“We were pleased for her,” said Cyril. “I mean, Penny’s a bright girl, head and shoulders above the rest. It seemed natural to us that Miss McAndrew should take such a great interest.”
Hamish’s eyes roamed briefly around the room. There were photos of Penny everywhere: Penny as a toddler, Penny as a schoolgirl, Penny on holiday in Cornwall.
“Did you know Miss Beattie well?” asked Jenny.
“We knew her the way everyone else in Braikie knew her,” said Mary. “We chatted a bit over the counter, that sort of thing.”
“But you didn’t socialise with her?”
“No, she really isn’t in our class,” said Mary with all the simple snobbery of a small, remote village.
Hamish looked at them for a moment, puzzled. There was a secret in this room – in the air.
“Didn’t you have any inkling that Miss McAndrew was a poison-pen writer?”
“Oh, no,” said Mary. “I mean, such a respectable body! How could we dream she would do such a thing?”
Jenny spoke suddenly. “Before Penny,” she said, “who was teacher’s pet?”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, before Penny, do you know who was Miss McAndrew’s favourite?”
Mary Roberts and her husband exchanged glances. “Let me see,” said Mary. “There was Jessie Briggs.”
“And is she still at school?”
“No, she left two years ago.”
“Where does she live?” asked Hamish.
“At the council houses. Highland Close. I don’t know the number.”
“Is she working?”
“I don’t know.”
Hamish asked more questions about their opinion of the late Miss McAndrew, but they did seem genuinely bewildered that the respected headmistress had been anything other than perfect.
♦
Outside, Hamish said, “What prompted you to ask about another favourite?”
“Just an idea,” said Jenny eagerly. “I mean it stands to reason, if she’d made a pet of Penny, then she might have had other pets.”
“Clever idea,” said Hamish, and Jenny glowed. “We may as well go and see this girl and hope that she and her family weren’t so starry-eyed about Miss McAndrew.”
They drove in tandem to Highland Close. Hamish knocked at the first door and got Jessie Briggs’s address.
Followed by Jenny, he walked up the path and knocked at a front door, noticing that the paint was peeling and the front garden behind him was full of weeds. Somewhere inside, a baby cried.
The door was opened by a thin, tired-looking girl. Her blonde hair was showing an inch of dark roots. She had startlingly green eyes and Hamish guessed that made-up and dressed up, she might still attract a lot of admiring looks.
“I am PC Hamish Macbeth,” he said. “This is Jenny Ogilvie. Do you mind if we come in?”
“Yes, but be quiet. I’ve just laid the bairn down and I could do with a rest.”
She led them into a cluttered living room. Several empty bottles of Baccardi Breezer stood among film magazines on a coffee table.
“Are your parents home?” asked Hamish. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke, stale booze, and unwashed nappies.
“No, I live on my own. Unmarried mother.”
Hamish and Jenny sat down side by side on a battered sofa. Jessie picked up a wastepaper basket and shovelled empty bottles into it. “Tea?” she asked.
“No, don’t bother,” said Hamish quickly, anxious to get this interview over and get out into the fresh air.
“So is this about the murders?” asked Jessie, sitting down opposite them.
“Yes, it is,” said Hamish. “We gather you were something of a favourite with Miss McAndrew?”
“Oh, her.” Jessie shrugged thin shoulders. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke out in their direction.
“What was your experience with her?”
“Weird.”
“In what way?”
“Well, she used to ask me home and help me with my homework. Had my ma and da all excited that I was going to be a success. I was a looker then, you wouldn’t think it now.”
She rose and went over to a table by the window and shuffled through the contents of a battered shoebox and drew out a photograph. She handed it to Hamish.
“That was just after I left school.”
In the photo, Jessie’s hair was thick and brown and her figure fuller. The girl in the photograph glowed with a strong sexuality.
“Do you think Miss McAndrew was attracted to you?”
“Oh, sure.” Jessie delicately picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue. “I didnae ken about such women then. She was always stroking my hair. She said I should go to university. Then she said she was soon due to retire and she would come with me and look after me. I began to feel…threatened.”
“Did you tell your parents?”
“They wouldnae listen. “You do what she says and you’ll get somewhere,” they said. Ma works on the buses and Dad drives. They were fired up by her. I tried to tell them she was faking my exams and that when I sat my Highers, I’d be in trouble because the papers would go out to the examining board and I’d be exposed as not all that bright. Who knows? I may have done better if she hadn’t been breathing down my neck.”
Jenny looked at her with warm sympathy. “So you decided to rebel.”
“Aye, you can say that. Left her house one night – the old bag had tried to kiss me – and I felt mean and baffled and scunnert. I went into the pub instead o’ going home. I’d never had alcohol before. There were a lot of the local lads there. They said an Alco pop wouldn’t hurt and it tasted sweet, just like soda, and it felt great and I had a lot mair. The evening began to get blurry, but it was warm and free, the feeling, so I let them buy me mair booze. I can only remember the rest of the night in flashes, but at one point I was round the back o’ the pub with my skirt up round my chest and wan o’ them fiddling with me. And that was it.” A slow tear ran down her cheek. “In the pudding club first time and cannae even remember who the father was. Ma and Dad hit the roof. Social security got me this place.”
Hamish cleared his throat. “Look, Jessie, could you have any idea Miss McAndrew might have been the poison-pen writer?”
“No, but I should ha’ known.”
“Why?”
“She sent me wan. I have it here.”
She rose and went back to the shoebox and drew out a letter, the writing now familiar to Hamish.
It said: “You have ruined your life, you silly slut. Now you are prostituting yourself and you will end in the gutter where you belong. You threw away a golden chance at life.”
Hamish’s mouth tightened in distaste.
“What does she mean about prostituting yourself?”
“I got a taste for the booze. It keeps me going. Costs, though. I got a fellow comes around. Nothing serious, but he pays me a bit.”
“Oh, that wicked, wicked woman,” said Jenny, bursting into tears.
Hamish looked at her impatiently, beginning to regret bringing her along.
“Let’s keep to practicalities,” he said severely as Jenny blew her small nose. “Are you addicted to the booze?”
“If you mean, can I stop? No.”
“I think there’s an AA meeting in Braikie.”
“Oh, them. God botherers.”
“They’re not religious. You can believe or not believe, but they’ve taken a lot o’ people out o’ the gutter. You phone them up, they’ll send someone round. You can take it or leave it. No one will force you.”
Jenny had dried her eyes and had found a phone book and was looking it up. “I’ll just phone Strathbane and they’ll put me in touch with someone here,” she said eagerly.
“Jenny!” admonished Hamish. “Chust leave it. The lassie has to do it for herself.”
Undeterred, Jenny wrote down the number and handed it to Jessie.