Death of Yesterday

by M C Beaton

  Hamish stopped halfway to Strathbane to let the dog and cat out for a run in the heather. “They spend too much time lounging around with you, Dick,” he complained. “They’re getting fat.”

  “That reminds me,” said Dick, “I’m hungry. I didn’t have much for breakfast. Just the one wee bit o’ toast and some fried haggis and bacon.”

  “We’ll get something in Strathbane after we see this girl. She works at an electronics factory and there’s only the one in Strathbane—Gerald and Simons.”

  The factory was the only prosperous-looking building on a run-down industrial estate on the outskirts of the town.

  Hamish asked to see Stacey McIver and was told it was her lunch hour and she was in the works canteen. Dick brightened and said quickly, “We’ll go and join her.”

  They followed the receptionist into the factory and up in the lift to the top floor to a well-equipped self-service canteen.

  The receptionist introduced them and left. “I’ll just be getting us some food,” said Dick and moved rapidly towards the counter before Hamish could protest.

  Stacey McIver was a small, thin girl with a white spotty face and lank brown hair. She had prominent eyes of an indeterminate colour and a large nose.

  Hamish sat down facing her. “I want to ask you about your time at the factory working as secretary to Mr. Gilchrist.”

  “It wasnae fair, sacking me like that,” said Stacey. Her voice held the fluting notes of the Outer Hebrides. “I was good at my job.”

  “So why did he sack you?”

  “He said I was incompetent. But I wasnae! Ask them here. I do good work.”

  “When exactly did he sack you? Was it long before Morag Merrilea arrived?”

  “It was the day after she arrived.”

  “What! But Pete Eskdale told me he had hired Morag in London because the situation was vacant—or that’s the impression he gave me.”

  “That’s the way it happened.”

  “What is Gilchrist like?”

  She frowned. “A bit cold and bossy. Made me work hard. Wrapped up in that bossy wife of his. Mind you, he gave me a good reference and a goodbye handshake.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred pounds.”

  Dick thrust a laden tray in front of Hamish. “I can’t eat all that,” complained Hamish. “Three mutton pies!”

  “And two doggie bags,” said Dick triumphantly. “Two of them are for the dog and cat.”

  Hamish turned his attention back to Stacey. “Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “I was so shocked, I didnae know what to think. My ma said, ‘Chust take the money. Thae capitalists are aye weird.’ My ma’s a Communist. I got this job almost right away and it’s a lot better than working for Gilchrist. Look, I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Hamish took out his notebook and asked for her name and address. After Stacey had left, he said to Dick, who was eating a mutton pie, peas, and chips with relish, “Let’s see Gilchrist again. He’s got some explaining to do.”

  Hamish made the mistake of stopping on the road back to feed the dog and cat and to report to Jimmy Anderson what he had found out and asking if anyone knew where Mrs. Gilchrist was.

  “I’m at the factory,” said Jimmy. “I’ll handle it.”

  In vain did Hamish protest. It was only occasionally that Jimmy tried to grab the credit for work that Hamish had done, but when he did, there was no moving him.

  He drove back to the police station in a bad mood. The sweltering weather did not help his temper.

  In the office, he sat down and began to type out a possible scenario where Gilchrist had killed his wife, Morag had found out, and so he had got rid of her as well. But what of Sean Carmichael who had driven Brenda Gilchrist to the airport? He searched the police records and came up with the name of Maisie Moffat’s husband. Nothing very serious. One charge of drunk and disorderly and another for shoplifting. But such a man could be bribed. Perhaps he had been in the pub the night Morag had been drugged.

  He drove back to Cnothan and went straight to the Highlander pub. But Stolly Maguire said he was tired of being asked questions. He knew Moffat but could not remember if he’d been in the pub that evening.

  He went round to the factory and caught Jimmy as he was leaving. “It’s no go, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “Gilchrist got a call from his Mrs. last night from a hotel in Lyon. I phoned her from his office and she was very much alive and as loudmouthed and bossy as folks say she is and she is travelling on her very own passport, so no doubt there.”

  “But why was he in such a rush to get rid of Stacey, give her a good reference, and pay her five hundred pounds as well?”

  “He says she was no good and he desperately needed an efficient secretary. He says he felt sorry for the girl.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Hamish.

  “Well, there’s damn all we can do about it,” said Jimmy crossly. “I’ll maybe drop by this evening.”

  “I can’t,” said Hamish. “I’ve got a date.”

  “Who with?”

  “Mind your own business.” Hamish was afraid that if Jimmy found out he was dating Hannah, he might protest that it was against the rules to date the sister of a suspect. But the very thought of the evening ahead lightened his mood.

  He dressed with special care that evening. For once he was glad that neither Priscilla nor Elspeth was in Lochdubh. In the past, they had often turned up unexpectedly when he was dining with some woman or other.

  As he was ready to leave, he said to Dick, “Not a word to anyone about my dinner date.”

  “Just so you know it will be all over Lochdubh in about one hour,” said Dick.

  “They won’t know who she is,” said Hamish hopefully.

  “Oh, aye? The drums will be beating, the smoke signals will be going up, and by the time you get to the coffee stage I’m sure folks like the Currie sisters will have found out exactly who she is.”

  The Italian restaurant was candlelit. “On your own?” asked Willie Lamont, the waiter who was married to the owner’s daughter.

  “No, I’m dining with someone.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Someone you don’t know.”

  “Is it Sonja?”

  “Who the hell’s she?” asked Hamish, looking at his watch.

  “A new maid up at the hotel. A real fam fatal.”

  “Femme fatale,” corrected Hamish, who was used to Willie’s malapropisms.

  The door opened and Hannah came in. Hamish stood up, feeling his heartbeat quicken.

  Hannah was wearing a gold-coloured sheath of a dress which clung to her figure. Her thick black hair framed her perfect face. She was carrying a huge handbag. Willie rushed to pull a chair out for her. In the candlelight, Hamish noticed her eyelashes were so thick that they cast shadows on her cheeks.

  “I’d try the spaghetti carbonated,” said Willie eagerly. “I had some for my supper, miss, and it was grand.”

  “Go away,” ordered Hamish. “We’ll call you back when we’re ready to order.”

  “I’ve never had carbonated spaghetti before,” said Hannah.

  “I think our Willie means carbonara. You’d think he’d have learned the menu by now.”

  After some discussion, they agreed to order the same thing: starters of avocado and prawns, followed by osso buco. Hamish also ordered a bottle of Valpolicello.

  “Tell me about the case,” said Hannah.

  “I can’t really talk about it,” said Hamish awkwardly.

  “Meaning my poor brother is still a suspect?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Shame on you, Hamish. Poor Geordie wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Willie took their order. When he had left, Hamish said, “Have you come across anyone at all that you think might be capable of murder?”

  “Not one,” said Hannah. “I think you’re wasting our time in Cnothan. I think you should be checking the London end. It’s all over the p
lace that Morag was a lesbian and having an affair with Freda Crichton. What if she had some lover in London who learned of the affair and got mad with her and came up here?”

  He shook his head. “Any stranger would stand out a mile in that pub. They may not remember exactly who was there on the night she got drugged, but they’d certainly remember a new face—and they would tell me, too, they’d be so anxious to get the heat off the locals. There is one case I can talk to you about, and one that still bothers me.”

  Hamish told her about the Palfours. As they ate, she listened intently. As he talked, he felt they were enclosed in a little world of candlelight.

  He then asked her about her work in Glasgow. As she talked, he barely listened, almost hypnotised by her beauty.

  Over glasses of strega and coffee, Hamish said, “You shouldn’t be driving. I’ll take you home and we’ll bring your car over in the morning.”

  She glanced at him from under those ridiculously long lashes. “I’m sure you can find me a bed for the night at the police station.”

  “Of course,” said Hamish, wondering if she could hear his heartbeats from across the table. “I’ll be back in a moment. Just going to the men’s room.”

  In the toilet, he phoned Dick and said urgently, “She’s coming back with me. I want you to take Sonsie and Lugs and clear off to the Tommel Castle Hotel for the night. Tell the manager, Mr. Johnson, I’ll pay him tomorrow.”

  Hamish and Hannah walked together through the close, warm night to the police station.

  Once inside, Hamish said, “The only spare bed is in the one police cell. I’ll take that and give you my bed.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll both take your bed.”

  “Fine,” said Hamish. “I’ll get you some clean towels and let you use the bathroom first.”

  When Hannah went into the bathroom, Hamish rushed into his bedroom and changed the sheets. Then he sat down on a chair by the bed, almost trembling with anticipation.

  He then put off the main light and left a little bedside light burning.

  Time passed. She seemed to be taking a very long time.

  At last, she appeared, wrapped in a large bath towel. She rushed to the bed and got under the covers.

  “I won’t be long,” said Hamish hoarsely.

  In the bathroom, he noticed three boxes on top of the bathroom shelf. Curious, he opened the first one. Two thick false eyelashes like dead spiders lay there. The second box revealed contact lenses; amber with flecks of gold. He felt he shouldn’t be searching through her stuff, but opened the third square box. It contained a pair of falsies—plastic breasts. And worse than anything, a tumbler held a dental plate with four front teeth.

  He suddenly felt cheated and told himself he was being a fool. Surely all women enhanced their appearance one way or the other.

  He undressed, took a shower, and with a towel round his middle he went into the bedroom.

  After she fell asleep, he lay awake. He had done the best he could and she seemed satisfied, but it had been an unnerving experience. It was the first time he had bedded a woman who was completely flat-chested. What did it matter what she looked like? he scolded himself. But he had been so carried away by what he had thought her beauty that he had not really listened to her and so he did not know what she was really like.

  Before he turned to switch off the light, he noticed a loose tress of black hair lying on the pillow. It had a little knob of glue at the end. A hair extension, thought Hamish miserably.

  He rose early in the morning, feeling guilty and miserable. If only he was one of those men who cheerfully had one-night stands and gave the woman the brush-off in the morning without any conscience. He knew he could not do that. But he could play for time.

  As he sat in the kitchen drinking coffee, he heard her get up and go into the bathroom. To delay the moment when he would have to see her again, he walked out to the waterfront and stared gloomily at the water. The humidity had lifted, and the air was fresh and cool.

  When he returned, she was still in the bathroom. He had another cup of coffee. It was over an hour before she emerged, every bit as beautiful as she had been when Hamish had first seen her. He looked at her with admiration, thinking that she was, indeed, a work of art.

  “Oh, coffee!” she said. “I could do with a cup. Are you going to be working all day?”

  “Yes, I’d better phone in and get my orders,” said Hamish.

  “But we can meet up this evening?”

  Hamish was just wondering how he could possibly get out of it when Jimmy Anderson strolled in without knocking. He looked at Hannah and demanded, “Who’s this?”

  Hamish introduced them. Jimmy’s face darkened. “A word in private with you, Hamish.”

  “Come into the office,” said Hamish. Jimmy followed him in and slammed the door.

  “Just what the hell are you playing at, Hamish?” he demanded. “Thon’s the sister of one of our suspects.”

  “She chust called round,” lied Hamish, the strengthening of his highland accent betraying how upset he was.

  “Pull the other one,” sneered Jimmy. “I was buying some whisky in Patel’s and thae Currie sisters thought fit to inform me of your romance. Now, I’ll keep it from Blair, but get rid of her and don’t go near her again until this case is closed. Get over to Cnothan and knock on doors and see if you can get anyone to talk.”

  Jimmy had expected an argument but to his surprise all Hamish replied was a meek, “Yes.”

  “I’ll be off then,” said Jimmy. “You get back in there and give the lassie her marching orders.”

  “I’ve just had a rocket about seeing you,” said Hamish to Hannah. “I’ve been told not to see you again until the case is closed.”

  Hannah looked dismayed. “But does he need to know?”

  “You can’t keep anything quiet around here,” said Hamish.

  “Except murder,” said Hannah cynically. “I could have helped you. I’m very good at judging people.” She began to tell him several very long and boring stories.

  Oh, why didn’t I listen to her last night? wondered Hamish. I was so captivated by her beauty, I barely listened to a word she said. He also wondered if this was how women felt the morning after when they realised what a mistake they had made. He felt grubby, petty, and stupid.

  He at last interrupted her by saying gently that he had to get over to Cnothan.

  “I may have a surprise for you,” said Hannah. “I’ll bet I can find that murderer for you.”

  “Don’t do anything,” said Hamish sharply. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Pooh! Nothing frightens me,” said Hannah, with the insouciance of someone who has never faced any danger before.

  She gave him a passionate kiss to which he tried his best to respond.

  Hannah did not go back to her brother’s home. Instead she drove to Braikie. She remembered what Hamish had told her about the Palfours. He had said he was sure the boy wanted to tell him something. If she could get Charles Palfour to talk to her, then that nasty detective would tell Hamish it was all right to see her. Hannah could see herself as Sergeant Macbeth’s wife. She would be written about in all the papers as a sort of Watson to Hamish’s Sherlock. Hannah was possessed of a narcissistic vanity. She had once overheard her boss saying to someone, “Our Hannah has unplumbed shallows.” Hannah had simply thought he had meant depths and had made a stupid mistake.

  She sang as she drove over the heathery hills to Braikie.

  Although the locals referred to Braikie as “the village,” thinking it sounded posher than “town,” it was a town by highland standards, although not very large.

  The appearance of a beautiful woman in Braikie, asking for the Palfours, set gossipy tongues wagging. One would say they had seen her on television, another in a Bond film. Even more imaginative were the ones who watched CSI programmes on television and swore she had come over from America because there had always been something suspicious about the Palfours.
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  So Hannah found it easy to be directed to Mrs. Mallard’s home. Mrs. Mallard was out shopping but Olivia answered the door and curtly asked Hannah what she wanted.

  “I would like to speak to your brother, Charles,” said Hannah.

  “Why?”

  “I am making enquiries on behalf of Hamish Macbeth,” said Hannah importantly.

  “Show me your warrant card,” snapped Olivia.

  Hannah gave the girl what she hoped was a winning smile. “Hamish is very busy at the moment,” she said. “He believes that Charles was anxious to talk to him.”

  “If Macbeth wants to contact my brother, then he may do so, instead of sending some tart to waste my time,” said Olivia, and slammed the door.

  Hannah sat in her car outside the house. She saw what must be Mrs. Mallard coming home but nothing of any youth that might be Charles. She was stubbornly determined to talk to him. He had to return sometime. But night descended—or the gloaming that passes for night in the Scottish Highlands in summer—and lights went on in the house.

  Her eyes began to droop and she fell asleep.

  The click of the rear door of her car opening awoke her. The next thing a heavy blow struck her on the head and knocked her unconscious.

  “Help me get her in the boot,” said Olivia.

  “We can’t do this,” wailed Charles.

  “Yes, we can. It’s your fault for being such a wimp. She’s been asking questions all around the town. We’ll take her and her car up to that peat bog and shove the whole lot in.”

  “You’re mad,” said Charles.

  “You want to spend time in prison? Come on!”

  They heaved the unconscious body into the boot of the car and slammed down the lid. Olivia settled herself in the driver’s seat with Charles beside her and drove off.

  “What if Mrs. Mallard saw us?” said Charles.

  “I drugged her cocoa. She’ll sleep all night.”

  Charles felt numb cold with fear. He knew that when this woman was reported missing, then the police would quickly learn she had been searching for him. But Olivia had threatened to kill him if he talked, and he was sure she would do it. He began to contemplate the idea of suicide.