Does Your Mother Know?

by Maureen Jennings

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  He looked as if he wanted to say more, but his guests were obviously in need of coffee. He left me to my breakfast. I started with the eggs, fresh, and then the tomatoes, soggy. If I ate one of these breakfasts every day, I’d soon have to be identified as “Big Chris.” I was trying to get up my nerve to tackle the sausage when Gillies came in. He, too, was shiny of chin, and emanated a pleasant soapy smell and perky energy.

  He grinned and walked over to me. “I came early. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. You’ve saved me from this bloody sausage that Colin is determined I eat. Have a seat.” I pushed my plate over towards him. “Here. I didn’t touch it.”

  “I actually ate already, but I’d never say no to blood sausages. They’re made in town.”

  He took a piece of toast that was going cold and hard in the silver rack provided for that express purpose. I waited for a moment.

  “Gill, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to go to Sarah MacDonald’s office. You know how it is, find out about the victim and you sometimes find out about the bad guy.”

  I was using criminal jargon again, but I couldn’t help it.

  He hesitated, then chomped down on the crisp toast. “I don’t see why not, if it’ll set your mind at rest. The office is just down from here.”

  Colin came out of the kitchen, greeted Gillies, commented on the sausage swap, then did a quick refill of everybody’s coffee cup.

  “Enjoy the Stones,” he called as we left. “Callanish, not Rolling.”

  The Lewis Estate Agency where Sarah MacDonald had worked was a plain, square building with a dull façade of rat-grey brick. A rectangular display window held a few photographs of properties for sale. I had a quick glance before we went in, but didn’t see the MacAulay cottage listed.

  A bell like the kind you hear in an old-fashioned grocery store signalled our entrance. The office was long and narrow, with half a dozen movable partitions marking each agent’s space. A mature woman was at the front desk. She was immaculately made up, with flaring red cheeks and clotted eyelashes. Her ash-blonde hair was teased into a stiff, high beehive that I had seen only in photos from the 1960s. When she saw Gillies, she yelped with excitement.

  “Gill, rumour has it that Prince Willie is paying us a visit. Is it true?”

  He dodged the question. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Morag Murray was down on the beach scraping crotal off the rocks. You know, for her dyes. A man appeared out of nowhere and asked for directions to the Blackhouse Village. Gave her quite a start, but she knew at once he was a secret-service man from the way he was acting. Ever so polite, but his eyes never stopped moving. He didn’t want directions, he just wanted to know what she was doing. So are we right?”

  “You know I couldn’t tell you that. National security is involved.”

  The receptionist gave a little squeal. “So it is true. My grand-daughter’s mad for that lad. She’ll be over the moon. When’s he coming?”

  “Janice, I didn’t confirm that.”

  She flapped her hand at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention you. Morag can winkle it out of Rosie anyway.” She reached for her phone, thought better of it, and regrouped into her professional manner.

  “What can I do for you then?” She looked pointedly at me, and Gillies responded.

  “Oh, sorry. Janice MacIver, Detective-Sergeant Christine Morris. She’s visiting from Canada.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  Janice wasn’t a Scot, more Yorkshire.

  “I’m just following up on the accident involving Sarah MacDonald,” continued Gillies.

  “My soul, what a shock that was. I was the one who got the call. I’m not usually in on Saturdays, but Andrea was off sick. Young Barry Irwin, the constable from Barvas, rang. He said Sarah was dead of a car accident. Well, right off I thought that was peculiar, because her car was in the parking lot. I noticed it because she’d taken Mark Faraday’s spot, and I knew he’d hit the roof when he came in. I expected to see her in the office, but she wasn’t here, and I just thought she’d gone out to get a coffee or something. I never in a million years thought I’d be hearing that she was dead.” Janice paused to get her breath and pay a brief tribute to the departed. “Well, then young Barry said as how the car in the accident was a red Vauxhall, which was hired out by Arnol motors to a woman from Canada. Well, I knew right away who that was, and I told him. She’d come in here early Friday evening looking for Sarah. I told him as how I saw them later on, going into Duke’s. I’d popped into the co-op to get some chops for dinner, and I saw them as I was coming out. Everybody’s saying it was her driving the car and she’s run off. Or drowned herself. Have you found her?”

  “No, we haven’t. We’re just sort of backtracking Sarah’s movements to see if we come up with anything helpful.”

  Both Gillies and I were perched on the edge of nearby desks at this point. We knew a garrulous witness when we found one. Let them ramble on, sift out the nuggets from the dust.

  Janice smoothed back her hair, shifting it wholesale in the process. “Well, that woman came in here on Friday afternoon without a doubt. She was a blonde, rather plump, about my age. Not a local. At first I thought she was from America, but she said no, she was a Canadian.”

  “Did she give a name?” he asked.

  “No. I inquired, of course, but she just said, ‘She doesn’t know me.’ She asked for Sarah particularly. I’m supposed to direct any clients to the agent on duty, but she wasn’t interested. I had to call Sarah on her mobile phone and tell her to get over here.”

  “Did Mrs. MacDonald seem to know the woman?” I said, making my tone as casual as possible.

  “I can’t say. I was just packing up, you see. I leave on the dot of five. If I didn’t, these agents would have me run ragged. I told the woman to have a seat and left.”

  “So you don’t know why she was asking for Mrs. MacDonald?”

  “I assume she was in the market for a property, but she didn’t want to chat, I could tell that.”

  Janice reached in the drawer on her desk and took out a bundle of plastic-wrapped sheets of paper.

  “I collect these myself, and I give them to clients to read while they wait. Makes them laugh.”

  I looked at the top sheet, which was a series of jokes headed, “CHILDREN SAY THE FUNNIEST THINGS.”

  “She just put them aside without even looking at them,” said Janice. She was so indignant that for a moment I thought I’d better start reading, but I was saved by the sound of the door tinkling. A short, wide man came in. He saw Gillies and nodded a greeting.

  “Madainn mhath, Gill. Ciamar tha thu?”

  “Good morning, Mark. I’m good, thanks.”

  Mark beamed at me and stuck out his hand. He was dressed in brown pants and a tweed blazer that had probably been made locally years ago and, from the look of it, passed down from his ancestors. We shook hands.

  “Mark Faraday, at your service. Looking ta buy a property are ye?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  His smile vanished. No point in wasting it on non-prospects. He turned and addressed the receptionist in Gaelic. She replied in English.

  “Your wife has rung twice already and says to phone the lawyer as soon as you get in. Coral-Lyn Pitchers rang half an hour ago. She wants you to get back to her right away. She left the number.”

  He took the slips of paper she handed him, grunted, crumpled one of them up, and dropped it in a nearby wastebasket. He went into one of the partitioned cubicles at the back of the room.

  “He’s going through a separation,” said Janice in a conspiratorial voice, although I thought Faraday might be able to hear her. She tapped the side of her head. “It’s shaking off a few slates if you ask me. So where were we?”

  “I asked if Mrs. MacDonald had seemed to know her visitor, and you said you didn’t see them greet each other.”
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br />   “That’s right. I wasn’t present. I have to leave on... ”

  I’d been aware of Faraday talking in the background, but suddenly there was the sound of a receiver slamming down.

  “Fuck! Fucking little sanctimonious bitch!”

  Janice froze, and Gillies and I both turned to see what was happening. Faraday came hurtling down to the reception desk.

  “Janice, did you know Tormod MacAulay dropped his clogs?”

  “What?’

  “He’s dead. Gone.”

  She looked shocked. “When did that happen?”

  “He was found in the house, yesterday. Now Miss Yankee Twinkle-toes says she doesn’t want to go ahead with the sale of the property.” He mimicked Coral-Lyn’s nasal voice with a savage accuracy. “Andy’s too upset to go through that now. We’ve put everything on hold until the will is settled.” Bullshit. Fucking bull-shit. Lucille’s got to her, you mark my words. As soon as the dust settles, she’ll get that fucking listing.”

  Foolishly, Janice decided to take this moment to reprimand him. “I’ve asked you to watch your language in here. This isn’t Glasgow. A client could come in.”

  Obviously, Janice considered Gillies’s and my ears sufficiently hardened to swearing. I didn’t exactly sympathize with Faraday, but Janice’s self-righteous tone of voice and prim manner were the last thing he needed. She might as well have thrust a stick into a hornet’s nest and waggled it around. I was almost afraid Faraday would grab her, and instinctively, I moved closer to the desk I noticed Gillies shifted too.

  Faraday’s face had turned red with rage. “I’ll speak how the fuck I want. It’s my deal we’re talking about. Do you hear? It’s my fucking deal that’s in the fucking toilet.”

  Vocabulary has a tendency to become limited in moments of stress.

  “Fuck it.”

  He shoved open the door and left. The air in the office swayed in his wake.

  “I told you he was unstable,” said Janice, but she looked shaken by the violence of the outburst. She reached in her drawer and took out a box of tissues. “Poor Tormod. Just when life was looking up for him.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Janice didn’t elaborate on her remark, and Gillies moved on and told her what we knew about MacAulay’s death, omitting what the MacLeans had reported, although I thought she’d hear about that soon enough.

  “Poor Andy. He was devoted to his granddad. And Lisa will take it hard too. Tormod was very fond of her, and she did look after him.”

  There was the slightest of emphasis on the “look after.” Colin MacLeod was correct in his assessment of public opinion about his sister-in-law.

  The telephone rang, and Janice answered it with a bright voice in spite of her upset.

  “Good morning, Lewis Estate Agency. Yes, Lucille?… No, he’s not here. I suggest you try the hotel.....Yes, he is.... The MacAulay deal is on hold.... Yes, I just heard myself. Shocking isn’t it?... Yes, Coral-Lyn rang him.... Yes, that’s putting it mildly.… All right. I’ll pass on the message.”

  She hung up. “That was Mark’s wife. She laughed when I said he’d lost the deal.” Janice shook her head. “I don’t understand how married people can get to hate each other so much.”

  Gillies said, “Do you think we could talk a bit more about Sarah MacDonald? Are you up to it?”

  “Oh yes. I’m all right. Your news was a shock is all.”

  She tucked the tissue up the cuff of her sleeve. Her heavy eye-liner had smudged, giving her “racoon eyes,” but she was a woman ready to wreak vengeance.

  “Sarah and Mark didn’t get along at all. In fact, to be blunt, I’d say they hated each other. With all the uncertainties in the world, this is a very competitive business, as you can imagine. Those two undercut each other at the slightest opportunity.” She averted her eyes, as people often do when they’re about to say something they feel guilty about. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Sarah MacDonald was her own worst enemy. She could have been good, but she messed things up. Missed appointments, things like that.” A pause, another touch-up to the unruffled hair. “Too fond of her water of life: whisky,” she added for my benefit.

  “Did they clash over the Tormod MacAulay estate?” asked Gillies.

  Janice smiled. “Yes and no. Mark got the listing originally, although for some reason Sarah thought she deserved it. She’d been engaged to Tormod’s son many years ago, and it fell through, but she must have thought she was still in the family. Mark’s had a few lean months since his wife dumped him. They were partners, and she compensated for his lack of polish, if I may put it that way. Now nobody wants to work with him. I was astonished when Tormod MacAulay gave him the listing on the property. To tell you the truth, I think he didn’t know that Lucille was no longer in the picture. She was chummy with Coral-Lyn Pitchers. They go to the same church.” She grinned, not able to suppress the touch of malice. “However, it’s my belief that Sarah gazumped him.”

  I glanced over at Gillies for clarification.

  “According to Scottish law, a real-estate negotiation isn’t complete until what’s called ‘the concluding missives’ are signed. In between the time of exchange of letters and so on, the buyer can be gazumped. That means that, if the seller receives a better offer, he can accept it without legal consequences. Did I get it right, Janice?”

  “You did. Mind you, legal consequences or not, you make yourself very unpopular if you do that. But last Monday, Sarah came into the office like a cat who had an eye on a particularly fat canary. She didn’t tell me what that bird was, but she dropped enough hints that I guessed.”

  “Did you write anything up for her?” I asked.

  “No. That was why I suspected she was pulling a gazump. She usually got her pound of flesh out of me, but this day she said she’d type the offer herself. She had a long-distance call, which she took in the closing room, not at her desk. I had the impression she was working with a Norwegian group, and they always shell out big money.”

  “Let me get this straight then. Tormod MacAulay had already agreed to an offer to buy his property from Miss Pitchers’s father, but he was quite within his legal rights to accept a better offer if one came along before what you called ‘the concluding missives.’ And you think Mrs. MacDonald brought such an offer?”

  “That’s correct. I’m positive she took it over to Tormod on Monday evening last. And, you should know, they had no legal obligation to inform Miss Pitchers that he’d changed his mind. She was in for a big shock. The deal was to close as of tomorrow. Anyway, that’s all water under the bridge now. None of the offers can go through until the estate is settled. Mark was assuming Andy MacAulay would go ahead and sell as planned, with him as agent, but Andy’s fiancée has other ideas, I gather.”

  Janice dabbed at the corner of her mouth and checked the tissue to see if she had lipstick on it.

  “I think I need a little repairing.” She stood up. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “Do you mind if we have a look at Sarah’s desk?”

  “Doesn’t bother me. She had the one on the right, just in front of Mark’s.”

  Purse in hand, Janice sailed off to the washroom.

  “Let’s go,” said Gillies, and we walked down to the cubicle that had belonged to Sarah.

  The surface of her desk was tidy, with two trays marked, respectively, IN and OUT. The OUT tray was empty and IN had only a couple of sheets of paper in it which proved to be advertisements for properties listed by other agents. There was one framed photograph of a girl about seven or eight. I had the impression it had been taken a long time ago.

  “Where’s the daughter now?” I asked Gillies.

  “She’s married. She lives in the Midlands somewhere.”

  That was it for any clues as to Sarah’s personality or current business affairs. Gillies opened the drawer, but there was nothing in it except typical office detritus, paper clips, a couple of pens, and a crumpled chocolate-bar wrapper.
r />   “Was there a briefcase registered among Sarah’s effects? I asked him.

  “Not that I recall. She had a handbag, which was still in the car, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t find a briefcase.”

  I pointed to Mark Faraday’s cubicle, where a snazzy black-leather briefcase was leaning against the desk. “It’s an agent’s essential equipment. The badge of office. They all have them.”

  “Maybe it’s in her flat.”

  “Joan came to see her in the office, not at home, which could suggest business. It sounds as if Sarah wasn’t expecting her, but surely if you’re an agent you come prepared to deal with clients.”

  “With briefcase and forms.”

  “Precisely.”

  “When we get back to the station, I’ll look into it.”

  I grimaced at him. “You think I’m spinning cobwebs, don’t you? That I’m finding a gunman behind every rock.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know if you are or not. It’s frustrating not having much solid information.”

  “At least the gazumping thing gives us a possible explanation for Tormod MacAulay’s sudden trip to Houston. If I’d accepted a better offer over my grandson’s prospective father-in-law’s, I’d get out of town, too.”

  Janice emerged from the washroom, tidied up and blooded for the battle.

  “We’re off then, Janice. Thanks for your help. By the way, do you know if Sarah usually carried a briefcase with her?”

  Janice eased herself into the chair and carefully put her telephone wire over her head. “She always did. She had a new one. Snakeskin or some such silly thing. Garish, I thought, not really professional.”

  This from a woman whose cheeks and lips were as scarlet as any clown’s.

  I thought I’d been the only one to register Janice’s remark about Tormod, but bless him, Gillies had too, and he went back to it.

  “Why did you say things were looking up for Tormod?”

  “Well he seemed so much better. I met him in the co-op, must have been on the Tuesday, and he was bright as a pin. He used the words himself about life looking up. Such a shame it wasn’t true. The calm before the storm I suppose. I’ve heard that people often perk up right before they die.”