Death of a Nag

by M C Beaton

  "You should get some skills," said Miss Gunnery. "Get yourself a decent job. Goodness, there are so many courses available these days. Talk to your social worker about getting a course in word processing and shorthand. Get a good job, get some digs in a good part of town. There's an awful lot you can do if you just have the courage. And it takes courage, Tracey. It takes a lot of guts, more guts than it ever takes to shoplift or get drunk. Your clothes and make-up, for example, mark you down as a vulgar tart."

  "Watch yet mouth!"

  "I am giving you some straight talking. I feel there is strength and goodness in you, Tracey, that has never been tapped. You could put this horrible experience up here to good effect. You could look back on it as a watershed in your life, the day your life changed. No, don't protest. Think about it."

  Mrs. Aston was waiting for them. "Coffee in the lounge," she announced.

  "That women is a treasure," said Andrew as they gathered in the lounge minus June and the children, who had gone upstairs. "I bet it isn't instant coffee either."

  The coffee was excellent. By a sort of silent agreement, no one talked about the murders, but when Hamish finally went to bed, he reminded himself severely that he was a policeman.

  The next morning, Tracey was missing at breakfast. Crick, the policeman on duty, told them that Cheryl had been moved to the women's prison in Dungarton on remand and that Tracey had gone to visit her. Miss Gunnery heaved a sigh and said half to herself, "Why did I even bother trying?"

  Tracey had walked into Skag and caught the bus to Dungarton after having picked up a visitor's pass at the police station. Her hair was brushed down in a simple style and she was not wearing any make-up. She had put on a plain T-shirt, short skirt, and low-heeled shoes.

  The prison was a modern one, with bullet-proof glass separating visitor from prisoner. There was a small grille to allow speech. "How's it goin', hen?" asked Tracey.

  "No' bad," said Cheryl with a shrug. "You're lookin' a bit plain. What hiv you done tae your hair?"

  "Nothin' much," muttered Tracey.

  "Shouldnae let all this get to ye," said Cheryl, whose hair was gelled into spikes.

  "Cheryl," ventured Tracey, "I'm sick o' all this. I'm thinking of gettin' a career."

  Cheryl cackled with derisive laughter. "Go on, you bampot. They cannae keep me in here fur all that long and then we'll hae a few laughs."

  "I don't want any more laughs," said Tracey. "I've had a fright. I want to be respectable."

  Cheryl's eyes narrowed. She could not bear to see this friend and ally slipping away. "I've a secret to tell ye. Lean forward."

  Tracey leaned towards the glass. "I killt them," said Cheryl. "Both of them."

  "Why?" mouthed Tracey silently.

  "For kicks."

  Tracey got to her feet and stumbled out, her hands to her mouth. Cheryl glared after her in disbelief. There was no impressing some people.

  Hamish, calling back at the boarding-house later that day after a lengthy discussion about the case with Deacon, wondered what had happened. Everyone was showing marks of strain. Tracey was a shadow of her former flamboyant self. She clung to Miss Gunnery, and Hamish wondered why such a hard piece like Tracey should suddenly decide to befriend the retired schoolteacher. But when he took Miss Gunnery aside and asked her, Miss Gunnery said that Tracey was very young and quite shaken by the murders and good might come of it. It was possible to reform anyone. Hamish looked cynical. He was sure that once Tracey was back in Glasgow with her family and friends, all thoughts of reform would go out of her head.

  He returned to the police station to spend the rest of the day sifting through the statements and studying all the forensic evidence. Somewhere amongst all this pile of paper was surely a clue to the identity of the murderer. Doris and Andrew both had motives, as had June and Dermott. At last he gave up and drove into Dungarton and bought Miss Gunnery a tartan travelling-rug to replace the one in which he had buried Towser.

  He gave the rug to Miss Gunnery and suggested they have dinner out that evening. Hamish was becoming worried about his dwindling finances. He felt cheated of a holiday he had initially planned to go on somewhere later in the year, but the trip south and all the other expenses had eaten into his reserves.

  To his surprise, Miss Gunnery said firmly that she would pay for dinner, provided they took Tracey along with them. Hamish did not want to have any part in the reformation of young Tracey, considering her a lost cause, but felt it would be uncharitable to say so.

  Like quite a lot of small Scottish towns, Dungarton boasted a Chinese restaurant in the main street, directly opposite the Indian one. It was a Saturday night and the place was quite full. Hamish looked around at the placid Scottish faces munching through crispy noodles and bean sprouts at the other tables and thought how untouched by the nasty world they all looked, safe and secure, never having known anything of the underworld stirred up by murder.

  "So how was Cheryl?" he asked Tracey.

  "Fine," she said. Her hand holding the fork trembled slightly. "Och, when can ah go hame?" she suddenly wailed.

  "Soon, I think," said Hamish. "The police have your home address and your statement. They'll warn you not to leave the country, and that will be that."

  "Bob Harris was a stunner," said Tracey.

  "Yes, he was," said Hamish, "but no one has a right to take anyone's life, Tracey."

  She stared at him with large frightened eyes, looking young and lost without her usual armour of paint and hair gel. "Do ye believe in hell, Hamish?"

  "Aye," sighed Hamish Macbeth. "But not in the afterlife, Tracey. We're all living in it, one way or the other, right now."

  10

  But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain

  That lighted me to bed.

  —Thomas Hood

  Hamish realized as he awoke next day that he had not reassured Miss Gunnery about the welfare of her cat, and, what was even more strange was that she had not asked him about the cat or about her friend, Mrs. Agnew.

  He plunged in right away when he met her at breakfast, assuring her that Joey looked fit and well. She thanked him in an abstracted voice. The murders were beginning to tell on her. Her interest in Tracey had seemed only momentarily to lift the strain. She had dark circles under her eyes and wisps of hair were escaping from her normally severe hair-style.

  Everyone else seemed to be feeling equally gloomy, despite the delicious breakfast. Mrs. Aston, a cheerful and motherly figure, apparently unaffected by the criminal goings-on of her sister and brother-in-law, delivered and collected plates.

  "You'll be going to church," she said to all at large.

  "Good idea," said Hamish suddenly. He was worried about the silent, downcast Brett children. Church was as good a place as any to go to on a Scottish Sabbath.

  It is amazing in this modern age how such a group of normally irreligious people can suddenly decide in adversity that church is a very sensible place to go to. But then, there are no agnostics on the battlefield.

  The day was quiet and calm and quite chilly when they went out to the cars, all too exhausted with worry to contemplate the walk to Skag. Crick, on duty at the door, asked them where they were going and made a note of it in his book.

  They arrived at the Church of Scotland in good time for the start of the service. The church was plain and devoid of ornament. They sat in one of the hard pews and listened to a wheezy organ murdering Bach.

  The minister was an imposing figure, like one of the lesser prophets, with a flowing grey beard and shaggy locks. Hamish could not decide whether his eyes were burning with religious zeal or whisky. There was a strong suggestion of the actor about him. This was no clap-happy Christianity, no tambourines or steel guitars, only dreary hymns sung to the asthmatic music of the church organ.

  Then the minister leaned over the pulpit and began his sermon, the theme of which was honesty being the best policy. He obviously believed more in a God of wrath than one of love and certainly appeared convi
nced that the dishonest were condemned to the hell of eternal fire. Without his overwhelming presence, the words would have seemed a mixture of the trite and the mad, but his voice rang round the church, conjuring up for Hamish a vision of the days of John Knox. How Mary Queen of Scots must have disliked that man!

  When they emerged from the church, it was to find the weather had changed again and a hot sun was blazing down. But it was a subdued party who gathered by the cars. Tracey was weeping quietly and Miss Gunnery had an arm about her shoulders, young Heather was as white as a sheet, and Hamish cursed all Bible-bashing clerics.

  They drove back to the boarding-house. I am sick of this place, thought Hamish. I want shot of it. I want to go home. And then he realized that Tracey was tugging at his sleeve. "A word wi' ye," she whispered. "No' inside. Let's walk down to the beach."

  As he walked off with her, Hamish was conscious of Miss Gunnery's eyes boring into his back. For a brief spell, the spinster's interest in Tracey had seemed to lift her growing obsession for him, Hamish. He hoped it wouldn't come back.

  "What is it, then?" he asked when they had reached the shingle bank. "Let's sit down, Tracey. You're in an awful state."

  Tracey sat down beside him, her thin white legs sticking out in front of her from under her short skirt. "I cannae keep it tae masel' any longer," she said. "I know who did those murders."

  His heart beat hard against his ribs. "Who?" he demanded sharply. "Out wi' it!"

  A glassy wave curled onto the white sand below the shingle bank.

  "Cheryl," said Tracey. "It was Cheryl."

  He felt a great lifting of his spirits. "How do you know?"

  "She told me when I visited her in prison. She said she did it for kicks. She bragged aboot it."

  "You've got to tell the police," said Hamish.

  "You're the police!"

  "I mean, them in Skag. Come on. You'll feel better when you get it over with."

  As they walked up to the boarding-house, Miss Gunnery ran to meet them. "Is anything the matter?"

  "Not now," said Hamish. "Later."

  He drove off to Skag with Tracey. Several times on the short journey, his heart misgave him when she muttered something to the effect of being disloyal and "grassing" on her friend, and each time he assured her she was doing her duty.

  They had to wait until Deacon and Clay were brought over from Dungarton, driven by Maggie.

  In the interviewing room, Tracey, who appeared to have cried herself out, made a statement about what Cheryl had told her.

  After she was led out by Maggie to wait for Hamish, Deacon said with great satisfaction, "Thank God, that's over."

  "Aye," said Hamish, "you can thank God, all right. We were all at the kirk this morning and that hell-fire preacher seems to have got to Tracey. The others will be right glad, and yet ..."

  He stood irresolute in the doorway.

  "And yet what?" demanded Deacon testily. "You've done a good job, Macbeth."

  All the niggling little doubts which had been replacing Hamish's initial relief came to the surface. He shook his head. "It's too pat," he said.

  "It fits," said Deacon. "Cheryl's a violent criminal. She's just moved on from grievous bodily harm to murder."

  "It's the murder of MacPherson," said Hamish. "Think about it. What man in his right mind would try to blackmail such as Cheryl?"

  "Poor old sod probably wasn't blackmailing anyone. Cheryl did the first one for kicks, so why not the second?"

  "I don't like it," said Hamish. "It feels wrong."

  "Don't worry your head about anything, laddie. Clay and me'll go over to Dungarton and get a confession out of her."

  Hamish went outside, collected Tracey, and drove her back to the boarding-house. Miss Gunnery was waiting outside. Tracey flew to her and fell weeping into her arms. "What's all this about?" asked Crick.

  "Cheryl's confessed to the murders," said Hamish.

  "Thank heavens," said Crick. "Not that this hasn't become a good job, what with Mrs. Aston giving me cups of tea every five minutes. Are you telling the others?"

  "You tell them." Hamish turned about and walked towards the beach over the dunes. He sat down on the shingle bank, where he had sat earlier with Tracey, and stared blindly out to sea.

  How easy it would be to accept Cheryl's confession. But would she confess to the police? Had she perhaps been bragging to Tracey? Had Tracey said anything about getting free, changing her life?

  Okay, June had written to Alice, a June determined to force the issue. Alice came up earlier than she had first claimed. But June had not told Dermott, and somehow Alice, who was neither a kind nor a generous-hearted woman, had let Dermott believe that she had learned the news of his adultery through the newspapers. Why? One reason was obviously because she was desperately anxious that the police should not know she had been in Skag at the time of the murder.

  Dermott had quarrelled with Harris; Dermott had been blackmailed by Rogers; Dermott had lied. Doris and Andrew had lied. Yes, what about Doris and Andrew? What about all that mad burning passion that had driven one respectable upper-class Englishman to holiday in a seedy boarding-house with dreadful food so that he could be near his lady-love?

  And then Hamish stiffened. There was the sound of stifled sobs coming faintly to his ears on the breeze. He got to his feet and stared around. The sound was coming from behind him, somewhere among the dunes. He walked back and stood up on top of one of the highest dunes and looked around until he caught a glimpse of white cotton to his left. He made his way there, his feet making no sound on the sand.

  Heather Brett sat huddled at the foot of one of the dunes, a pathetic little figure. Sobs were racking her thin body. Hamish sat down beside her and gathered her in his arms.

  "Easy, lassie," he said. "Easy. It's all over. What is there to cry about?"

  "I-I'll burn in h-hell," she sobbed.

  "Och, you don't want tae believe what ye hear in church," said Hamish. "And why should the devil want a wee lassie like you, even supposing I believed in him?"

  "I t-told a bad lie," whispered Heather.

  Hamish held her closer. "Every human being lies some time or the other, Heather. You can tell me." He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dried her face. "Now, then, nobody's going to get angry with you. I'll see to that. What lie?"

  She gave a little tired sigh. "I didn't see Mrs. Harris on the beach."

  He stiffened. "Why did you say so?"

  "I promised them I would."

  "Them?"

  She began to cry again. Hamish felt a great wave of fury. Using a child like this!

  He lifted her to her feet. "Come along," he said. "It'll be all right. I'll explain matters. Mrs. Harris had no right to ask you to lie. And don't you be worrying about hellfire. Nothing's going to happen to you. You're a good wee lassie, Heather." And coaxing and cajoling, he led her back over the dunes to where a worried June came running to meet them.

  "Take care of your daughter," said Hamish. "She told a lie to the police, but it's not her fault. I'll go and see Deacon right now. Where's Andrew and Doris?"

  "They went into the pub in Skag, but—"

  "Later," said Hamish. He ran to his Land Rover, jumped in and drove straight to the pub. Andrew and Doris were sitting at a table in a corner over a plate of sandwiches and glasses of beer.

  "The pair of you are in bad trouble," said Hamish grimly.

  "Why?" Andrew looked surprised. "As a matter of fact, we were having a small celebration. Cheryl's confessed."

  Hamish ignored that. "Why did you persuade that child, Heather, that you were on the beach on the day of the murder? Why did you get her to lie?"

  "You're talking rubbish," shouted Andrew. A few locals turned and stared at them in surprise. "Rubbish," he repeated in a lower voice. "No one told Heather to say anything. We didn't tell her to lie."

  Doris sat with her head bent. "Doris?" prompted Hamish.

  "I meant it for the best," she said. "Everyone
would think it was me. I meant to put it straight."

  Hamish looked at the horrified surprise on Andrew's face and said, "Them. Heather said 'them.' They had told her to lie. I assumed it was you and Andrew. Who was the other one, Doris?"

  She looked at him pleadingly.

  "Miss Gunnery."

  "What!"

  "She was most sympathetic about Andrew and me. She said the police always suspected the wife, so it was important for me to have an alibi. She said Heather wouldn't mind lying. She said she had always found that children were natural-born liars."

  "You'll need to make a statement. You'll need to correct your earlier statement. Where were you, Doris? I myself saw you going towards Skag."

  "I was so miserable, I just walked about," said Doris. "I don't think anyone saw me. I didn't have any alibi. Miss Gunnery said it was imperative that I have one."

  "I can't believe it of you, Doris," said Andrew angrily. "The police could charge you for wasting their time. It's just as well for you that Cheryl has confessed."

  "If she has confessed," said Hamish heavily. "We've only got Tracey's word for it at the moment. Wait here. Let me speak to Deacon first. If Cheryl has really confessed and they have some positive proof she did the murders, because a confession alone is not enough in Scotland, there'll be no need for me to say anything."

  He went to the police station to learn that Deacon and Clay were still at the prison in Dungarton. Maggie, who gave him the news, looked at him curiously. "You look terrible. I thought you'd be glad it was all over."

  "I need a phone," said Hamish, walking towards the interview-room.

  "You'll need permission began Maggie, but Hamish walked in and slammed the door behind him.

  He sat down at the desk and stared at the phone. Think. Twice Miss Gunnery had lied, or rather, she had lied once and then engineered it that Heather should lie to protect Doris. An image of the photograph of Miss Gunnery and Mrs. Agnew came into his head. He took out his notebook and found the slip of paper with Mrs. Agnew's address. He dialled directory inquiries and asked for her phone number. What was it Mrs. Agnew had said? "Goodness knows, the poor creature has enough to worry about." And looking back, he remembered having a feeling that Mrs. Agnew had not been talking about the murders, but about something else.