Death of a Glutton (7 page)

Hamish ran back to where the body was lying, but this time he stood on guard outside the quarry, not wanting to tread on any clues. He flapped his arms at the buzzards above, only glad that they had not descended for dinner before the body was found.

The sky was turning milky white. The storm would appear to come down, he knew from experience, rather than blowing in from the west. The sky would deepen to grey and then black and then the rain would bucket down, blotting out any clues and those car tracks unless the men arrived first with the groundsheets.

*    *    *

Jenny Trask missed all the excitement when Priscilla burst into the bar, for she had already left with her forestry worker, Brian Mulligan. They had drunk an awful lot and Jenny had taken him back to the castle bar, where they had drunk more. Looking through the door of the bar, Jenny had seen that the hall and reception desk were deserted, and so it had seemed like a good idea to slip Brian up to her room where eventually, between tangled sheets, the earth did seem to move for her as a most tremendous storm broke, rocking the castle to its foundations with peal after peal of thunder.

Outside, the Volvo, with windows open and sun-roof open, stood in the downpour and rain cascaded in, flooding the interior of the car.

Hamish stood in the pouring rain, shivering miserably. A tent had been erected over Peta’s body and groundsheets covered a good deal of the floor of the quarry. Dr Brodie had examined the body and said he thought she had crammed the whole apple greedily into her mouth and had died of suffocation. Hamish shook his head slowly and said he’d be interested in what the police pathologist had to say.

Men from the village sat out in the road in their cars, passing round half-bottles of whisky and chatting excitedly.

And then the contingent from police headquarters arrived just as the storm clouds were rolling away and a bleak hellish light was beginning to illuminate the depressing scene.

To Hamish’s dismay, first out of the cars was Detective Police Inspector Blair with his sidekicks, Harry MacNab and Jimmy Anderson.

Hamish stared at him stupidly. ‘I thought you were in Spain!’

‘Aye, well, ah’m back,’ growled Blair. ‘Stand aside, laddie, and let the experts get to it.’

The forensic team in white boiler suits were standing ready. The police pathologist went into the tent. Then he poked his head out of the flap and called, ‘The rain’s stopped. You can remove this.’

Several policemen removed the tent. A shaft of watery sunlight shone down, lighting up Peta’s dead face.

‘Jist like a roast pig,’ said Blair with a laugh.

Dr Brodie moved forward. ‘I was just saying to Macbeth here,’ he said to the police pathologist, ‘that this lady had the reputation of being a glutton. It was all over the village. She came here for a picnic and crammed an apple into her mouth and died of suffocation.’

‘She died of suffocation all right,’ said the pathologist, kneeling down by the body again.

To Blair’s irritation, Hamish moved forward. He pointed a long finger to Peta’s nostrils. ‘See those little bruises,’ said Hamish. ‘I think someone rammed the apple in her mouth and pinched her nostrils tight so that she would suffocate. It’s a clear case of murder. She’s lying on a patch of gravel but you can see where it’s churned up about her feet where she writhed about.’

‘Oh, for hivven’s sakes,’ moaned Blair. ‘Waud ye leave the diagnosis tae the experts, you bampot.’ The pathologist looked brightly up at Hamish, like an inquisitive bird. ‘You know this woman, Macbeth?’

‘Yes, Peta Gore is her name. She was partner in a marital agency called Checkmate who brought a party of their clients to Tommel Castle Hotel, where they still are. Although she’s a partner, the firm is really run by a woman called Maria Worth, who had tried to keep the visit secret from Peta. Peta left a note this morning saying she was leaving, that she was walking down to catch the bus. But where are her clothes, where’s her luggage? And she’s a long way from the bus stop.’

The pathologist bent over the body again. ‘You could be right,’ he said. ‘I mean, come to think of it, if she’d started to choke, she would have pulled the apple out of her mouth. If it’s murder, it’s a peculiarly vicious one. And I’ll tell you something else. It isn’t always possible to tell the exact time of death, but I would hazard a guess and say she died sometime last night.’

The groundsheets were being tenderly removed and a photographer was taking pictures of the tyre tracks. ‘Very faint,’ he said. ‘Lucky you were here to get them covered, Macbeth.’

Blair glared at Hamish. Certainly Hamish had solved murders in the past and let Blair take the credit, but when Blair had been leaving headquarters, his super had said, ‘Oh, well, if it’s a murder, I’m sure Hamish will soon have an idea who did it.’

That had rankled. Worse, the super had referred to Macbeth as Hamish, a familiarity which Blair did not like.

Blair threw an arm around Hamish’s shoulders. ‘You’re wet through, laddie,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you run along to that polis station of yours an’ dry off. Anderson here will run you down. Where’s your car, by the way?’

Hamish had no intention of telling Blair that he had been picnicking on the moors with Priscilla when he was supposed to be on duty – not yet anyway.

‘Two wee boys found the body,’ he said. ‘I got someone to drive them back.’

‘Off you go wi’ Anderson then. We’ll call you when we need you.’

‘You’d better,’ said Hamish, ‘or I’ll need to put an independent report into Strathbane.’ He walked off with Jimmy Anderson and left Blair staring after him.

‘So what brought that old scunner back from Spain?’ asked Hamish as Jimmy drove down into Lochdubh. The sky was clearing but a brisk wind had sprung up, ruffling the surface of the loch. The golden days were over and someone had murdered Peta.

‘He got drunk in a bar in one o’ thae places on the Costa Brava and picked a fight wi’ a Spaniard and ended up thumping him one. The Spaniard calls the police. Turns out the Spaniard is head honcho in the town. Blair protests he’s a policeman, Spanish police say in that case he’s more of a disgrace and if he disnae want to be booked, then he’d better get the next plane out.’

‘Why, oh why didn’t they arrest him?’ mourned Hamish.

Mr Johnson, emerging from the castle after the storm, found the soaked Volvo. He got two of the maids and told them to dry and polish the soaked interior and then went to the reception desk where he noticed Jenny’s key was missing, which meant she must be in her room.

He went upstairs and knocked loudly on her door. Jenny struggled awake, forgot there was someone in bed with her, and called, ‘Come in!’

Mr Johnson walked into the hotel bedroom and stopped short. Beside Jenny on the bed, a man was struggling up with a sheepish look on his face. The free and easy days of liberated sex had not yet reached as far north as Tommel Castle. Couples sharing rooms were expected to be married, or at least to have the decency to pretend to be.

‘When you are ready, Miss Trask,’ he said severely, ‘I would like to see you in my office.’

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

‘You’d better go,’ said Jenny.

‘Aw, come on, darlin’,’ said Brian, ‘you’re not afraid of that old toffee-nose.’

‘No, no, you must go,’ said Jenny almost hysterically. He got up and stretched lazily and put his clothes on while Jenny snatched up her own clothes and fled into the bathroom, her face red with shame. Once dressed, she stood there for a long time, hoping Brian would leave.

At last she opened the door. He was sitting on the bed and stood up when he saw her.

‘Get out,’ she said in a thin voice.

He grinned at her and winked.

She walked to the bedroom door and held it open. He gave her a slap on the bottom and then strolled out, whistling jauntily.

Jenny sank down into a chair. Her mouth felt dry and her head ached. How could she have done such a thing and with such a lout? How was it he had seemed so attractive, so interesting?

To him, she had been an easy lay, a pick-up, and now she had to face the manager.

But she didn’t move. She just sat there, staring into space, and wishing, like Peta, she, too, could run away.

Hamish changed into dry clothes and went to the Ferguson’s home to interview the two boys. Their father owned the Lochdubh Bakery and the family lived in a flat over the shop. He met Dr Brodie on the stairs. ‘I’ve just given the children tranquillizers, Hamish,’ said the doctor. ‘Actually, I gave them a couple of indigestion tablets, but the parents think they’re tranquillizers and that’s all that matters. The trouble with people is that they always expect some drug.’

Hamish went up and knocked at the door, which was opened by Mrs Ferguson, a thin waif of a woman except for her hands, which were large and strong and red.

‘Och, Hamish,’ she said when she saw him. ‘Do you haff to speak to the weans now?’

‘Only take a minute,’ said Hamish. ‘Where are they?’

‘Watchin’ the telly.’

Hamish went into the small cluttered living room. The boys were in their dressing-gowns and pyjamas, watching a showing of ‘Murder on Elm Street’ on television. Hamish switched the set off. ‘That’ll not do you any good, boys.’

‘We’ve had the pills,’ said Jamie proudly. ‘Dr Brodie said they wass anti-fright pills.’

‘Nonetheless, you don’t want to have nightmares when the effect wears off,’ said Hamish. ‘Read a comic instead.’ He picked one up from a pile on the sofa beside them. On the lurid cover a woman with her dress half off was about to be raped by a green alien. It was called
Revenge of Zork
. He put it down with a shudder. ‘Maybe not. Now, boys –’ he took out his notebook – ‘tell me how you found the body. Jamie, you’d better do it.’

‘We wass up in the hills for a walk,’ said Jamie, ‘and Bill and me wanted tae look at the auld quarry. Then we saw her. She was awful. Great staring eyes.’ He gulped.

‘What time was this?’

Jamie looked bewildered. Bill piped up. ‘It wass two. I’ve got my new watch.’ He proudly held up a thin birdlike wrist to exhibit a cheap digital watch.

‘Did you touch her?’

‘No, we chust ran and ran as fast as we could.’

‘Why did she … did herself haff an apple in her mouth?’ whispered Jamie.

Because someone probably jammed it in there, thought Hamish, but he closed his notebook and said instead, ‘That’s all for now, boys. If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.’

Frank Ferguson, the baker, was coming up the stairs as Hamish was leaving.

‘Bad business,’ he said. ‘How are the bairns?’

‘They’ll be all right,’ said Hamish, ‘but stop them watching horror movies. They shouldn’t be watching them at all.’

‘Och, what can you do these days? They all watch them. Was it the fat wumman?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Ate herself to death?’

‘Maybe,’ said Hamish curtly. ‘I’ll let you know.’

The police cars drove up to the castle. The news of Peta’s death spread like wildfire. Jenny still sat where she was, hugging herself, hearing the commotion and thinking in a dreary neurotic way that it was all to do with her shame.

And yet what had she done that was so terribly wrong? Admittedly it had happened to her before after too many drinks at an office party, when she had somehow ended up in bed with a solicitor’s clerk. But that had been London, where morals were looser. And yet how could she, the romantic, the dreamer of knights on white chargers, have so easily leaped into bed with some labourer? Oh, the snobbery of sex. Something at the back of her mind was telling her wryly that had it been some successful businessman, she would not be feeling so low. Her friends had one-night stands and giggled about them. Perhaps she was a bit of a prude.

She rose shakily and went to the window of her room, which overlooked the front of the castle, and then drew back with a little cry of fright. There were police cars down there.

Scottish law was vastly different from English law. Could they have her arrested for immorality? A hammering at the door made her jump.

‘Who’s there?’ she croaked.

‘It’s Maria. You’d better come downstairs.’

Sensible tweedy Maria, thought Jenny. She would look after her. Besides, Jenny was one of Maria’s clients, so it was Maria’s
duty
to look after her.

She opened the door.

‘Peta’s been found dead,’ said Maria abruptly. ‘The police want to interview everyone.’

All Jenny felt in that moment was a mixture of amazement and sheer gratitude. What was her lapse from grace compared to this?

‘I’ll come right away,’ she said. ‘What happened to Peta? Did she have an accident?’

‘It appears not,’ said Maria, running a worried hand through her short hair. ‘They say it’s murder.’

‘How? When?’

‘I’ll tell you downstairs. I’ve got to get the others.’

Jenny walked down the stairs with a feeling of excitement. Peta murdered! Mr Johnson would have his hands too full with that to worry about her.

At reception she was told to go to the lounge, where the rest of Checkmate were gathered, the police deciding to start with them and get around to the rest of the hotel guests later. Interviewing was to take place in the library.

Hamish Macbeth arrived in time for the first of the interviews. Blair glared at him, but Hamish quietly placed himself in a corner of the library.

Jessica Fitt was ushered in. She was, thought Hamish, only about thirty-two, but her prematurely grey hair made her look older. She had chosen clothes, consciously or unconsciously, which aged her as well. She had a vague, kind face, a thin mouth and rather good eyes. She scratched one hip ferociously before she sat down and, once seated, proceeded to scratch her armpits in a nervous frenzy like some overwrought genteel monkey.

‘Now, Miss Fitt,’ said Blair in the Anglified accent he used for interviewing ‘the nobs’, as he called them. ‘Just a few questions. Mrs Worth has given us your file, so we know your background and address in London. What we want from you to begin with are your movements yesterday evening.’

‘Let me see,’ said Jessica, ‘we all had dinner and Peta was there and then after dinner she went straight up to bed, so you must want to know about after that. Well, I sat in the lounge talking to Mr Trumpington and then he said there was a good film on television and so we went to the television lounge to watch it.’

‘You have television sets in your rooms, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but we are just friends and it would not be very correct to have a man in my room or go to his when there is a perfectly good television set downstairs.’

‘What was the movie?’

‘It was
Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday
, Channel Four.’

‘So what time would that be?’

‘The film started at nine-thirty. I don’t know when it finished, but it isn’t all that long, although you have to account for time for the ads.’

‘We can check it in the newspaper,’ said Blair. ‘And then what did you do?’

‘I went up to my room and went to bed. Maria has been organizing very early starts.’

‘And Mr Trumpington?’

‘I think he went to bed as well,’ said Jessica and scratched her knee.

‘Now, Miss Fitt, can you think of anyone in the party who would want to murder Peta Gore?’

‘Oh, we all thought of killing her,’ said Jessica and then wriggled miserably. ‘Well, you know what I mean. “I could kill that woman,” that kind of thing. But I cannot think of anyone who would actually have done it.’

‘Do you know if Peta Gore was a wealthy woman?’

‘I know that. She was very wealthy. Worth three million.’

Blair’s gaze sharpened. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘Because she told us. She had a fax from her accountant delivered to her at the table and she announced it. Someone said something about being surprised that marital agencies could rake in that sort of money and Peta said that it was due to her late husband’s fortune and a good stockbroker.’

‘That will be all for now, Miss Fitt.’

Jessica blinked at him in surprised relief and exited, scratching.

Blair looked round triumphantly. ‘Well, we don’t need tae look any further. She was worth three million, she doesn’t have children, her niece is here with her, so the niece did it.’

‘I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as that,’ volunteered Hamish.

Blair gave a snort of disgust and demanded that Crystal be shown in.

Crystal had found something black to wear, although black was the only thing decent about her outfit. It consisted of a short divided skirt and a halter-top that left an expanse of bare, lightly tanned midriff. She sat down and crossed her legs.

‘Your name is Crystal Debenham, and you are how old?’ began Blair.

‘Nineteen.’

‘Job?’

‘Not yet,’ said Crystal huskily.

‘What were your relations with your aunt?’

‘Used to be all right,’ said Crystal laconically. ‘When I was at school, she’d come and take me out for tea and things like that. More than my parents did. She was jolly and good company.’

‘And when did she ask you to come up here?’

‘The morning she went. She’d found out Maria was up here with a group and phoned and asked me to come. So I packed and came. First time I’d seen Auntie since I got back from finishing school in Switzerland.’

‘Do you benefit from your aunt’s will?’

‘Yes, I think I get all of it,’ said Crystal equably.

‘Therefore –’ Blair hunched over the desk – ‘you had a strong motive for wanting rid of her.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t have liked her to leave the money to the old cat’s home or something,’ said Crystal, ‘but Mummy and Daddy are quite rich, so it’s not as if I was lusting after her millions, now was it?’

Blair gave her a look of irritation. ‘What were you doing yesterday evening after dinner?’

She frowned in concentration. ‘Oh, I know – I went upstairs same time as Auntie, went to my room. That’s it.’

‘What did you do in your room?’

‘I painted my toe-nails.’ Crystal opened her eyes to their fullest. ‘That took simply ages because I’d painted them pink and then I thought, I’ve this new orange lipstick, why not paint them orange? So I took off the pink and put on the orange, and then of course I had to do my fingernails.’ She waggled long orange-painted fingernails at him.

‘And you did not see your aunt or hear her go out?’

‘No, heard nothing. Can I go now?’

‘Miss Debenham,’ said Blair, his voice harsh and his accent slipping, ‘yer Auntie was murdered and you don’t seem to give a damn.’

‘Maybe I’m in shock,’ said Crystal, unmoved. ‘But she had become a bit of a pain, slobbering all over her food. Gross!’

‘Are there any witnesses who can testify that you were in your room all the time?’

‘No, although I had the television on. Someone might have heard that.’

‘You could have left that on while you lured your aunt out on to the moors into the quarry and murdered her,’ roared Blair.

Crystal leaned back in her chair, and her voice was silky, ‘Oh, do be so very careful, whatever your name is, before you start accusing me, or it will be me who puts you in the dock.’

Hamish leaned forward and surveyed her with interest. For under that sluttish appearance of hers, Crystal had all the tough arrogance of a privileged background. She was either too stupid to cover up the fact that she expected to inherit her aunt’s money and was not grieving over her death, or she was clever enough to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Blair looked like a baffled bull. ‘We will be questioning you, Miss Debenham, as soon as we have the forensic reports.’

‘Do that,’ said Crystal languidly and rose and swayed from the room.

Blair struck the desk with his fist. ‘That bitch did it. I’ll stake ma life on it.’

Jenkins, the
maître d’hôtel
, came in. Blair looked up angrily. ‘We dinnae need you yet.’

‘But I have vital information,’ said Jenkins pompously.

‘Out wi’ it then!’

‘I was passing Mrs Gore’s bedroom earlier in the week and I heard Miss Maria Worth threatening her.’

‘Ho, and whit did she say?’

‘She shouted something like, “If I have to kill you to get rid of you, then I’ll do it.” It appears to be a well-known fact that Miss Worth wished to buy Mrs Gore out and Mrs Gore would not be bought out.’

‘Thanks, Jenkins. Tell Maria Worth to step in here.’

‘
Mr
Jenkins to you,’ snapped the
maître d’hôte
l and stalked out.

‘Still think Crystal did it?’ asked Jimmy Anderson.

‘Aye, maybe. Let’s see this wumman.’

Maria came in. It was evident to all she had been crying.

‘Miss Worth,’ said Blair. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. You were overheard threatening to kill Peta Gore because she would not let you buy her out.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Maria shakily. ‘She was ruining everything with her appalling eating habits and by trying to flirt with the men. I was furious with her. But I did not kill her. It’s just something one says when one is furious.’

‘Oh, does one,’ sneered Blair. ‘Where were you last night?’

‘I was in my room making calls to various clients in London to see how they were getting on. That would be right up until eleven o’clock. The hotel switchboard will have a record of those calls.’

‘Mrs Gore could have been killed after eleven o’clock.’

‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ said Maria wearily.

‘Apart from her niece,’ asked Hamish suddenly, ‘did any of the clients of Checkmate know Peta before this trip to the Highlands?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I just wondered. I mean, you go into the background of your clients pretty thoroughly, do you not? Would there have been something there that Peta might have got hold of and threatened to use?’

‘Peta took no interest in the business.’

Hamish remembered what Priscilla had told him. ‘She had enough interest to operate your computer files and find out where you were,’ he put in. ‘I had this idea she might have had hopes of finding a husband for herself, which might lead her to check up on backgrounds.’

‘Yes, she could have done that,’ said Maria slowly. ‘She never helped in the office, but she was very nosy, and yes, she did want another husband.’

‘And did any of the men show any particular interest in her at any time?’ Hamish asked.

‘Ah’ll ask the questions,’ muttered Blair, his Glasgow accent getting thicker the more irritated he became. It was just like Hamish Macbeth to start cluttering up the scene with red herrings when it was clear that the only person with a real motive was Crystal.

But Maria was still looking at Hamish. ‘Yes, three of them: John Taylor, Matthew Cowper and Sir Bernard. It was after she had announced she was worth three million. I think those three got temporarily greedy. We were off to the theatre in Strathbane and they did rather vie for her attention.’

‘Was anyone else heard threatening her life, apart from yourself?’ demanded Blair.

‘Well, just in a joky way. When we went out on a fishing-boat trip, I remember Jessica Fitt and Peter Trumpington capping each other’s ideas about ways to kill Peta.’

‘And why would they do that?’

‘Peta Gore had become a thoroughly repulsive woman,’ said Maria tearfully. ‘She used to be such fun, such a nice person. That’s why I’m crying. I can’t help remembering what she used to be like.’

When Maria had left, Hamish said, ‘I should tell you that Sean Gallagher, the cook, says that a picnic hamper is missing from the kitchen. It was taken along with some food during the night. It is also my belief that Sean has done time in Glasgow for assaulting his wife.’

Blair sent for Sean, who came in cringing. ‘I gather ye’ve got a record,’ said Blair without his usual pugnacity, for Blair himself was from Glasgow and Glasgow was the Holy City and Sean was therefore a spiritual brother.

‘Only a few months,’ whined Sean. ‘Ah’m telling ye, it’s this wimmin’s lib. I only knocked the missus about a bit and they put me in the poky.’

‘We’ll come tae that later. Now about the stuff that’s missing frae the kitchen.’

‘Aye.’ Sean looked relieved the subject had moved from his background. ‘A picnic hamper, bread and ham, a meat pie, fruit, a bottle o’ Beaujolais – that’s about as far as I can tell ye at the moment.’

‘Would ye know if anyone had been in the kitchens during the night?’

‘Not after ten o’clock.’

‘What if someone wanted a late coffee?’

‘There’s a coffee-machine in the bar.’

‘Aren’t the kitchens locked at night?’

‘No.’

Hamish shifted uneasily. Archie had told him about Sean’s threatening Peta. But if he told Blair that, then the whole story about the cat would come out and Priscilla’s business might collapse. He bit his lip and decided to interrogate Sean on his own later.