Then what of the beleaguered Dermott Brett and his secret life? He had obviously been genuine when he believed his wife would never divorce him. Harris threatened his life with June and his children. Rogers was blackmailing him. Could it be that Jamie MacPherson had been blackmailing him as well? What a crowd! Two scrubbers from Glasgow with prison records, one illicit romance, Doris and Andrew, two illicit romances if you counted Dermott and June, one unmarried schoolteacher who was in love with him…Hamish shuddered away from that last thought. He liked Miss Gunnery and did not want to hurt her. He twisted uneasily under the blankets and automatically leaned down to pat Towser and then remembered his dog was dead.
The death of Towser had clouded all his thoughts, making him hate the boarding-house and hate Skag and see everyone he met as a potential murderer. It was time to get to know them all again. No matter what the provocation, normal people did not kill, he firmly believed that. Somewhere, in one of them, there was the capacity to kill. And what of Alice Brett, the legitimate wife? The more he thought of her, the more anxious he became. He should have delayed his journey north and gone to see her. He must call on Deacon in the morning and ask to see a transcript of the interview with her, how much time she had taken off from work and whether she could have travelled up to Skag in time to murder Harris. But why would she want to murder Harris? Say he had written to her, found out her address, and written to her about June and the children. No one liked the source of bad news, but not enough to kill the bearer.
But wait a bit! He kept thinking of it as murder. The death of Harris could have been culpable homicide. Think of this. Alice goes to meet Harris. Say he suggested the jetty. He was a nasty bit of work. He would not be able to resist jeering at her. He had been drunk. Hamish could see him now, swaying slightly, his face flushed and his nag’s voice going on and on. Alice seizes a piece of driftwood and whacks him on the head to shut him up. He sways and tumbles into the water. Terrified, she runs away. Then, say, Jamie MacPherson blackmails her. She has killed once, so it’s easier to kill again.
But how on earth would Jamie MacPherson have got hold of her address?
Then there was that unknown quantity, Miss Gunnery. He should have dug deeper there. By saying she had slept with him, she had established a very good alibi for herself until he had broken it by telling the truth; or, to be honest, because he had been shopped by Maggie Donald. The fact was, thought Hamish ruefully, he hadn’t worked hard enough.
And as if the very idea of hard work exhausted him, he fell fast asleep.
♦
In the morning he put on his police uniform, which he had brought from Lochdubh, and made his way downstairs. Mrs Rogers stopped in the hall at the sight of him, her face suddenly contorted with fury. “You bastard,” she hissed. “You got my man in trouble.”
“He got himself in trouble.” Hamish looked at her coolly. “He should ha’ been more careful with a policeman in the house. He knew I wass a policeman because he searched my suitcase.”
“Havers,” said Mrs Rogers, moving away. “Who told you that?”
“He did,” lied Hamish blandly.
She gave him a shifty look and backed towards the dining room door. “Oh, well, we have tae check up on folks.” She went inside the dining room and slammed the door.
Hamish grinned to himself. Only a tiny part of the mystery solved, but a satisfactory one.
PC Crick came in, saw Hamish and said, “I’m here to collect Mrs Harris and Mr Biggar. You’re tae come as well.”
“I’ll go ahead and see them at the station,” said Hamish, feeling squeamish at the thought of a journey with Doris and Andrew.
It was one of those still, grey days, reminding him of when he had first arrived in Skag. The sea was flat and a thin mist lay over everything.
He felt hungry but had not wanted to risk breakfast with Miss Gunnery, whose gaze on him appeared to be becoming more intense. When he arrived at the police station, Maggie was talking to Deacon in the entrance hall. “Ah, here’s Macbeth,” said Deacon. “Get us some coffees, Maggie.” A spark of malice glinted in Hamish’s hazel eyes. “Just the thing,” he said amiably, “and since I havenae had any breakfast, a few doughnuts would be welcome.”
“I do have police work to do,” said Maggie tartly.
“Hop to it, Constable,” snapped Deacon. “Come along, Macbeth.”
The detective, Johnny Clay, was already in the interviewing room.
“Sit ower there, Macbeth,” said Deacon, indicating a chair in the corner.
Hamish took off his peaked cap, put it under his chair, and drew out his notebook and a stub of pencil.
“What are the reports on Alice Brett?” he asked. “I was thinking about her. I mean, is she as hysterical as Dermott made her sound? He seemed to think she might kill herself if he asked for a divorce.”
“She’s here.”
“What? In Skag?”
“We brought her up for questioning. If you want a wee look at her, we’ll hae her in after we’ve spoken tae these two.”
The door opened. Maggie Donald put a tray with paper cups of coffee and a plate of jam doughnuts on the table. Hamish rose and helped himself, ignoring a fulminating glare from Maggie. He knew the fact that he was being allowed to sit in on the interviewing when he was only an ordinary police constable like herself had infuriated her more than being ordered to fetch doughnuts.
But when she had left, he couldn’t help asking mildly, “Doesn’t it ever get up Maggie’s nose, being treated like a skivvy? I mean, what about equal opportunities and no sex discrimination?”
“When that one stops trying to get favours by batting her eyelids and wiggling her bum, we’ll maybe take her a bit more seriously,” said Deacon. “And address me as ‘sir’, when you talk to me, Macbeth.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door opened again and Doris and Andrew were ushered in. Andrew’s face appeared strained and Doris looked even more buttoned down than ever, mouth tucked in at the corners, hair rigidly set, neat little blouse and straight skirt and low-heeled shoes.
“You cannot keep questioning and questioning us like this,” protested Andrew. “We’ve told you all we know.”
Clay switched on the tape. “Beginning interview with Mrs Doris Harris and Mr Andrew Biggar,” he intoned. “Nine-fifteen, July thirtieth. Interview by Detective Chief Inspector Deacon. Also present, Detective Sergeant Clay and Constable Hamish Macbeth.”
Andrew threw Hamish a look of reproach.
“Now,” began Deacon, “we would like to know why the pair of you omitted the fact that you both knew each other before you came up here.”
“But that’s not true,” wailed Doris.
“Stop lying,” snapped Deacon. “Look, we’ve gone easy on you, Mrs Harris, because of your being newly widowed and all. We have here a statement from a waiter who works in a Chinese restaurant in Evesham. He identified you from your photographs. Your fault, for being such a generous tipper, Mr Biggar. He remembered you all right. And the pair of you were seen there on two occasions. What have you to say about it?”
Doris began to cry quietly. Deacon glared at her impatiently. Andrew took Doris’s hand.
“We did not lie to you,” he said quietly. “The fact that we had met before had nothing to do with the murder investigation.”
“It seems to me it might have quite a lot to do with it,” said Deacon.