“Billy, I didn’t know poor Miss Beattie was only in her thirties.”
“Aye, folk forgot all the same. The cancer aged her a lot.”
“Cancer?”
“Yes, she told me. It was shortly after she came to Braikie. She got cancer of the fallopian tubes. She said she was frightened to death. Her hair turned almost white. She told me she always lived in fear of it coming back. She’d had one hell of a religious upbringing, and she thought God was punishing her.”
“Yes, I just learned her parents were strong Free Presbyterians. I think I’d better try to see them.”
“You can’t. The father died ten years ago of cancer of the lung, and two years after, a heart attack took the mother off. That’s when me and Amy got together. I would stay on in the evenings to console her. She blamed herself for leaving home, I think. There had been some breach, and after she left, she never went to see them.”
“Can you think of anything in her past that Miss McAndrew could have found out to upset her?”
“Me and Amy were that close.” A tear ran down Billy’s cheek. “She would have told me.”
“Even if Miss McAndrew had found out about her affair with you? Wouldn’t that have been enough?”
“Aye, but she would ha’ told me.”
“Did she ever talk about her?”
“Let me see. She used to say things like, “I cannae thole that woman. There’s something creepy and nasty about her.””
“Anything more concrete?”
“Hamish, I’m so glad to be out. Look, she’ll be back in a moment. I’ll phone you if I remember anything.”
Hamish left and drove slowly back, with Lugs asleep on the seat beside him. When he entered the police station, it was to find the bottle of whisky, which, he thought, had thankfully only been a quarter full, standing empty on the table.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would see what the old folks had to say about Miss Beattie’s past.
He was just drifting off to sleep when he suddenly opened his eyes with a start. That small boy, what was his name? Archie Brand, that was it. He must call on him.
∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧
6
Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol not faille.
—Geoffrey Chaucer
Hamish felt himself reluctant the next day to call at the school and demand to see Archie Brand. He did not like Mr. Arkle and felt sure the head teacher would find some obstacle to put in his way.
But to his relief, Mr. Arkle was out somewhere and the meek secretary, Freda, went off and collected Archie and brought him into her office.
“Now, Archie,” said Hamish, “can we go over again what you told me?”
“It was the night her at the post office was murdered. I was going to the chippy…”
“What time would that be?”
“About nine. There was this fellow standing outside the post office. He was looking up, you know, at the upstairs windows.”
“Right. Now tell me as much as you can remember.”
“He was all in black,” said Archie, red-faced and squirming in his seat. “He had a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes and his clothes were black. He had wan o’ thae down-filled jackets and a pair o’ black trousers and black sneakers.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Naw. Thon cap was pulled right down.”
Hamish stifled a sigh. Nothing more there.
“Thanks, Archie. If you remember anything more, phone me at the police station in Lochdubh.”
“Right, boss,” said Archie proudly.
♦
Hamish returned to Lochdubh and phoned Jimmy. “Have you got a time of death for Miss McAndrew?” he asked.
“Sometime during the night, Hamish. You know how it is. They can never pinpoint the exact time. But she was killed in her bed and she hadn’t yet eaten any breakfast, and from the contents of her stomach, they guess it must have been somewhere in the small hours.”
“No sign of forced entry?”
“None.”
“That’s odd. I don’t see her getting out of bed and letting her killer in and then going back to bed and waiting to be stabbed. I’d swear whoever it was got her when she was asleep. What kind of lock on the front door?”
“Just a Yale. Easily picked.”
“Footprints, fingerprints?”
“No fingerprints. No footprints. This is one coldblooded murderer. He’d vacuumed his way out of the house. The vacuum was lying just inside the door.”
“Anything in the bag?”
“Our murderer took the vacuum bag with him. Not a fibre, not a hair.”
“Anyone been down to Perth to check on Miss Beattie’s background?”
“Perth police did that. An old neighbour remembered she had some sort o’ falling-out with her parents and left. They were a close-mouthed religious pair and never spoke about it.”
“I’m not getting anywhere with my enquiries. How about you lot?”
“Blair’s got another case down here which leaves me in charge. You know what he’s like. When a case seems impossible to solve, he dumps it on some other sucker, said sucker being me.”
“I’m going to the old folks’ club tonight. Maybe some of them will remember something.”
“My, my. The excitement of living in the Highlands. Have fun.”
♦
Pat Mallone walked along the waterfront, filled with unease. He had a great deal on his conscience. The day before, Elspeth had said, “Thank goodness that’s finished. I’ll get a cup of coffee and send it off.”
Pat had stopped by her desk. “Your colour piece?” he had asked.
“That’s the one. Be a lamb and have a look at it. Won’t be long.”
Pat had sat down at Elspeth’s computer. He quickly read the piece. It was brilliant. A wild impulse seized him. It was all ready to be sent off to the Bugle. He erased Elspeth’s byline, put his own on, and sent the article off. Then he erased his byline and typed Elspeth’s back in.
“What do you think?” asked Elspeth, appearing behind him.
“Great,” said Pat. “I sent it off for you.”
“That’s a bit high-handed of you. I might have wanted to make changes.”
Pat twinkled up at her, turning on the full force of his Irish charm. “I’m sure you thought it was perfect.”
Elspeth grinned. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
What Pat now hoped was that because the article was not written by a member of their own staff, the Bugle would not use the byline on the piece, but if they were pleased with it, they might offer him a job. He would need to sweat it out until Sunday when the paper appeared.
He saw Jenny walking towards the police station. He hurried to waylay her.
“Where are you off to?” he asked.
“I was just going to see if Hamish was at home.”
“I think I saw him driving off earlier,” lied Pat. “I’ve got to cover an amateur dramatic show at Cnothan this afternoon. A children’s affair. Feel like coming?”
“Yes, all right,” said Jenny.
“How long are you staying?”
“I don’t know,” said Jenny. “I’ve got a lot of leave owing.” As a matter of fact, she had phoned her office that morning and claimed that she had caught the flu. The only trouble was they had asked for a doctor’s certificate.
Pat looked down at her guilty, flushed face.
“Is that the truth?”
“No,” said Jenny, turning even redder. “I said I had the flu and now they want a doctor’s certificate.”
“So we’ll pinch one.”
“How do we do that?”
“I’ll tell this local doctor I’ve got back pain, you create a diversion, and I’ll nick one.”
“Could you?” breathed Jenny.