Death of Yesterday (6 page)

This went straight to Hannah’s narcissistic soul. Her eyes widened. “You think so?”

“I know so. I mean, look at Hamish. He’s aye avoided promotion. He’s no’ going anywhere up the ladder. You’ll be stuck in
a police station during the long winters. Nothing to do. Thought o’ that?”

“But poor Hamish will be so hurt if I dump him!”

“Not as hurt as he’ll be if he loses his job. When Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrives to question you, you’re to say
that Hamish put you up for the night and slept in a bed in the cell.”

The door opened and a doctor and nurse walked in. “What are you doing here, Constable?” the doctor demanded. “The patient
must rest.”

“Just a wee interview,” said Dick. “Does she need an operation?”

“Fortunately not,” said the doctor. “Her head must be like iron. But she must have peace and quiet to recover from a concussion.
Aren’t you supposed to be on guard outside the door?”

“Oh, aye,” said Dick, making his retreat.

As Dick left, he glanced back down the corridor and saw the policeman who was supposed to be on guard returning, carrying
a cardboard container of coffee.

He only hoped the doctor thought one policeman looked like another.

Hamish wondered what on earth had happened to Dick. But Dick was back in Lochdubh, having hitched a lift, and doing what he
did best: manipulating and gossiping about how Hannah had been ruthlessly chasing after Hamish but he had turned her down,
being too good a member of the police force to have an affair with the sister of a suspect. Hannah had lured him into having
dinner with her by saying she had important information on the murders, which, it turned out, she did not. Then she had said
she was too drunk to drive and poor Hamish had to put her up for the night and sleep in the cell. Dick had taken a staff room
at the Tommel Castle Hotel, next to the kitchen, and only the manager had seen him come and go. And so, when questioned by
Blair, Dick was able to claim that he had been at the police station on the night in question and that nothing had taken place
between Hamish and Hannah.

Hamish waited uneasily for the axe to fall. Jimmy called on him that evening. “I don’t know what happened,” he said, “but
Blair is fit to bust. Hannah Fleming says you put her up at the station because she had too much to drink and you had to sleep
in the cell. Dick sent over a memo to that effect.”

“I would ha’ thought Blair would be too busy grilling the Palfours to bother about her,” said Hamish.

“Oh, he was so carried away wi’ the idea of getting rid of you that it fair went to his head,” said Jimmy. “I looked in on
the lassie myself. She gave me this note for you.”

Hamish gingerly opened the sealed envelope. Hannah had written: “Dear Hamish, I was drunk and made a bad mistake. Please forget
all about it and don’t tell anyone. Hannah.”

Hamish passed the note to Jimmy, who read it and chortled, “You’re dumped! Just as well.”

“So what about the Palfours?” asked Hamish.

“Charles is singing like a canary. Olivia’s got a lawyer and says it was in self-defence.”

“Think a jury will go for that?”

“Could do. Andronovitch was responsible for the death of her parents. He was a Russian mobster. Charles is begging to be kept
in prison. He’s now terrified of his sister. Anyway, it’s back to our own murders.”

A month went past after the arrest of the Palfours. Hamish haunted Cnothan, questioning and questioning, hoping always to
find someone who would admit to having seen anything of importance.

He could only be glad that Hannah had left for Glasgow. He felt ashamed of his reaction to her fake appearance and certainly
did not want to see her again.

In between his investigations, he often wondered why there had been no news of Elspeth Grant’s marriage to her boss, Barry
Dalrymple.

He would have been amazed had he known that Elspeth often thought of him.

Elspeth Grant’s engagement to Barry had fizzled out. At first, at the height of their romance, it had seemed as if they were
soul mates. Then gradually, it began to appear that they had little in common. Elspeth could not help marking the relief on
Barry’s face when she handed back her engagement ring.

She had a new worry to occupy her thoughts. She had been secure in her job as Strathclyde’s main television news presenter.
She presented the news at the important slots of the day—the one o’clock news and the six o’clock news. But she felt a rival
had cropped up to threaten her position.

Hannah Fleming’s beauty had so impressed the television executives that they had hired her to present a children’s programme,
screened twice weekly at five o’clock in the afternoon.

Her beauty and her lilting highland accent captivated the viewers—and Barry Dalrymple as well.

To Elspeth’s dismay, Hannah was suddenly promoted to news presenter, taking over the early-morning and evening slots.

Elspeth was often at war with her own ambition. She often wished she could throw the whole business over and return to her
undemanding job as local reporter in Lochdubh. It wasn’t only ambition, she thought ruefully, but money. She was earning a
top salary and had become used to the comforts that had brought her. She loved her apartment overlooking the Clyde. She enjoyed
buying new clothes without looking at the price.

So that when Barry ordered her to go north to do a feature on the murders, her heart sank. Hannah was to take over until her
return. In vain did Elspeth protest that the story was dead. There had been no breakthrough in the murders.

She found herself gloomily taking the road to the Highlands complete with crew of researcher, soundman, and cameraman.

Hamish Macbeth had learned of her imminent arrival from the manager of the Tommel Castle Hotel who had taken a booking of
the crew.

He was waiting for Elspeth in the car park when she arrived.

Elspeth’s heart gave a lurch when she saw him. He looked the same as ever with his flaming red hair, hazel eyes, and tall
figure.

For his part, Hamish felt he would never get used to the new Elspeth. The old Elspeth had worn thrift shop clothes and had
frizzy hair. The new Elspeth had straightened hair and was expensively dressed.

“The other press have all gone,” said Hamish. “What brings you?”

“Wait until I check in,” said Elspeth. “We’ll have a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Seated in a corner of the hotel bar half an hour later, Hamish said, “You look worried. What’s up?”

So Elspeth told him all about the ambitions of Hannah Fleming, ending by saying, “My boss is fascinated by her.”

“Aren’t you going to marry him?”

“No. That fell through.”

“Why?”

“Mind your own business, Hamish. Now, about these murders. I feel this is all a waste of space unless you have any idea of
the identity of the murderer.”

“You know what Cnothan’s like, Elspeth. It’s impossible to get anyone to speak.” His face brightened. “Wait a bit. With you
being a television star and all, they might talk to you. You could be a great help.”

“I’ll try. Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

As Hamish talked, Elspeth took notes.

At last she closed her iPad and looked at him with her odd silvery grey eyes. “All I can do is ask a lot of questions and
hope someone will tell me something they didn’t tell you. I don’t want to be up here very long. Did you know Hannah Fleming?”

Hamish looked at her and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I took her out for dinner one evening, but she drank a bit too
much so I had to give her a bed at the police station.”

“But isn’t she the sister of a suspect?”

“Yes, but she isn’t one herself, having been in Glasgow when it all happened.”

“You must have talked to her about the Palfours. Is that why she decided to play detective?”

“Must have been,” mumbled Hamish.

“That one seems to take men over everywhere she goes,” said Elspeth acidly. “I find her quite dull. But men never seem to
look beyond the outward appearance. She’ll probably end up someone’s trophy wife.”

“Is Barry into trophies?”

“Hardly, since he was once engaged to me.”

“Your personality is better than any beauty, Elspeth.”

“Meaning I’m plain? You certainly know how to turn a nice compliment.”

“You know what I mean,” roared Hamish, turning almost as red as his hair.

Elspeth stood up. “I’d better get to work.”

She marched out and Hamish sadly watched her go.

Elspeth decided to start at the pub where Morag claimed she had been drugged. It was late afternoon, and there were only a
few customers. Stolly Maguire, the barman, beamed at her. “Not often we get a celebrity in here,” he said. “It’s on the house.
What’ll you have? A wee dram?”

“Nothing for me.” Elspeth slid a ten-pound note over the bar. “But have one yourself.”

“Very kind. I’ll hae one later.”

“You look like a very intelligent man,” said Elspeth. “On the night Morag Merrilea claimed she was drugged, can you remember
anyone who was in the pub?”

A blank look wiped out the welcome from his face. “The polis have asked and asked, miss. But to tell the truth, I cannae mind
anyone in particular. Just the usual crowd.”

“But when she went to the toilet, did you see anyone approach her table?”

“Och, you know how tall Sutherland men are. The place was busy and I couldnae see over the heads to see who was doing what.”

Elspeth turned her attention to the customers in the bar. She diligently began to question one after the other, but no one
claimed to have seen anything.

She was used to people being bowled over by her celebrity, but the customers in the pub actually seemed to resent her. At
last she gave up and went outside, checking her notes, and deciding to visit the factory.

To her disappointment, she was told that the boss, Harry Gilchrist, was in London. She checked her notes and asked if the
personnel manager was available.

Soon Pete Eskdale was vigorously shaking her hand and saying what an honour it was to meet her. But a cautious look came into
his eyes when Elspeth began to question him about the hiring of Morag Merrilea.

“I’ve told the police all about that,” he said. “I had to check Morag out in London first to see whether she would be suitable.
It’s all my fault. I should have given Stacey her notice on my return. That’s why Mr. Gilchrist felt obliged to give the lassie
some sort of payoff.”

“Does he have a new secretary?”

“I’m still looking around.”

“So what does he do for a secretary in the meantime?”

“We rotate girls from the typing pool.”

“Do you still have a typing pool in these computer days?”

“Och, it’s just an old-fashioned name that’s stuck.” He glanced at his watch and affected a stagey look of surprise. “Goodness!
Is that the time? Got to rush. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

Elspeth left the factory and sat down on a bench outside. She had become used to people asking for her autograph, but as she
had walked back through the factory, heads were bent and eyes averted from her.

There must be one person in Cnothan who might tell her what was going on. She thought back to her local reporting days and
remembered the minister of the Church of Scotland in Cnothan as being an amiable man.

She drove up to the manse and knocked at the door. The minister, John Gordon, answered the door himself and looked at her
in surprise. “Is it yourself, Elspeth? Come in.”

He was a tall, cadaverous man with thinning grey hair and stooped shoulders. He led the way into his study, a gloomy room
lined with old books.

“Have a seat,” he said. “Tea?”

“Nothing for me,” said Elspeth. “Mr. Gordon, what’s going on in Cnothan? No one seems to want to talk to me at that factory.
It’s like being in Soviet Russia. Are people afraid to talk about the murder?”

“I think it’s because of the recession,” said Mr. Gordon.

“What’s the recession got to do with murder?”

“It’s been a sink of unemployment up here. Gilchrist opens the factory and suddenly, it seems, there are jobs for lots of
people. So if folks are told not to talk to anyone about the late Morag Merrilea, they won’t, for fear of being back on the
dole.”

“Do you think Gilchrist has something to hide?”

“I shouldn’t think so. He’s a good member of my church and seems to be a devout man. But the factory is his baby. He doesn’t
want any adverse publicity.”

“Yet the whole business of hiring Morag Merrilea seems odd. The poor secretary she replaced was not told she was losing her
job until a day after Morag arrived. She was given a payoff of five hundred pounds.”

“Gilchrist is an ambitious man. I gather, from such gossip as I’ve heard, that the late Morag was super-efficient. He told
me he could now go on business trips knowing that everything would be run like clockwork while he was away.”

“Did you hear that Morag had been having an affair with Freda Crichton?”

“Never! A lesbian affair?”

“Yes, according to poor Freda. But Morag was pregnant, you heard that?”

“Yes, I did. This place is a den of iniquity. I must call on Freda and bring her to the light.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Gordon. She is in a state and someone like you attacking her sexuality as something abnormal might
tip her over the edge. She needs kindness and support. Is she a member of your congregation?”

“No, but…”

“Then leave her alone,” said Elspeth sharply.

“Don’t you find her…er…orientation abnormal?”

“I don’t. She has all my sympathy. She was very deeply in love and I think the wretched Morag manipulated her to satisfy her
own vanity.”

“Well, I must take your advice because it is something I know nothing about. Besides, I believe Freda to be a Roman Catholic.
Maybe that explains it.”

“I don’t see what it has to do with it.”

“The Catholic Church seems to be riddled with sexual abuse these days.”

Elspeth repressed a sigh. She remembered a friend from Glasgow travelling up with her to Sutherland and saying cynically,
“Set your watch back one hundred years.”

“Can you think of anyone who might commit murder?”

“I think you will find,” said the minister, “that it was someone from her past, maybe someone from London.”

Elspeth left the manse and was about to get into the car she had borrowed from the hotel when she was approached by a small,
grubby little girl.

“Are you yon lady from the telly?” the child asked.

“Yes. What’s your name?”

“Abbie Box. I’ve got something to sell.”

How old was she? wondered Elspeth. Maybe about ten years. Abbie had an untidy shock of ginger hair over a freckled, pinched
little face. Her eyes were pale green. She was wearing tracksuit bottoms, rolled up, and a grimy T-shirt.

“Is it raffle tickets?” asked Elspeth.

“Naw. Pictures like that dead woman drew.”

“Where did you find them?”

“Up at the council dump. I go there a lot. Sometimes there’s good pickings.”

“I’d like to see them.”

“How much?”

“I’ll tell you when I see them. Where are they?”

“Up at the caravan park,” said Abbie. “But if my brother is there, you’re not to say a word.”

“I promise. Get in the car and I’ll take you there.”

In the caravan park, Abbie directed Elspeth to a dingy caravan up on bricks. “Where’s your mother?” asked Elspeth.

“Ma’s doing time.”

“And your father?”

“Don’t know. Never knew him. Wait here.”

Elspeth waited impatiently while the child went into the caravan. When Abbie returned, she was carrying a sketchbook. It was
stained with water and kitchen refuse on the outside, but inside were cleverly drawn faces, and one seemed to leap off the
page: Pete Eskdale.

“You cannae take it unless you pay up,” said Abbie.

“I should really take this to the police,” said Elspeth.

“Then I’ll burn it.”

“No, don’t do that. How much?”

“Cost you fifty pounds.”

Elspeth passed over the money and thought rapidly. “Look, Abbie, if anyone knows you have found this, you could be in danger.”