Authors: M.C. Beaton
Blair rounded on him in a fury. ‘You,’ he snarled, ‘had she any relatives?’
‘There’s a husband.’
‘Well, get over there and break the news to him and let the experts get on with their job.’
Hamish touched his cap and walked over to his Land Rover. The forensic team were getting kitted out. A strong smell of stale booze emanated from the lot of them. Hamish remembered there had been
a rugby match the night before. No doubt they had all been celebrating as usual.
Shona ran after him. ‘You got it right. He didn’t,’ she said.
‘Och, Blair’s a bright man. Stick with him,’ said Hamish hurriedly, and jumped into the Land Rover.
One of the nastiest parts of a policeman’s job, reflected Hamish, was breaking the news to the loved ones.
With reluctance, he drove to the housing estate, parked outside the Gillespies’ home, and went slowly up the path and rang the bell.
Mr Gillespie answered the door. ‘I am afraid I have bad news, sir,’ said Hamish, removing his cap. ‘Your wife is dead.’ He knew from experience that it was kinder to get
the brutal truth out fast rather than keep some relative or husband or wife on the doorstep with mumblings of an accident.
‘Dead? How? A stroke?’
‘May I come in?’
‘Aye, come ben.’
He stood aside and ushered Hamish into the living room. Hamish’s eyes took in the large television set and expensive DVD recorder before he turned to Mr Gillespie. ‘Please sit
down,’ Hamish said.
Mr Gillespie sat down in an armchair on one side of the fire, and Hamish folded his long length into another.
‘How did she die?’ asked Mr Gillespie.
‘It looks as if someone hit her on the head with that bucket of hers.’
Mr Gillespie raised a trembling hand to his mouth. He took out a clean handkerchief and covered his face. His shoulders shook.
Hamish looked at him in sudden suspicion. ‘Are you laughing?’
Mr Gillespie lowered his handkerchief. He laughed and laughed. Grief takes people strange ways, thought Hamish, but Mr Gillespie’s laughter was more merry than hysterical.
‘You see,’ said Mr Gillespie at last, mopping his eyes, ‘that bucket was her weapon.’ He bent forward and tapped his scalp. ‘Look!’ On his freckled scalp
Hamish saw an old scar. ‘Herself did that with her damn bucket.’
‘You mean you were a battered husband?’
‘That’s a fact.’
‘Why didn’t you report her?’
‘I’ve got cancer of the stomach. I’m on my second session o’ chemo. I can’t work. Hers was the only income we had.’
‘I notice you bought this house. She must have made a fair bit from cleaning,’ said Hamish.
‘That was me. I used to have a good bit of money put by.’
‘I’ll check the estimated time of death,’ said Hamish, ‘but I think I’m going to be your alibi. Do you have a car?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t see how you could have got over there to kill her. Have you anyone who can come and sit with you?’
‘And share my relief? I don’t need anyone. I’m going to sit here and get well and truly drunk. And I’m going to watch American wrestling. She’d never let me do
that.’ He hugged his knees. ‘And I can see my daughter again. Heather’s my daughter by my first marriage. Mavis hated her, so she never came around.’
‘Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill her?’
‘Apart from me? Oh, lots, I should think. She never had a good word to say about anyone.’
‘Did she have a desk in the house? Any papers or letters I could look at?’ Hamish was beginning to wonder whether the snooping cleaner had gone in for blackmail.
‘No, nothing. She said paper carried dust. Never allowed a book in the house. Oh, my, now I can sign on at the library.’
‘There must be bank statements somewhere.’
‘We’ll look if you like. She handled all the bills.’
But to Hamish’s amazement, after a diligent search, he could not find a bank book or bill anywhere in the house.
‘Where did she bank?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But, man, when you were working, you must have had a pay cheque.’
‘I worked over in Strathbane at the men’s outfitters, Brown and Simpson. I gave my cheques to Mavis, and she banked them.’
‘She must have given you money to buy things.’
‘Mavis gave me a packed lunch and my bus fare. That was all.’
‘The deeds to the house must be somewhere.’
Mr Gillespie gave a shrug while Hamish stared at him, baffled.
Hamish stood outside the house and wondered what to do next. Then he remembered there was only one bank in Braikie, the Highland and Island. It was a new bank, but surely they
would have taken over the accounts of the old one.
He drove to the main street and parked outside the bank.
Inside, he had to wait for the manager. He hoped the manager would not turn out to be one of those men who keep a person waiting to reinforce their own importance.
But a woman appeared from the manager’s office, and Hamish was told he could go in.
The manager introduced himself as Mr Queen. He was a tall, cadaverous highlander, the lines of whose face seemed set in perpetual gloom as if he had perfected the refusal of loans over the years
and so the results had become marked on his face.
Hamish explained about the death of Mrs Gillespie and asked if she had banked with the Highland and Island. Mr Queen’s long bony fingers rattled over the keys of a computer on his desk.
‘Aye,’ he said, leaning back and staring at the screen.
‘May I see a printout of her account?’
Mr Queen stared at the tall policeman, his eyes shadowed by heavy, shaggy brows.
‘I can get a warrant,’ said Hamish.
‘I suppose you can. I’ll print it off.’
Hamish waited while the statement rattled out of the printer.
Mr Queen handed it over. On her death, Mrs Gillespie had twenty thousand pounds in her current account.
Hamish raised puzzled eyes. ‘There were no bank books or statements in her house.’
‘She asked for nothing to be sent to her.’
‘And these payments as far as I can see, looking back, were all made in cash?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘I never really studied her account before. She’d pay the money in to one of the cashiers. She would have memorized or kept a note of her bank account number and paid the money in
with one of the forms on the counter.’
‘The house, now. She bought her council house.’
‘That’s another search,’ he said gloomily. ‘Wait here.’
Hamish waited impatiently, his brain whirling. Mrs Gillespie was a gossip. Mrs Gillespie had taken that letter from Elspeth. If she could do a thing like that, then she probably snooped on her
employers. Everything seemed to point to blackmail.
A seagull landed on the windowsill and stared at Hamish with beady eyes before flying off. The wind was getting up. A discarded newspaper, blown upwards outside, did two entrechats and
disappeared up into the darkening sky.
At last, Mr Queen came back. ‘Aye, she bought her house twenty years ago when council houses up here were going cheap. At that time, she and her husband had a joint account. They paid for
it fair and square. Only cost fifteen thousand pounds at that time. They got a mortgage and paid it off. That would be about ten years ago. Then Mrs Gillespie cancelled the joint account two years
ago. Her husband agreed. It’s after that that all the payments were made in cash.’
‘I’ll be off,’ said Hamish. ‘You’ll no doubt be getting a visit from my superior, Detective Chief Inspector Blair.’
Hamish returned to the professor’s house. The forensic team were still at work. Blair was in his car with the heater running, swigging something from a flask.
Hamish rapped on the window.
‘Whit?’ demanded Blair, lowering the window.
Hamish told him about the bank statements and finished by saying, ‘She could have been blackmailing some of the people she worked for.’
Blair stared past Hamish. Hamish turned and saw the diminutive figure of Shona Fraser, who had been listening eagerly to every word.
‘Tell Jimmy Anderson what you’ve got,’ snapped Blair, ‘and get back to your police station and await further orders.’
Hamish moved away. Shona followed him. She looked up at him suspiciously. ‘I’m still waiting for signs of the great detective from Mr Blair.’
‘Oh, hang in there. He’s deep. Verra deep. You wouldnae think it, but the wheels of his brain are turning.’
Hamish saw Jimmy and hailed him. He handed Jimmy the bank statements and told him about his suspicions of blackmail.
‘You’d better start interviewing them,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ll tackle the professor.’
‘I’ve been told by the old sod to get back to the police station.’
Jimmy took out a list of names. ‘Tell you what, go over and see this Mrs Barret-Wilkinson at Styre, and I’ll clear it with Blair.’ His blue eyes in his foxy face narrowed as he
saw Shona talking to Blair. ‘What’s the wee lassie doing?’
‘Strathbane Television wants to do a documentary on Blair, the great detective. She’s a researcher.’
‘Let’s hope she finds some intelligence in that whisky-soaked brain. Talking of which – have you any whisky at that station of yours?’
‘About half a bottle.’
‘That’ll do. I’ll call on you this evening.’ Unlike his superior, Detective Inspector Jimmy Anderson had a great respect for Hamish’s police work.
Hamish drove back to Lochdubh and collected his pets and put them in the police Land Rover and then took the road to Styre. Styre was more of a hamlet than a village,
consisting of only a few fishermen’s cottages, three villas and a small general store.
It lay on the small sea loch of Styre which formed a sort of bay, affording little protection from the might of the Atlantic, lying just outside.
Hamish’s stomach gave a rumble, reminding himself he hadn’t eaten. He parked in front of the general store, owned, as he remembered, by a Mrs Beattie. Mrs Beattie, a small, fussy
woman, was behind the counter. The shop was dark, the shelves crowded with very old-looking tins of stuff, sacks of feed, coils of rope, and lobster pots.
‘It’s Mr Macbeth!’ exclaimed Mrs Beattie. ‘You havenae been around here this age.’
‘I’m looking for something to eat,’ said Hamish, ‘and some tins for my dog and cat.’
‘The dog and cat food’s ower to your left. I’ll go and make you a sandwich. Spam all right?’
‘Spam’s fine.’
Hamish collected a tin of cat food for Sonsie and a tin of dog food for Lugs. He knew his spoilt pets preferred people food but decided they’d need to rough it for once. If he could be
content with a Spam sandwich, then they could put up with commercial pet food.
After a short time, Mrs Beattie returned and handed him a thick sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. Hamish added a bottle of mineral water to his purchases. ‘How much for the
sandwich?’
‘Have it from me. What brings you?’
‘Mrs Gillespie, herself what cleaned for Mrs Barret-Wilkinson, has been found murdered.’
‘Michty me! Mind you, I thought she was a nasty woman, but Mrs Barret-Wilkinson swore she was the best cleaner ever. When I had the flu last winter, I got her to clean for me. She nearly
gave me a relapse, bang-bang-banging with that bucket of hers and looking into drawers where she had no right to look. Where was she murdered?’
‘Outside Professor Sander’s place.’
‘How?’
‘It looks as if someone brained her with her bucket. What’s Mrs Barret-Wilkinson like?’
‘Verra much the lady. Verra proper. English, of course.’
‘What’s herself doing up here?’
‘Quality of life.’
‘Oh, that. Did she find it?’
‘Says she does.’
‘I’ll be off then. Where’s her house?’
‘It’s that big villa, just up on the rise above the village. There’s a monkey puzzle tree at the gate.’
Hamish went out to the Land Rover and collected two bowls and a can opener from the back. He filled the bowls and let the dog and cat out. They both sniffed the food and then looked up at him
with accusing eyes.
‘Eat it,’ ordered Hamish. ‘Nothing else for you pair until this evening.’
He ate his sandwich and drank water and looked out over the sea loch. The wind was beginning to come in great gusts. He finished his sandwich, put the dog and cat back in the car, carried their
empty bowls down to the water and rinsed them out, before returning to his vehicle and driving off. The light drizzle was turning to heavy rain.
He drove up to the villa and then up the short curving drive. As well as the tall monkey puzzle at the gate, the garden was crammed with laurel bushes and rhododendrons. The wind was cut off by
the high stone wall which surrounded the garden. Rain plopped from the leaves of the bushes.
Hamish rang the bell and waited. The door was answered by a tall woman. She was dressed in a well-tailored tweed suit. The tweed was not new – such as Mrs Barret-Wilkinson, Hamish guessed,
would be too sophisticated to be caught wearing brand-new tweed – and yet the clothes sat oddly on her as if her normal style might be something more towny.
‘Mrs Barret-Wilkinson?’
‘Yes. It is I.’
He judged her to be somewhere in her middle forties. She had thick brown hair pulled back into a knot, a long nose and small, intelligent eyes. She looked something like a collie.
Hamish removed his cap. ‘I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth. May I come in? I have some bad news.’
Most people would have blurted out, Is it my son? My daughter? Or some close relative. But she merely nodded and turned away.
He followed her into a dark hall and then into a large sitting room on the ground floor. It was decorated like a scaled-down version of the drawing room of a stately home. The sofa and chairs
were upholstered in striped silk. The curtains at the windows were of heavier silk. Over the fireplace was a portrait of Mrs Barret-Wilkinson – apparently an oil portrait – but
Hamish’s sharp eyes registered that it was a photograph, cleverly treated to look like an oil painting. A log fire crackled on the hearth of a marble fireplace.
She sat down and gestured to him to do the same. Her stockings were thick, and her feet were encased in sensible brogues.