by M C Beaton
“And,” said Hamish excitedly, “all she had to do is wait until it’s Harriet Macduff’s day off, go up there all blonded and tarted up. Harrison agrees to tell the agency she’s a friend o’ the family. Let’s go and see what Macduff has to say.”
Miss Whittaker lived in a large sandstone house with a short drive leading up to it, bordered by rhododendron bushes.
There was a large garage to one side of the house and a small Ford Escort was parked outside it.
Hamish rang the bell. The door was opened by a tall woman in nurse’s uniform. Hamish judged her to be in her fifties. She had a pleasant face and thick grey hair tied back.
“Miss Macduff?”
“Yes.”
“Police. Sergeant Hamish Macbeth and Constable Carter. We would like to ask you some questions about Gloria Dainty.”
“I barely knew the lassie. But come in. Be quiet because I’ve just got her down for her nap.”
She led the way through to a kitchen. They all sat down at the table in the centre.
“Were you surprised when you were replaced by Gloria?” asked Hamish.
“Very surprised,” she said. “Mr. Harrison and I got on just fine. When I protested, he was insulting and said he was tired of my ugly face. I was told to pack up and leave immediately. I was afraid I might have done something wrong. I tried afterwards to phone Gloria several times, but it was always answered by Juris and he always said she was busy.”
“Did you know her well?”
“No. I met her at the Christmas party. She seemed quiet, rather prim. The stuff that came out about her in the newspapers, you know, about her being blonde and beautiful amazed me.”
“Did Miss Whittaker talk about her?”
“Not much. Oh, when I first arrived, she said, ‘Don’t expect any money in my will like that last one. I told her it all goes to my niece.’”
“Did she have any gentlemen callers?” asked Charlie.
She smiled. “What an old-fashioned laddie you are. Boyfriends? Maybe. Miss Whittaker told me she didn’t want any men hanging around.”
“I wish we could speak to her,” said Hamish.
“Come back at four in the afternoon and I’ll see what I can do.”
As they were getting in the Land Rover, Hamish’s phone rang so he switched it off. “Switch off yours again as well, Charlie. It’ll be Fiona wondering what the hell we’re doing and I don’t want to be taken away from here until we find out what Miss Whittaker has to say.”
Hamish realised he was very hungry. He always seemed to be hungry these days. He had been so accustomed to Dick feeding him.
They found a café and ordered mutton pies, peas and chips, and a pot of tea.
“You were thinking,” said Hamish, “that maybe Gloria had a boyfriend who put her up to it. She didn’t have a criminal past. We never got to interview her sister, but I read the notes. Blameless background. And how would she know a sleazeball like Willie Dunne unless someone suggested him?”
“I think you’d better call the inspector,” said Charlie, “or she may descend on the nursing agency looking for us and then go straight to Miss Whittaker’s before we get a chance to talk to the old lady. If you tell her what we’ve got, she’ll go straight to Harrison and ask why he didn’t tell her about saying Gloria was a friend of the family.”
“Maybe you’re right, but thon one frightens me to death. I just hope it wasnae herself that burnt Willie to death.”
“Don’t be daft!” shouted Charlie. “She’s an angel!”
“And a married one,” said Hamish. “Oh, well, here goes.”
Charlie listened dismally to the angry squawking coming down the phone, until Hamish interrupted, saying, “You must listen, ma’am. Charlie has had this brilliant idea.”
Hamish talked rapidly and at length, finishing by telling her where they were and that they were waiting to interview Miss Whittaker. When he had finished, there was another brief squawk down the line before Hamish rang off.
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” he said. “She would ha’ ordered us back if she didnae think we were on to something.”
Fiona arrived at quarter to four and, with Hamish leading, followed them to Miss Whittaker’s. Harriet said, “Miss Whittaker said she will be pleased to talk to you. She doesn’t get many visitors. But be careful. She tires easily. She’s ninety-three.”
She led them up an oaken staircase and into a large bedroom. Miss Whittaker was seated in a chair by the window. She had dyed red hair and her old face was heavily made up. She was dressed in a long black velvet gown. Diamond rings sparkled on her thin hands, and a huge diamond-and-emerald brooch was pinned at the throat of her gown. Her faded-blue eyes were magnified by strong glasses.
Chairs had already been set up in a half circle in front of her. She waved an imperious hand for them to sit down.
Fiona switched on a tape recorder and began. “You are Miss Whittaker of number five, Tomintoul Road, and—”
“For goodness’ sakes!” snapped the old lady. “I am not a suspect and I am not under arrest. I don’t like bossy women. Let that nice young man with the hair the same colour as my own ask any questions and switch off that stupid machine!”
Fiona gave a little shrug and nodded to Hamish. “What did you make of Gloria Dainty?” asked Hamish.
“At first, she was fine. Very correct. Good at her job. Then the cracks began to appear.”
“In what way?”
“Before I fell asleep, she would hold my hand and say things like, ‘You must feel very lonely with no one but Gloria, who feels like your daughter.’ Then once, when she thought I was asleep, I saw her taking a brooch out of my jewel box and trying it on. I shouted at her and she dropped it. She blushed and said she had only been admiring it. There have been various attempts during my long life to con money out of me. Once I heard a man’s voice downstairs. I managed to drag myself to the landing and listened.
“‘It’s no use,’ she was saying. ‘We’ll need to find someone else.’
“He said, ‘I know someone. Hang on a bittie longer.’ I rang the bell and when she came up I asked her who the man was. She said he was her brother. Two days later, she gave notice.”
“She didn’t have a brother,” said Hamish. “I think she and this man were looking for someone to prey on and found out about Mr. Harrison.”
“Macbeth,” ordered Fiona, “go and question the neighbours and see if you can get a description of this man.”
“Go yourself, Miss Hoity-Toity,” said the old lady. “I like talking to this young man.”
“Oh, very well. Come along, Carter,” said Fiona. No more Charlie, noted Hamish.
When they had left, Miss Whittaker rang the bell and told Harriet to bring tea and cakes. “Tell me all about it,” she said to Hamish.
So Hamish told her about the case from the beginning, drinking tea and eating fruit cake while Fiona and Charlie waited impatiently outside.
When he had finished, she said, “So you think that Gloria and this man hoped I would take to her and leave her money in my will?”
“I think that might have been the case,” said Hamish. “I think this man employed a seedy detective to find out some rich mark in the Highlands who needed a nurse.”
“Will you come back and see me when you know more about it?” she asked.
“I certainly will. Now I had better join my boss. Before I leave, do you keep records of your phone bills?”
“I send everything to my accountant, Mr. Gerald Wither.” She rang the bell and when Harriet came in asked her to fetch the accountant’s address.
When Hamish emerged from the house, he saw Fiona and Charlie seated in the back of Fiona’s car, their heads together, talking intently. He rapped on the window. Fiona looked up and scowled, and then she and Charlie got out of the car.
“You took your time,” she said.
“I have the address of her accountant,” said Hamish. “I thought it would be a good idea to go throug
h her old phone bills. If Gloria phoned this man from the house, we might be able to find out who he is.”
“I’ll let you do that,” said Fiona. “Charlie and I will go to headquarters to see if there is any further news about Andrew’s alibi.”
She and Charlie got back into her car, her driver let in the clutch, and they drove off.
So it’s Charlie again, thought Hamish sadly. I wish she’d leave that innocent alone.
He looked at his watch. It was nearly five thirty. He got into his Land Rover and raced off, hoping to find the accountant still in his office.
Chapter Seven
He’s an Anglo-Saxon Messenger—and those are Anglo-Saxon attitudes.
—Lewis Carroll
Hamish caught Mr. Wither as the accountant was just about to leave his office. He thought that Wither was a good name for the bent little old man. Surely he must be nearly as old as Mrs. Whittaker.
He explained the reason for his visit and Mr. Wither put his grey head on one side like a bird searching for a worm. Then he said in a high, thin voice, “My! This is very exciting. Yes, I keep all the papers. Come into the office. I am afraid my secretary has left for the evening. Not that she would be much good. She has pictures of David Bowie painted on her nails and that seems to go along with lethargy and inefficiency. It’s very hard to get good help these days when all the young want is to be famous without doing any work at all to get there.”
Hamish stared in awe at the banks and banks of dusty files rising from floor to ceiling. “Don’t you computerise this lot?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he said ruefully. “I have an analog brain. But fear not. If you will just bring that ladder over.”
“If you just point to what you want,” said Hamish anxiously, “I’ll get it for you.”
“No, no. I’m quite spry.” He scuttled up the ladder and pulled out a file. “Here we are. Whittaker. Phone bills. Catch!”
He threw the file down and Hamish caught it. “Have you a copying machine?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Wither proudly. He descended the ladder and went over to a corner of the office. He removed a pile of papers and said, “There it is.”
“I’ll just copy what I think are the relevant dates,” said Hamish.
“Yes, yes, go ahead. Perhaps we might have a meal together when you are finished?”
Hamish turned round to refuse but was stopped short by the loneliness looking out of the old man’s eyes. “Aye, that would be grand,” he said.
The copying machine was so old that Hamish was relieved when it sprang into life.
After he had copies of all the bills he wanted, he switched off the machine and reluctantly followed Mr. Wither out of his office, wishing he didn’t have to waste time going for dinner.
Mr. Wither led the way to a nearby restaurant called Scottish Fayre. It was in a converted haberdasher’s. Hamish gloomily surveyed the menu. Why did they have to give everything silly descriptions? He settled for “Flora Macdonald’s Cock-a-Leekie Soup,” followed by “Over the Sea to Skye Cod and French Fries.”
Mr. Wither said he would have the same and ordered a carafe of the house wine.
“Can’t you get a decent secretary?” asked Hamish.
“I had Mrs. Richards for years and then she died. After that, I got temps from an agency. I advertise from time to time, but no one wants to work much in Strathbane. They prefer to register as unemployed and then work on the black.”
“I might be able to help you out,” said Hamish. “Mr. Patel runs the shop in Lochdubh and he’s got a nephew here on a visit, a young lad who’s a whiz wi’ computers. I could send him over and you could see how you get on. He could computerise all your files and then give you lessons.”
The old man gave a mischievous grin. “You are dragging me into the twenty-first century.”
“Doesnae hurt,” said Hamish.
Mr. Wither asked about the murders and Hamish told him all about them, and when dinner was over, he promised to return and give both Miss Whittaker and Mr. Wither the latest news.
When he got back to the police station, he phoned Mr. Patel and asked him if his nephew would be interested in working for Mr. Wither. “Jump at the chance,” said Mr. Patel. “The laddie’s bored out o’ his skull.”
Hamish then went into the office and studied the phone bills. There was a message from Fiona on his answering machine, demanding why he had not phoned to report progress. Hamish repressed a sigh. Such as the inspector would never understand Hamish’s brand of policing, which was to help members of the public whenever possible.
He then settled down to check the phone numbers for the month preceding Gloria’s murder.
He underlined five calls to a Strathbane number, picked up the phone, got through to the operator, and started the trace. He prayed the calls would not have come from a throwaway mobile. At last he was told the number belonged to an M. Hartford, 201 Bevan Mansions, in Strathbane.
Hamish was delayed from setting out by Lugs banging his food bowl on the floor and Sonsie trying to climb up him. He gave them tins of animal food and they both stared at him accusingly. “Oh, stop sulking,” he said. “I’ll get you fish-and-chips on the road home.”
He felt uneasy on the drive to Strathbane. He should really inform police headquarters. Before he reached Strathbane, he pulled over to the side of the road and called Jimmy Anderson. It took some time to fill Jimmy in, but when he had finished, Jimmy said, “I’ll meet you there. Let’s hope this is our lad.”
When Hamish drove up to Bevan Mansions, a seedy tower block down by the docks, it was to find not only Jimmy but also several police cars.
“If he looks out o’ the window and sees this lot,” complained Hamish, “he’ll scarper.”
“Stop bitching,” said Jimmy, “and let’s get on with it.”
The lift didn’t work and so they toiled up the filthy stairs. The walls were scarred with graffiti. Sounds of blaring television sets, crying children, and shouting voices assaulted their ears. “He’s got form,” said Jimmy.
“What for?”
“Drugs possession, carrying an offensive weapon, and drunk and disorderly. Malky Hartford. Lowlife.”
“Whoever designed these flats should be shot,” said Hamish, as they emerged onto the top-floor balcony. A biting wind blew discarded debris against their legs.
Jimmy knocked at Malky Hartford’s door. Nothing but silence. Then the letterbox opened and two eyes stared out at them before closing it again.
“Police!” shouted Jimmy. “Open up!”
He put his ear to the door and heard scuffling sounds from inside. He signalled to a policeman behind them with a battering ram who moved forward and crashed the door open.
“There’s a fire escape,” shouted Hamish. He and Jimmy rushed through to the open window and looked out.
“Oh, my God!” yelled Jimmy. The rusting fire escape with Malky clinging to it had detached itself from the building. In the orange glare of the sodium streetlights below, they watched appalled as the whole huge fire escape swayed back and forth like some iron monster with Malky screaming and clinging to it, then went crashing down onto the roof of a disused warehouse opposite.
“No use rushing down,” said Hamish. “There won’t be much of him left.” He could make out the crushed body of Malky under twisted pieces of rusty iron.
“I’ll bag up that computer,” said Jimmy. “And his mobile. I’ll get the pathologist and the procurator out o’ bed. We’ll go back to the station and see if there’s anything on the computer.”
“Silly sod hasn’t even encrypted the thing,” said Jimmy at headquarters. “Let’s get into his e-mail and see if we can find anything. By God! E-mails to none other than Gloria. Listen to this one, Hamish. ‘I need a cut when you marry the old bugger. I paid Willie to find out the best mark. Didn’t I tell you what to wear and how to get at him? Meet me down at the gates on Sunday…’ We’ve got our man, Hamish. The e-mail is d
ated for the night o’ her murder.”
“What else?”
“‘If you don’t show, I’ll let the polis know you was pinching drugs and flogging them through me.’”
“Go back to the earlier ones,” said Hamish. “No, go to the in-box. Look, there’s some from Gloria.”
Jimmy read out: “‘I paid you in drugs, Malky, so consider yourself paid off and get out of my life. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m heading for the big time and I don’t want you round my neck. Remember, I’ve got the goods on you and can shop you anytime I feel like it.’”
“No, she couldn’t,” said Hamish. “Not without Malky telling us about her.”
“I ’member, Malky was pretty thick. He wouldnae think o’ that.”
“I wonder if she had a fling with him?”
“Could have,” said Jimmy. “He was a good-looking fellow. Curly black hair and big blue eyes.”
“If he’s got family around,” said Hamish, “they’ll be able to afford a grand funeral after they sue the council over that fire escape.” He sighed wearily. “Let’s print it all off. Check the mobile for texts and I’ll let the inspector and Daviot know in the morning.”
“I’ll let them know, laddie,” said Jimmy. “I’m your senior officer.”
Hamish gave him a hurt look. “I’ll give you credit,” said Jimmy. “Honest.”
“Then do the report yourself!” said Hamish furiously.
“No, no. Calm down. Start typing and explain what put you on to Malky.”
A glaring red dawn was turning the frost on the heather to rubies as Hamish wearily drove back to Lochdubh. He let himself into the police station. Too tired to make breakfast, he went into his bedroom where his pets lay sleeping in his bed, tore off his uniform, crawled in beside them, and immediately fell asleep, down and down into a nightmare where Malky clung screaming to the disintegrating fire escape.
