She stopped the car a little way away from the boarding-house and turned to him, the lights from the dashboard shining on her glasses, which she had put on to drive. “You’re a WHAT?”
“A policeman.”
“But you’re not like any policeman I’ve ever met.”
“Have you met many?”
“No, but…”
“We come in all shapes and sizes.”
“So there was no need for me to lie?”
“Well, the fact that I am a policeman and I’m not in favour at the moment with my superiors might have made them keep me in all night. But honesty is always the best policy in a police investigation,” said Hamish, piously righting down memories of the many times he had been economical with the truth. Miss Gunnery let in the clutch and moved off. “The press are outside,” she said as a small group at the boarding-house gate appeared in the headlamps.
“Mostly local chaps,” commented Hamish, casting an expert eye over them.
“How can you tell?”
“The way they dress. Here goes. Just say ‘No comment yet’ in as nice a voice as possible.”
They ran the press gauntlet. Emett, the policeman, was on guard outside the door. He stood aside and let them pass, his cold eyes fastening on Hamish as he did so.
They looked in the lounge but the rest had apparently gone to their rooms.
Hamish was suddenly weary. What a holiday! He said a firm goodnight to Miss Gunnery and shut the door of his room on her with a feeling of relief.
He sat down on the bed and started to remove his shoes. It was then, with one shoe half off, that he suddenly realized that although Miss Gunnery had given him an alibi, by accepting her lie and going along with it, he had supplied her with a cast-iron alibi.
And he was convinced someone in this boarding-house had murdered Bob Harris.
♦
When he went down to the dining room in the morning, Cheryl and Tracey were there, both heavily made up and both wearing those short leather skirts and plunging tops.
“Going to a party?” asked Hamish.
Cheryl shrugged. “Thon policeman says we werenae tae speak tae the press but Tracey and me want our photos in the papers. The minute we’ve had our breakfasts, we’re goin’t oot there.”
Andrew came into the room at that moment. He had dark shadows under his eyes, as if he had slept badly. He had just sat down when Doris arrived. She looked around the room with bleak, empty eyes and then, after a little hesitation, went and joined Andrew at his table. Then came the Brett family, the children wide-eyed and subdued.
“You’re a policeman,” said Dermott, stopping at Hamish’s table. It was a statement, not a question.
“That Crick told me,” Dermott went on. “So what are you going to do about this?”
“I’m on holiday,” said Hamish, “and I’m still a suspect myself, so I can’t interfere.”
Mr and Mrs Rogers came into the dining room carrying plates of fried haggis and watery eggs. “Has it occurred to you,” pursued Dermott, “that one of us might have done it?”
Mrs Rogers was carrying three plates. She dropped them with a crash.
“Look,” said Hamish, “that was the first thought about it I had. But just think. Which one of us here had a reason to murder Bob Harris?” All eyes slid to Doris.
“Yes, I know the wife’s the first suspect, but can anyone see Doris actually killing anyone?”
Andrew’s voice was hard. “Drop it, Hamish. Doris has enough to bear without having to listen to all this.”
Hamish and Dermott murmured apologies. Dermott joined June and the children. Mrs Rogers scurried about cleaning up the mess. “Some of you will just have to do without haggis,” said Mr Rogers.
“I think we could all do with a decent breakfast.” Hamish got to his feet. “I’ll cook it.”
“No one is allowed in the kitchen this morning,” exclaimed Mr Rogers, barring the doorway.
“Then it’s time they were,” said Miss Gunnery. “Come along, Hamish. I’ll help you.”
Despite the Rogerses’ protests, they collected up the plates that had been served, and walked through to the kitchen, where they scraped the contents into the rubbish bin. Hamish picked up a pot and took it over to the sink and washed it thoroughly. He began to scramble eggs while Miss Gunnery made piles of toast.
It was voted the best breakfast they had ever had and was eaten deaf to the speech made by Mr Rogers that they would all have to pay for the extra eggs.
“Put on the radio over there,” said Dermott, “and let’s hear the news.”
Hamish looked anxiously at Doris. “Do you think you can stand it?”
She nodded. Andrew reached across the table and took her hand and pressed it.
Hamish switched on an old–fashioned radio in the corner, the kind featured in old war documentaries with families listening to Churchill talking about fighting them on the beaches. It crackled into life in time for the nine o’clock news. “Police have discovered the remains of three bodies in the garden of a house in Tanwill Road, Perth,” said the announcer. “The house belongs to a builder, Frank Duffy, The area has been cordoned off and police are appealing to the public to stay away. We will bring you an update as soon as we have further news. An IRA attack on Heathrow Airport was foiled when…” And so the news went on without a single mention of Bob Harris.
“Have the police here asked for press silence on our murder?” asked Dermott.
Hamish switched off the radio and sat down again. “A man being hit on the head and pushed into the water is as nothing compared to these Perth murders. The only reason there were so many press around last night was because there was nothing much else going on. At least it means we’ll get peace and quiet today.”
“Whit?” Cheryl and Tracey looked at Hamish in comic dismay. “Whit about us? We want our photos in the papers.” Cheryl went to the window and looked out. “Not a soul,” she said in disgust. “And we got up at dawn tae get ready.”
“I think we are forgetting our manners,” said Miss Gunnery severely. “Doris, I am sure you know you have our deepest sympathy.” This statement was followed by rather shamefaced murmurs all round. And yet it was hard to feel sorry for Doris. She was now free of a dreadful husband.
“A police car’s jist arrived,” said Cheryl, still looking out.
After a few moments the door of the dining room opened and Deacon came in. “Tracey Fink and Cheryl Gamble,” he said, “I must ask you to accompany us to the police station.”
“It’s a fit-up. You cannae pin this one on us,” said Cheryl, whose home in Glasgow had satellite television.
“You were heard by some of the lads at the dance saying as how ye would like tae bump someone off tae see whit it felt like,” said Deacon. “Come along. Ye’ve a lot of explaining to do.” He turned to Hamish. “And I haven’t finished with you by a long chalk. None of the rest of you leave Skag without permission.”
Protesting their innocence, Cheryl and Tracey were led out.
“I think we’d all feel more at ease with each other,” said Hamish into the following silence, “if we all got together and said where we were yesterday afternoon. Bob Harris was seen at two o’clock on the jetty by that fisherman and he says when he looked out half an hour later, there was no sign of Harris. So if we move through to the lounge, we could explain to each other where we all were at that time.”
“And I think Doris has just as much as she can take at the moment,” protested Andrew.
But Doris said in a small voice, “Don’t you see, we’ve got to know? I don’t mind.”
And so they all went through to the lounge and sat round in a circle.
“Maybe we’ll start with Doris and let her get it over with,” said Hamish.