Death of a Gentle Lady (9 page)

“Aren’t you frightened?” Anna took a silver flask out of her handbag and poured a shot of vodka into her coffee.

“Yes.”

“So why do it?”

“Because somehow I do not believe that Mark Gentle is a murderer,” said Hamish impatiently. “I would be more frightened in a way if I thought a murderer had got away with this.”

“Why?”

“Do you have any children, Inspector? You know how they go on? Why, why, why, and never listen to the answer. I love this place, and it stands to reason I don’t want a killer on my patch.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Anna, “and I’ve got to get back to London. Let us have sex.”

Hamish coloured up to the roots of his fiery hair.

“Why?”

“Now it’s you with your whys. Because it’s fun and I would like sex.”

“Can’t.” Hamish shuffled his boots miserably.

“Why?”

“The sheets arenae clean.” The real response, the truthful response, thought Hamish, was that he did not feel like romping with someone who looked like the Russian president.

“Are you a virgin?”

“No. Look, I am verra flattered that such an attractive lady as yourself should want to go to bed with me—”

“Who said anything about bed? You have a kitchen table.”

“Oh, michty me!” howled Hamish. “It’s too early in the day.”

There was a knock at the kitchen door, and Hamish leapt to answer it. Archie Maclean stood there. “Grand news, Hamish. I’m a soldier.”

“Have you given up the fishing?”

“Och, no. In the play.”

“Come ben, Archie. This is Inspector Krokovsky. She was chust leaving.”

Anna smiled wryly and gathered up her belongings. “If you are ever in Russia—”

“Yes, yes,” gabbled Hamish. “I’ll look you up.”

“You look as red as your hair,” said Archie. “That wumman been givin’ ye a bollocking?”

“Something like that,” said Hamish. “Sit down. Coffee?”

“I’d like a glass of wine.”

“What on earth is this? Drinking in the morning, and wine, too.”

“I’ve been up all the night as you ken very well. This is the evening fur me. Besides, I’m an actor now, and them actors drink wine.”

Hamish might have sent the fisherman packing if he had not been afraid of Anna coming back. “I’ve a bottle out in the shed,” he said. “Someone gave it to me last Christmas.”

He went out and came back with a bottle of Merlot, which he opened. He poured Archie a glass.

Archie sipped it cautiously and made a face. “It’s gone off. Right sour taste.” He saw the sugar bowl on the table, spooned sugar into his glass, and stirred it briskly before taking another sip. “Now, that’s better,” he said.

“Did you hear folk talking lately,” asked Hamish, “about me thinking they had arrested the wrong man?”

“Aye,” said Archie. “Bella Firth, her what lives up the back, big blowsy wumman, she says it’s because you did it yoursel’ but your conscience is troubling you and you want to clear it afore you die of AIDS.”

“To think I have just been defending this place to thon Russian,” marvelled Hamish. “Was everyone else so stupid?”

“Na. Priscilla, she said very loudly that you were never wrong and what you probably meant was that the police had made a wrong arrest and you had a good idea who the real murderer was.”

“So we’ll wait and see,” said Hamish.

“Whit?”

“Nothing,” said Hamish. “Nothing at all.”

After Archie had left, he called Jimmy on his mobile. “Anything useful?” he asked. “Any fingerprints?”

“No, but footprints. It was a woman.”

“And it was a woman in the phone box. You know, Jimmy, there’s something awfy amateurish about that wire across the stairs. Rather as if someone had been watching Miss Marple on the telly and got the idea.”

“We’re checking through the family’s alibis. They all seem to have been on the road by the time you were in the castle. Of course, one of them could have doubled back. They all swear they didn’t know about that staircase.”

“What about Mark?”

“They’re hanging on to him for the moment.”

“Where’s Blair?”

“Back in the rehab in Inverness. Maybe he’ll get it this time.”

“I doubt it. While they’re talking about the Twelve Steps of recovery, Blair will be plotting how to escape to the nearest pub.”

“Keep your fingers crossed that the auld scunner dies. I’m in line to get his job.”

“Joined the Freemasons?”

“No, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll roll up my trouser leg with the best of them. Do you want to come up here?”

“I think I’ll just hang around the village and get local matters up to shape. It doesn’t matter if there’s a double murder, sheep dip papers must be attended to.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

For the next few days, Hamish patrolled his extensive beat, calling on the elderly in the outlying croft houses, but there was no attempt on his life.

Jimmy phoned to say that they had had to release Mark Gentle. He had hired a good lawyer who pointed out that they had nothing except a fragment of his voice on a tape. The lawyer also said that Mark had sworn he had gone on to say that unfortunately he didn’t have the guts to kill anyone, which was probably why Irena had saved only the one incriminating little bit.

“Did he say anything about Irena trying to blackmail him with it?” asked Hamish.

“No, he seemed hurt and puzzled. Seemed to think Irena fancied him.”

But why, wondered Hamish as he drove through the early gloaming, had Irena kept that fragment? Did she know that someone planned to kill Mrs. Gentle? Had she been in league with the murderer and kept that little bit on her recorder to help him? And had she changed her mind and decided to blackmail the murderer?

And what woman could be the murderer? Kylie Gentle, her daughter, or someone else?

What about the caterers? Was there some link there to the Gentle family? Or had there been some woman who answered the description of the woman seen in the phone box staying at the hotel where they worked?

The police would have checked up on all strangers in the area, but what if there had been some seemingly respectable lady staying at a bed-and-breakfast or somewhere else?

He drove towards Braikie, determined to interview Fiona King and Alison Queen, the chefs.

Both women seemed to be very busy in the kitchen but said they would be glad to take a break and talk to him.

“There can’t be many guests at this time of year,” said Hamish.

“A lot of people travel quite a distance to come here for dinner in the evenings,” said Fiona. “But this is really what’s keeping us busy.” She handed Hamish a brochure entitled,
King and Queen, Royalties of Cooking
.

“You see, we cater for people in their homes,” said Alison. “Because of the smoking ban in Scotland, and up here they smoke like the third world, a lot of them don’t want to go out to a smoke-free restaurant. So we serve them dinner in their own homes where they can smoke themselves to death in comfort.”

“I forgot to ask you last time,” said Hamish, “but I’m trying to find a stranger who might have been staying here or in the area. She’s tall with a mole on her chin. Maybe wearing a red-and-gold headscarf and dark glasses. Dressed in a tweed jacket, shooting breeches, and brogues.”

The chefs looked at each other and then shook their heads. “Haven’t seen anyone like that, not even amongst the dinner crowd,” said Fiona.

“You hadn’t met any of the Gentle family before?”

Alison giggled. “No, and we’re too busy to murder anyone.”

Hamish thanked them and left, spending what remained of the day calling at every bed-and-breakfast he could think of without success.

As he wearily crawled into bed that night, he found himself almost hoping that the murderer would make an attempt on his life. Anything to give him just one clue.

Chapter Nine

The tragedy of love is indifference.

—Somerset Maugham

Hamish, in the following days, was anxious to talk over the murder cases with Priscilla. But every time he called at the hotel, it was to be told she was either out walking with Patrick Fitzpatrick, having dinner with Patrick, or rehearsing her part with Harold.

Why Patrick? he wondered. There had been nothing very interesting about the man that he could remember. He was tall and slim, ginger hair, pursed little mouth, and reddish skin. Hardly an Adonis.

He would not admit to jealousy, but thought bitterly that for auld lang syne Priscilla should at least have made herself available to act as his Watson.

He called on Angela Brodie instead. To his amazement, the usually messy and unhygienic kitchen was clean, the many cats confined to the garden.

“What happened?” he asked, looking around. “Expecting a visit from the health inspector?”

“Don’t be nasty, Hamish. I’ve been reading a self-help book. It says, in effect, that if you are not getting on with your work, it could be because of the mess at home, or because you are working in a dirty office. Would you like a coffee?”

“Fine.” Hamish quite often shied away from Angela’s offers of coffee, expecting to find some awful cat hairs sticking to his mug, because the cats too often roamed the kitchen table, licking the butter and drinking out of the milk jug. “It’ll save you a lot of vet’s fees,” he added, removing his peaked cap and sitting down. Only two weeks before, one of the cats had ended up with its head stuck firmly in the milk jug.

“It hasn’t helped a bit with the writing,” said Angela. “Instead of being compulsive about finishing this latest book, I’ve become compulsive about cleaning.”

A dismal yowling started up outside.

“That’s it!” Angela turned to open the kitchen door. “Poor beasties. I can’t bear it any longer. I’m going to let them in.”

“Could you wait till we’ve had coffee?” pleaded Hamish. “I’ll need to talk to someone.”

“What about? The fact that Irena told you something mysterious?”

“I made that up, hoping our murderer might have a go at me.”

“But you got your man. I haven’t been reading the newspapers. Has something else happened?”

Hamish told her about the wire across the stairs and the female footprints.

“A woman? Who on earth could that be?”

“Probably someone who’s long gone. No, wait a bit. She might just still be around the area. Jimmy told me he’d put extra men on the job, going all over the place, interviewing any visitors. Where could she be staying?”

“A tent up on the hills somewhere?”

“That’s an idea. I’d better get off and tour around again.”

Angela put a mug of coffee down in front of him. “Have your coffee first. What’s happened to that Russian policewoman?”

“Gone back to London, thank goodness. She fair gave me the creeps.”

“Have you seen much of Priscilla?”

“I have not,” said Hamish huffily. “Herself is either walking the hills with an Irishman who’s staying at the hotel or rehearsing her part with Harold Jury.”

“I might call on Harold Jury again,” said Angela. “I only met him briefly when he suggested I might like to play Lady Macbeth. It would be nice to discuss writing with another author.”

“He’s an odd character,” said Hamish. “I put him down as dead arrogant and yet when I went to one of the rehearsals, I must say I was surprised at his patience.”

“Have you read his latest book?”

“No. Any good?”

“I found it a bit dull but maybe that’s just me. I like stories, and that stream-of-consciousness business bores the pants off me. I’ll lend it to you.”

“Can’t be bothered. Well, I’m off.”

Hamish hovered in the doorway wondering whether to dare ask her to look after the dog and cat, but then decided that if he was simply going to search around the moorland and the foothills, he could take them with him.

The balmy weather had ceased, and Sutherland was gearing itself up for the long northern winter. Hamish hurried back to the police station, knowing he had better set off quickly—the sun went down at four in the afternoon.

Once the animals were put in the Land Rover along with lunch packed for all of them, Hamish drove up into the hills and along heathery little-used tracks, stopping occasionally at outlying crofts to ask if they had seen any campers.

He stopped for a picnic lunch. After his pets had been fed, he put them in the Land Rover and decided to roam across the moorland on foot before the light faded.

But all was peaceful and quiet apart from the sad piping of the curlews. Soon the shadow of the mountains fell over the landscape. He returned to the Land Rover, got in, and stared out at the fading countryside. His ruse was not working. There had been no more attempts on his life.

Back to Lochdubh, where a letter was lying on the doormat. He walked in, sat down, and opened it. It was from Elspeth. “This is just to say goodbye,” she had written. “Let me know if anything happens. I’ve been called back but can come straight back up again if you’ve got any news. Elspeth.”

He looked at it sadly. No ‘Love, Elspeth,’ not even ‘Best wishes, Elspeth.’

Did he really want to marry her now? And why did he nurse that odd hankering for Priscilla? Why did he keep hoping that one day she would thaw out and become as passionate as the woman of his dreams?

The kitchen door opened and the fisherman Archie walked in. “We was coming back this morning, Hamish,” he said, “and I got a good look at thon folly from the sea. There’s a big chunk o’ the cliff has fallen and it’s perched there like a toy castle balancing on someone’s outstretched hand. It’s now only got the lip o’ the cliff to support it.”

“I’ll phone up Andrew Gentle and warn him,”said Hamish. “Sit down, Archie. Want some of that wine?”

“Na. I don’t know how thae actors survive on that bitter stuff. I thocht yours had gone off but they had some at the rehearsal and it was like drinking acid. I’ll take a dram.”

Hamish poured him a measure of whisky and then, after some hesitation, poured one for himself.

“You know what puzzles me, Archie?” said Hamish. “Everyone up here knows everyone else’s business. All I want to know is if someone’s seen a tall strange woman about, and no one’s seen anything at all.”

“Gamekeeper Geordie saw Priscilla and thon Irishman having a picnic,” said Archie. “You chust going tae stand by and let that happen? They was up by the Beithe Burn.”

“Archie, Priscilla can do what she likes.”

When Archie had left, Hamish found Andrew Gentle’s card and phoned to warn him about the perilous condition of the castle.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” said Andrew testily. “I am sure if the damn thing falls into the sea, the insurance company will put it down to an act of God. I’ll come up in the spring, hire an architect, and see if anything can be done.”

It was only when he had rung off that Hamish realised he still had the key.

He could not settle down for the evening. He felt restless. He wanted to banish Priscilla’s bright image from a corner of his brain. He decided to take a run down to Inverness. It was late-night shopping, and if he hurried he could be there in time. He needed some new casual clothes.

He took Sonsie and Lugs with him. There were plenty of shops in Strathbane, the nearer town, but he wanted to get well away from Lochdubh.

But by the time he had battled round the crowded shops and bought new shirts and trousers, he was longing to get back to the peace of home. He bought kebabs for himself, the dog, and the cat, and fed them in the quiet street by the river where he had parked before setting out for home.

He decided to take the old way over the Struie Pass and whistled cheerfully as he zigzagged round the hairpin bends into Sutherland. He had just reached the famous viewpoint when the engine coughed and died. The petrol light was flashing empty. Hamish stared at it, puzzled. He had filled the tank just before arriving in Inverness. He got out with his torch, searched under the vehicle, and then shone the torch back along the road. There was no sign of any petrol leakage.

He opened up the petrol cap and put a dipstick in. The stick came out dry. He took a four-gallon tank of petrol out of the back of the Land Rover and poured it into the tank.

Still puzzled, he drove on. At the police station, he lifted his pets down from the vehicle, took the key down from the gutter, opened the kitchen door, and switched on the light.

“I don’t think you pair need anything more to eat tonight,” said Hamish. “Off to bed.”

He decided to have a cup of coffee. Coffee never stopped him from sleeping.

Hamish was about to open the fridge door when he glanced down at the floor. Soot from the stove had covered a little bit of the floor in a fine black layer, and in the middle was the faint imprint of a shoe.

He stared at it for a long moment. He guessed the wearer would take size seven shoes. That was the size of the shoeprints on the back stairs of the castle. Size seven, British, was size nine, American—and what was that in centimetres? Did anyone in Britain know their shoe size in centimetres?

Hamish carefully lifted the lid of the stove. He had left, as usual, sticks and kindling and firelighter. What he usually did was just toss a match in and replace the lid.

He bent down and sniffed. There was a smell of diesel.

He backed off and whistled to his pets. “Going for a walk,” he said, “and fast.”

He hurried along to the Italian restaurant, where Willie was wiping the tables for the night. Hamish rapped on the door. “We’re closed,” said Willie.

“It’s urgent,” said Hamish. “I need to phone headquarters. There’s a bomb in the police station.”

“Come in,” said Willie. “Michty me!”

Hamish took out his mobile phone. “Willie, start evacuating the houses around the police station. Do it quick.”

Willie ran off. Hamish got a sleepy Jimmy on his mobile number.

“Jimmy, get the bomb squad. I think someone’s put a fertiliser bomb in the stove in my kitchen. I’m in the Italian restaurant. Willie Lamont’s gone to evacuate the houses nearby. I’m off to help him.”

“Be with you fast,” said Jimmy and rang off.

The night was frosty so Willie ushered several families into the restaurant. Mrs. Wellington, who had been telephoned for help, had taken the rest of those considered to be in the danger area up to the manse.

Hamish fretted and waited, only relaxing when he heard the sound of the sirens coming over the hills towards Lochdubh.

He walked along to the police station to meet Jimmy, who was standing there with an army bomb disposal unit.

“Tell the sergeant here about it,” said Jimmy.

Hamish described the footprint on the sooty floor and the smell of diesel.

“Any wires?” asked the sergeant.

“No. I looked.”

Two of his men went inside the police station. Hamish turned to Jimmy. “It was the same size as the footprint we saw in the castle.”

“Damn and blast it!” said Jimmy. “If this murderer thinks you know something, doesn’t he think it odd you’d keep it to yourself ?”

“He may think Irena told me something that I haven’t yet figured out,” said Hamish.

The men came out, carrying something in a plastic forensic bag.

“Here it is,” said one. “A fertiliser bomb. Nice little homemade thing. All you need is newspaper, chemical fertiliser, cotton, diesel, and you’ve got your bomb. Someone put the fertiliser wrapped in newspaper at the bottom of your stove, then put cotton soaked with diesel on the top. If you’d lit your stove, it would have blown apart five hundred square metres—which would have dealt with you and your police station.”

“Hamish,” said Jimmy, “maybe we’re being sidetracked by the whole Gentle family. You don’t think there might be some Russian connection?”

“No, I don’t. They would have caught up with her before this.”

“Maybe not. Who’d think of looking for her in the north of Scotland?”

“We should be looking for someone fairly tall and slim with size seven feet,” said Hamish. “Might be a good idea to check Kylie Gentle’s alibi.”

People were returning to their houses. The forensic team arrived and went into the kitchen.

“I’m going to go up to the hotel and see if I can mooch a room,” said Hamish. “Oh, there’s another thing, Jimmy. I was coming back over the Struie Pass when I ran out of petrol. Now, I filled the tank up just before I got to Inverness. Say someone followed me down and drained most of the tank to immobilise me so that they could race back to the station and plant the bomb?”

“Might get something on CCTV,” said Jimmy. “Where were you parked?”

“Away down on a side street off the Ness Bank.”

“It’s a pity you were too cheap to pay for proper parking. You’d best leave the Land Rover and let the forensic boys look over it.”

“Could one of your lads give me a lift to the hotel?”

“Aileen will do that. Wait a minute.”

Jimmy went off and came back with a policewoman. “This is Aileen Drummond.”

Aileen was small and chubby with a cheeky face. When he got into the police car, Hamish said awkwardly, “I wonder whether you might stop at that Italian restaurant on the waterfront to pick up my dog and cat?”

“No trouble,” said Aileen.

But she flinched as Sonsie and Lugs were ushered into the backseat. “No,” said Hamish, before she could speak, “it’s not a wild cat.”

“Looks fair savage to me,” said Aileen.

“Are you from Glasgow?”

“Yes. Recognise the accent did you?”

“It’s not as thick as Blair’s, but yes. What’s brought you up here?”

“I wanted to work in the Highlands but I landed in Strathbane, which is a sort o’ Glasgow in miniature but without the culture, without the restaurants, and without the posh shops. One great heaving underclass o’ criminals. You all right? Must be a hell o’ a shock finding a bomb in your kitchen.”

“I’m fine.”

“Here’s the hotel. Want to go in and get blootered? I could say you were in shock and needed tender loving care.”

“I don’t want to get drunk, and you’re driving.”