“And you let him believe that you had found out about him and June through the newspapers?”
“I didn’t tell him who had written to me. It didn’t seem important any more.”
A possessive, ugly leech of a woman, and with another flash of insight he realized why such a woman would be prepared to let a husband go.
“You didn’t much care one way or the other,” said Hamish, “you having a new man of your own.”
“I’ll kill that Dibb woman,” she shouted. “Some friend. Can’t she keep her bloody mouth shut?”
“Who is this man?” asked Deacon.
Her eyes flashed hatred in the direction of Hamish Macbeth.
“A Mr John Trant. He lives in Grays. He’s a builder.”
Deacon settled down then to take her over all her movements since receiving the letter from June. She no longer said she needed a lawyer but answered in a dull, flat voice.
When they had finished with her and she had left the room, Deacon turned on Hamish. “You might have told me all you knew about her, Macbeth,” he said. “I’ve got no time for ye if you’re going to be secretive.”
“I didn’t know,” said Hamish mildly. “It just came to me. Harris wouldn’t know her address, and the only person I could think of who might have an interest in letting Alice know the truth was June. Also, about the other man, a creature like Alice Brett wouldn’t have even considered letting Dermott have his freedom unless she had another man lined up.”
“It could be,” said Deacon slowly, “that Brett thought Harris had written the letter.”
“But Alice arrived after the murder,” Clay pointed out.
“Unless, of course,” said Hamish, “Alice met Dermott secretly before the murder. Perhaps her visit to the boarding-house was to finalize things.”
“We’d better have June and Dermott Brett in again.” Deacon rose, put his head round the door and shouted at the desk sergeant to get someone to collect them.
“Is that how you go about cases?” he asked Hamish. “Guesswork? That can be a dangerous thing. Whit if you were wrong?”
“Then all she had to do was deny it. Seemed worth a try.”
“Aye, that’s all very well, but me, I prefer solid police work and hard evidence. Just look how you came a cropper over the wrong body over at Drim.”
“But I found out the murderer,” protested Hamish. “Look, I’ve been meaning to ask you. For the next few days, is there a possibility of a room in the police house at Dungarton? I don’t want to go on staying at that boarding-house.”
“Why?” demanded Clay. “You can watch them.”
“I find it a bit o’ a strain,” said Hamish.
“You’re a policeman, dammit.”
“But a policeman usually doesn’t hae to live with the suspects.”
“You stay where you are, laddie,” said Deacon. “Clay, give Maggie a shout and get her to make some tea and sandwiches. We’ll hae a wee bit o’ something while we’re waiting.”
Poor Maggie, thought Hamish. If Deacon isn’t careful she’ll be putting in a complaint about him.
When the tea and sandwiches arrived, Hamish ate without really tasting anything, his mind on the people back at the boarding-house. He was not looking forward to the arrival of Dermott and June. He had hated being present at the interviewing of Andrew and Doris. He liked them. Why couldn’t it be Cheryl or Tracey? he thought. But whoever this murderer was, it was someone cool and unemotional, or someone driven to the edge by fear. To walk into the boat-shed and kill Jamie MacPherson just like that did not seem like a premeditated crime any more than the death of Harris did. A murderer who planned things would have waited until a quieter time of the day, not marched in boldly in broad daylight, when anyone could have seen him or her. His thoughts began to wander. It could be a murderess rather than a murderer. Or was that not going to be used any more in these politically correct days? Would it soon become murderperson? Amazing that political correctness should start in a democratic society like America. One always thought of it as being the curse of a totalitarian society and coming from the top, not the bottom. Then there was therapyspeak or psychobabble to cover a multitude of emotions. People said, for example, “I am chemically dependent on so-and-so, I am obsessed, I am emotionally dependent, I have been taken hostage.” The old–fashioned words wouldn’t do any more. To go down to the basement of one’s emotions, switch on the light, stare the monster in the face and say ‘I am in love’ was not on, because that meant giving up control, that meant being vulnerable. Had he really been in love with Priscilla? His mind shied away from the thought with all the fright of the people he had been mentally damning and he was relieved when Dermott and June were ushered in.
“Who’s looking after the children?” asked Hamish and got a glare from Deacon for not knowing his place.
“Miss Gunnery,” said June.
The couple sat down uneasily and faced Deacon.
“Now,” said Deacon, “we’ll start with you, Mrs Brett. Do you mind if I call you June? I get confused with the real Mrs Brett.”
“Call me what you like,” said June wearily.
“Well, June, why didn’t you tell us you had written to Mrs Brett, telling her of your affair with Dermott here?”
Dermott’s face turned a muddy colour and he stared at June as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “You WHAT?” he shouted at her.
“Quietly now,” admonished Deacon. “I am speaking to June, not you, Dermott. June?”
“I meant to tell you,” she said, speaking to Dermott. “I couldn’t take it any longer. Eight years now we’ve been together. I’m sick of having you part-time. Heather was beginning to ask questions about why you had to be away so much, why you always missed Christmas, when you couldn’t be working, and things like that. I thought that one day she’d find out she was a bastard and I couldn’t bear that. You kept saying that Alice would never give you a divorce, but I thought she might if she knew about the children. Yes, I wrote to her. I’m not sorry. It worked out fine.”
“Except that Harris got killed and now MacPherson,” interposed Clay.
“That was nothing to do with me.”
“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said Dermott, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Why didn’t you tell me about writing to Alice?”
“Because it would have been the same old thing,” said June. “Look at the way you buckled and were prepared to pay that rat Rogers to keep his mouth shut.”
“But you should never have done such a thing. You don’t know what you’ve done, woman!”
June’s face turned the same horrible colour as Dermott’s. “What have I done?” she screamed at him. And then, in a low voice, she repeated wretchedly, “Oh, what have I done?”
“Yes, what has she done?” Deacon’s voice was brutal. “Do you mean murdering Harris was a waste of time, Dermott Brett?”
“No,” said Dermott. “I never touched him. Never! I had that row with him. He was threatening to tell Alice. I was so upset, I didn’t stop to think that he couldn’t possibly have the address. They don’t have a visitors’ book at the boarding-house.”
“Did Rogers know your home address?” asked Hamish.
“No.” Dermott quietened. “No. June made the booking.”
“So why wass it that you told the police and us that you didn’t know the boarding-house wass under the new management?”
“I lied about a few little things,” said Dermott wearily. “I was terrified you would suspect me because I’d had that row with Harris.”
“So let’s begin at the beginning,” said Deacon.
Patiently he took them through everything all over again. When he had finished, Hamish said, “Heather says she saw Doris on the beach where Doris says she was. June, how was it you let a seven-year-old wander off on her own?”