Try that again,” said Hamish, “and I’ll arrest you for assaulting a police officer. I’m telling you, Geordie, you’ve been stuck up here for so long wi’ nothing but your sheep and that poor wife of yours and it’s fair turned your brain. Here come the forensics.”