He rang the bell, which played a cheerful rendition of ‘Scotland the Brave’. This time the door was opened by a woman in a dressing-gown. She had a thin face, large teeth and prominent eyes. “Oh, come ben,” she said cheerfully. “You’re early in the day.”
“It’s the afternoon,” said Hamish.
“Aye, well, we’re used to folk coming in the evening. What’s your pleasure?”
She led the way into a front room. In contrast to next door, it looked more like a family living room. Someone had left some knitting abandoned on an armchair and the television was on. There was a small coal fire burning briskly in the grate. The sofa and chair were covered in flowered chintz.
“I am from the police,” said Hamish.
“Oh, aye, whit dae you want now? Another subscription to the Police Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund?”
Skating round this possible evidence of police corruption, Hamish said, “I hope I haff the right place. Is this a brothel?”
“You’re blunt.”
“I made the mistake of going next door first.”
She burst out laughing. “That must ha’ got the old biddy’s knickers in a twist. I can tell you her gentlemen boarders, as she ca’s them, drink mair than any o’ the lot that come here. What dae ye want?”
“The man, Bob Harris, him that wass killed. Did he come here?”
“He came a couple o’ times.”
“Who did he see?”
“Mandy, both times.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“Sure. But I doubt if she can tell you anything. It was a couple o’ quickies, cheapest rate. I’ll get her.”
Hamish waited. A low voice from the television informed him quietly of the mating habits of tigers.
After some time the door opened again and Mrs Simpson ushered in a pallid girl wrapped in a housecoat. Hamish did not belong to that sentimental class of men who consider that tarts have hearts. He had, during his police career, found them lazy, fidgety, nervous and cheeky.
“Here’s Mandy,” said Mrs Simpson, pushing her forward. “Don’t take all day. She needs her beauty sleep.”
Mandy picked at a spot on the end of her long nose and then pushed her lank hair out of her eyes. Hamish reflected nastily that even if Mandy slept a hundred years, she would still wake up plain and grubby.
They sat down on the sofa. “Now, Mandy,” began Hamish, “I believe the dead man, Bob Harris, was one of your clients.”
“Oh, him. I usually cannae tell one from the ither. But I saw his picture in the newspapers.”
“I feel if I knew a bit more about his character, then it might help me to find out who killed him.”
“Och, it waud be the wifie.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“He’d drunk a lot and he was suffering frae distiller’s droop. Couldnae get it up. Said his wife had mint him. Said she hated him. He said he’d be back but it was jist the same the next time. He smacked me around a bit, he was that mad. I rang the bell. We hae a bell in our rooms in case the clients get nasty and Mrs Simpson came running in and ordert him oot.”
“You must hear a lot of gossip from your clients. Has anyone mentioned seeing Bob Harris on the day he was murdered?”
“Aye.”
“What did he say? Who wass he?” Hamish leaned forward.
“It was that man from the boarding-house.”
“What? Next door?”
“Naw. The one where Harris was staying. Rogers. That’s his name. Harry Rogers.”
∨ Death of a Nag ∧
6
The whole world is in a state of chassis.
—Scan O’Casey
Hamish headed back along the beach in the direction of the boarding-house, loping his way through the long snakes of blowing white sand. He cut across the dunes towards the boarding-house and saw in the distance Rogers getting into his blue van. He ran even faster, shouting as he went, but the wind whipped his words away and he saw the van turn out on to the road towards Dungarton. Cursing because he hadn’t a car and Miss Gunnery was probably still in Skag, he walked into the hall and found Maggie Donald standing there.
“Quick!” said Hamish. “Have you got your car?”
“Yes, round the back, but – ”
“Come on. We’ve got to get Rogers.”
They ran but and got into Maggie’s car. “Where to?” she asked.
“The road to Dungarton. He’s driving his blue van.”
They sped off. “What’s it all about?” asked Maggie, swinging neatly round a tractor.
“I went to the brothel.”
“Why on earth…?”
“Rogers was a customer. And he said something to one of the girls about seeing Harris on the day he was murdered. Was there anything about that in his statement?”
“Not a word.”
“So let’s catch Rogers and find out what he was doing.”
Maggie concentrated on her driving and they were rewarded on the outskirts of Dungarton by seeing the blue van in front of them. “Should I flag him down?” asked Maggie.
“No,” said Hamish. “I’ve a better idea. Follow him but don’t let him see you. I want to see where he goes.”
Maggie let a car pass her so she was shielded from Rogers’s view.
The blue van, travelling at a sedate pace, went through the centre of the town and then turned off into a leafy suburb on the far side where large Victorian villas stood on either side of the road. Once elegant private residences, they were now small hotels and retirement homes.
“He’s stopping at that old folks’ home,” said Maggie. Rogers had driven up the short drive of a villa which had a board outside it stating that it was the Sunny Times Retirement Home.
“Stop here,” ordered Hamish, “and wait for me.”
Hamish slid out of the car. He went into the garden and peered round a laurel bush. Rogers was going to the kitchen door at the side of the villa.
As Hamish watched, a man in a greasy apron came out. Rogers handed him some notes. The man nodded and went back in. Rogers opened the back of the van. Soon the man appeared and together the pair began loading cartons into the back of the van.
Hamish strolled up. Rogers saw him coming. He slammed the back doors of the van shut and made quickly for the cab. “No, you don’t,” said Hamish. “We’ll chust be taking a wee look at whit’s inside.”
“You need a search warrant,” shouted Rogers, his high colour even higher with rage.
“No, I don’t,” said Hamish. He went to the back of the van and opened the doors and pulled one of the cartons forward. It contained a side of beef which smelt slightly high. He peered in the other boxes, which were full of assorted groceries. So this, then, was the reason for the horrible food at the boarding-house. Rogers was buying the rejects from an old folks’ home in Dungarton.
Hamish shouted for Maggie and when she came up to him, he briefly outlined what he had found. “Get that one out o’ the kitchen,” he said, “and we’ll take them both in.”
Protesting loudly that it was all above-board and innocent, Rogers and the man from the kitchen were marched round and into the front door of the retirement home, where Hamish demanded to see whoever was in charge. A tired-looking man in a crumpled suit ushered them all into an office off the hall. He introduced himself as a Mr Dougald and said the home was run by a charity, Aid for the Senior Citizen.
“So what’s Jamie been up to?” he asked wearily.
“Is this Jamie?” asked Hamish, nodding in the direction of the man from the kitchen.
“Aye, Jamie Sinclair.”
“He’s been selling your stores to Mr Rogers here. Mr Rogers owns a boarding-house in Skag. He’s been selling off meat which is well past its sell-by date. I hope it’s old stores and you arenae giving the residents meat like that.”