Death of a Nag hm-11

by M C Beaton

  “Next door.”

  Muttering apologies, Hamish took his leave, sheepishly noticing as he reached the gate a little sign which advertised ‘Bed & Breakfast’ in curly script set by the gatepost.

  The house next door did not look at all like a brothel from his limited experience. It had a trim, prosperous middle–class air. A new BMW was parked in the short gravelled drive at the side of the house.

  He rang the bell, which played a cheerful rendition of ‘Scotland the Brave’. This time the door was opened by a woman in a dressing-gown. She had a thin face, large teeth and prominent eyes. “Oh, come ben,” she said cheerfully. “You’re early in the day.”

  “It’s the afternoon,” said Hamish.

  “Aye, well, we’re used to folk coming in the evening. What’s your pleasure?”

  She led the way into a front room. In contrast to next door, it looked more like a family living room. Someone had left some knitting abandoned on an armchair and the television was on. There was a small coal fire burning briskly in the grate. The sofa and chair were covered in flowered chintz.

  “I am from the police,” said Hamish.

  “Oh, aye, whit dae you want now? Another subscription to the Police Widows’ and Orphans’ Fund?”

  Skating round this possible evidence of police corruption, Hamish said, “I hope I haff the right place. Is this a brothel?”

  “You’re blunt.”

  “I made the mistake of going next door first.”

  She burst out laughing. “That must ha’ got the old biddy’s knickers in a twist. I can tell you her gentlemen boarders, as she ca’s them, drink mair than any o’ the lot that come here. What dae ye want?”

  “The man, Bob Harris, him that wass killed. Did he come here?”

  “He came a couple o’ times.”

  “Who did he see?”

  “Mandy, both times.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “Sure. But I doubt if she can tell you anything. It was a couple o’ quickies, cheapest rate. I’ll get her.”

  Hamish waited. A low voice from the television informed him quietly of the mating habits of tigers.

  After some time the door opened again and Mrs Simpson ushered in a pallid girl wrapped in a housecoat. Hamish did not belong to that sentimental class of men who consider that tarts have hearts. He had, during his police career, found them lazy, fidgety, nervous and cheeky.

  “Here’s Mandy,” said Mrs Simpson, pushing her forward. “Don’t take all day. She needs her beauty sleep.”

  Mandy picked at a spot on the end of her long nose and then pushed her lank hair out of her eyes. Hamish reflected nastily that even if Mandy slept a hundred years, she would still wake up plain and grubby.

  They sat down on the sofa. “Now, Mandy,” began Hamish, “I believe the dead man, Bob Harris, was one of your clients.”

  “Oh, him. I usually cannae tell one from the ither. But I saw his picture in the newspapers.”

  “I feel if I knew a bit more about his character, then it might help me to find out who killed him.”

  “Och, it waud be the wifie.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  “He’d drunk a lot and he was suffering frae distiller’s droop. Couldnae get it up. Said his wife had mint him. Said she hated him. He said he’d be back but it was jist the same the next time. He smacked me around a bit, he was that mad. I rang the bell. We hae a bell in our rooms in case the clients get nasty and Mrs Simpson came running in and ordert him oot.”

  “You must hear a lot of gossip from your clients. Has anyone mentioned seeing Bob Harris on the day he was murdered?”

  “Aye.”

  “What did he say? Who wass he?” Hamish leaned forward.

  “It was that man from the boarding-house.”

  “What? Next door?”

  “Naw. The one where Harris was staying. Rogers. That’s his name. Harry Rogers.”

  ∨ Death of a Nag ∧

  6

  The whole world is in a state of chassis.

  —Scan O’Casey

  Hamish headed back along the beach in the direction of the boarding-house, loping his way through the long snakes of blowing white sand. He cut across the dunes towards the boarding-house and saw in the distance Rogers getting into his blue van. He ran even faster, shouting as he went, but the wind whipped his words away and he saw the van turn out on to the road towards Dungarton. Cursing because he hadn’t a car and Miss Gunnery was probably still in Skag, he walked into the hall and found Maggie Donald standing there.

  “Quick!” said Hamish. “Have you got your car?”

  “Yes, round the back, but – ”

  “Come on. We’ve got to get Rogers.”

  They ran but and got into Maggie’s car. “Where to?” she asked.

  “The road to Dungarton. He’s driving his blue van.”

  They sped off. “What’s it all about?” asked Maggie, swinging neatly round a tractor.

  “I went to the brothel.”

  “Why on earth…?”

  “Rogers was a customer. And he said something to one of the girls about seeing Harris on the day he was murdered. Was there anything about that in his statement?”

  “Not a word.”

  “So let’s catch Rogers and find out what he was doing.”

  Maggie concentrated on her driving and they were rewarded on the outskirts of Dungarton by seeing the blue van in front of them. “Should I flag him down?” asked Maggie.

  “No,” said Hamish. “I’ve a better idea. Follow him but don’t let him see you. I want to see where he goes.”

  Maggie let a car pass her so she was shielded from Rogers’s view.

  The blue van, travelling at a sedate pace, went through the centre of the town and then turned off into a leafy suburb on the far side where large Victorian villas stood on either side of the road. Once elegant private residences, they were now small hotels and retirement homes.

  “He’s stopping at that old folks’ home,” said Maggie. Rogers had driven up the short drive of a villa which had a board outside it stating that it was the Sunny Times Retirement Home.

  “Stop here,” ordered Hamish, “and wait for me.”

  Hamish slid out of the car. He went into the garden and peered round a laurel bush. Rogers was going to the kitchen door at the side of the villa.

  As Hamish watched, a man in a greasy apron came out. Rogers handed him some notes. The man nodded and went back in. Rogers opened the back of the van. Soon the man appeared and together the pair began loading cartons into the back of the van.

  Hamish strolled up. Rogers saw him coming. He slammed the back doors of the van shut and made quickly for the cab. “No, you don’t,” said Hamish. “We’ll chust be taking a wee look at whit’s inside.”

  “You need a search warrant,” shouted Rogers, his high colour even higher with rage.

  “No, I don’t,” said Hamish. He went to the back of the van and opened the doors and pulled one of the cartons forward. It contained a side of beef which smelt slightly high. He peered in the other boxes, which were full of assorted groceries. So this, then, was the reason for the horrible food at the boarding-house. Rogers was buying the rejects from an old folks’ home in Dungarton.

  Hamish shouted for Maggie and when she came up to him, he briefly outlined what he had found. “Get that one out o’ the kitchen,” he said, “and we’ll take them both in.”

  Protesting loudly that it was all above-board and innocent, Rogers and the man from the kitchen were marched round and into the front door of the retirement home, where Hamish demanded to see whoever was in charge. A tired-looking man in a crumpled suit ushered them all into an office off the hall. He introduced himself as a Mr Dougald and said the home was run by a charity, Aid for the Senior Citizen.

  “So what’s Jamie been up to?” he asked wearily.

  “Is this Jamie?” asked Hamish, nodding in the direction of the man from the kitchen.

 
“Aye, Jamie Sinclair.”

  “He’s been selling your stores to Mr Rogers here. Mr Rogers owns a boarding-house in Skag. He’s been selling off meat which is well past its sell-by date. I hope it’s old stores and you arenae giving the residents meat like that.”

  “No, we are not. We get our supplies from reputable shops in Dungarton. This is what comes of employing ex-cons. I told the charity I didn’t want Sinclair, but they said everyone needed a break.”

  “What’s Sinclair’s form?”

  “Fraud, petty larceny, shop-lifting, handbag snatching, you name it.”

  Hamish settled down to question the now thoroughly cowed Sinclair. The housekeeper regularly checked the supplies in the fridges and freezers, and so the stuff he had collected for Rogers lay in a cupboard in the kitchen until the boarding-house owner came to collect it. Hamish charged Sinclair and Rogers with conspiracy to defraud the retirement home, told Maggie to take Sinclair out to the car, but curtly ordered Rogers to stay where he was. He turned to Mr Dougald. “Can I use your office for a minute? I want to ask Mr Rogers a few questions before I take him to the station.”

  “Go ahead. This is a bad business. But it’ll teach all those do-gooders on the board to send me someone decent next time.”

  When they had all gone out, Hamish faced a truculent Rogers. “Now, the police at Skag will handle the charge, but I’m more interested in something else. You saw Harris on the day he was murdered.”

  Rogers stared at him mulishly. “I did not. Who says I did?”

  “Some tart called Mandy at that brothel.”

  Rogers, who had been standing, rocking on his heels, sat down suddenly, as if his legs had given way. “No comment,” he mumbled.

  “Och, well, maybe Mrs Rogers will have a few comments.”

  “You wouldnae!”

  “Try me.”

  Rogers twisted his large beefy hands, one in the other, as if wringing an imaginary person’s neck.

  “All right,” he said after a silence. “I saw him heading for the jetty. He was stopped by Dermott Brett, who was shouting at him. I couldnae hear the words.”

  “When was this?”

  “Around three.”

  Hamish looked at him sharply. “And why didn’t Mr Brett tell the police this?”

  Rogers stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

  “And why didn’t you?”

  Rogers stared at his feet.

  “All right. Out to the car wi’ you.”

  Hamish left Maggie to explain the arrest of Sinclair and Rogers to Deacon. He borrowed Maggie’s car and drove to the boarding-house. He wanted to question Dermott himself before the police came for him.

  It was late afternoon but the wind had died and the sun was shining brightly. He saw ahead of him Dermott, June and the children on the beach. Dermott was helping the children build a sand castle and June was laughing at their efforts. They looked a carefree family party. He went up to them and said to Dermott quietly, “Walk away with me a little. I haff to talk to you afore the police arrive.”

  Dermott put down the bucket-full of sand he had been holding and got slowly to his feet. He and Hamish walked away down the beach together beside the glittering waves of the incoming tide. Hamish glanced back. June was staring after them, her face pinched and anxious.

  “I arrested Rogers,” began Hamish.

  “Why?” A look of wild hope came into Dermott’s eyes.

  “Because of the rotten food. He’d been buying the leftovers from an old folks’ home in Dungarton. But that’s not why I want to talk to you. Rogers saw you arguing with Harris around the time of the murder.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “So out with it. Why didn’t you say so in your statement?”

  “I was worried. It would look bad for me. I panicked. I was trying to keep my name out of the papers. I thought if I told them, then a report would go out saying I was being detained to help the police with their inquiries and then my wife would have found out. As it was – you heard?” Hamish nodded. “As it was, she found out anyway. She had always threatened to kill herself if I left her. And then she arrives, spitting venom. She’d read all about June and me being Mr and Mrs Brett in the papers, and she said she was going to divorce me. Just like that! All those years of covering up need never have happened!” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I thought I was out of the wood. But…”

  Hamish said quietly, “But Rogers was blackmailing you.”

  “Did he say so?”

  Hamish shook his head. “He was blackmailing you over having been in Skag, over having had a row with Harris before he was murdered.”

  “He wasn’t asking much,” mumbled Dermott, hanging his head. “Just a couple of hundred. I thought I’d keep him quiet until this was over. Now it looks worse for me.”

  “How did you pay Rogers?”

  “I didn’t. I was going to pay him today.”

  Hamish groaned. “I wish you’d given him a cheque. There’d be some proof then. It’s his word against yours. Did you murder Harris?”

  “I wanted to, but I didn’t. He was hinting as how he’d let my wife know about me and June. I panicked. I followed him into Skag and threatened to punch him if he said anything. Rogers saw us. The minute he had the news of Harris’s murder, he said he would tell the police I had been arguing with Harris. As I said, I panicked and promised to pay him.”

  Hamish looked sadly across the beach. Two policemen were heading towards them.

  “They’ve come for you,” he said. “Take my advice and tell them everything. You’ve no proof o’ blackmail, but now they know Rogers has been lying and cheating, they’ll be inclined to believe you.”

  Dermott walked off with the policemen. Hamish went up to June and, taking her a little away from the children, told her what had happened. “We were mad to come back here,” said June bitterly. “It was different last year. The food was good and the weather was perfect and the children loved it. What happens now?”

  “Provided Dermott tells them the truth and they believe him, he’ll probably be back this evening. But you must tell the truth as well, June. Where were you?”

  “I was where I said I was, on the beach with the children. The only difference was Dermott wasn’t here. He said he’d thought Harris had gone into Skag and he was going to shut his mouth.” High colour flared in her face. “All he meant,” she added quickly, “was that he was going to threaten to punch him.”

  “Try to keep the children happy,” said Hamish. “Little Heather’s looking a bit strained.”

  “She’ll be all right,” said June. “This is getting us all down. Who did it, Hamish?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Damn whoever it is to hell,” said June savagely. “I hated Harris, but this murder is causing such worry and misery, I wish the man was still alive.”

  “It’s about tea-time. I wonder if there’ll be any.” Hamish looked at his watch. June called the children. Hamish swung the youngest up on to his shoulders and together they all set off in the direction of the boarding-house, their shadows stretching out in front of them, long and pencil-thin. There was a faint hint of coldness in the air, reminding Hamish that any Scottish summer was of short duration and frost could set in before the end of August.

  At the boarding-house, June took the children upstairs to change them.

  Hamish went into the lounge. Miss Gunnery was sitting watching the news on television. She switched the set off. “When are we going for dinner?”

  Hamish had forgotten about his invitation to her but he rallied quickly. “Oh, in about an hour. Have an early dinner. I feel tired.”

  She stood up. “In that case, I’ll go upstairs and rest for a little before I change.”

  Hamish walked to the window and looked out. He wanted to go to bed and sleep and forget about the whole thing. And yet he did not want to go up to his room, knowing that he would still expect Towser to run to meet him. The door opened and Doris and Andrew
came in. They stopped short at the sight of him, looking wary. Then Andrew said, “Are you coming into the dining room, Hamish?”

  “No, I’m taking Miss Gunnery out. I don’t know if there’ll be any food tonight.” He told them about Rogers, ending up with, “Dermott was a silly man to lie. It never does any good. While we’re on the subject of lying, Doris, you said you walked away from the boarding-house in the opposite direction to Skag, but I myself saw you going in the direction of the village.”

  “That’s simple,” said Doris. “I changed my mind and turned back, not along the beach-but by the road, and then round the back of the house and down to the beach that way. Heather saw me.”

  “Well, you’d better tell the police that. Where were you, Andrew?”

  “I told you, Hamish. I went into Skag, hoping to find Doris, but didn’t.”

  Hamish looked at them uneasily. He was sure Doris had just told him an elaborate lie, and as for Andrew, he could easily have bumped into Harris. Skag was a small place.

  “You know,” he said, rubbing his hands through his fiery hair in distress, “I seem to keep saying this. It is no good lying to the police. They always find out one way or the other.”

  “You mean even a fool like Deacon?” asked Andrew.

  “Particularly a fool like Deacon. I have met the type many times. They are slow, tenacious and thorough. They can scent a lie, and when they are on the scent, they keep on questioning and questioning and digging and digging.”

  “They can’t keep us here forever,” whispered Doris.

  “They can keep after you for the rest of your life. Whoever murdered your husband must be found, Doris. Don’t you want to know?”

  She flashed an odd little look at Andrew and said, “I don’t know.”

  She thinks he did it, thought Hamish with a sinking heart. I’m sure of it. But if she thinks he did it, she can’t have murdered her husband herself. Unless she’s Andrew’s Lady Macbeth and spurred him on to it.

  It had been a long day. He felt suddenly weary. He nodded curtly to them and left abruptly and went up to change, reflecting as he rummaged for clean underwear that he would need to take a pile of dirty clothes to the laundromat in Skag, if it had one, the next day.