Death of a Hussy (12 page)

Alison stumbled out.

But she did not go to her room. She went out to the garage and wrenched open the doors. Driving, that was it, her only solace, her only comfort.

She roared off down the precipitous cliff road, her eyes blurred with tears. The road ran along the edge of the cliff and as Alison raced along, she realized dimly that she was going too fast to take the hairpin bends and pressed on the footbrake. Nothing happened. A corner hurtled towards her and she screeched round it and down the next stretch, her hands sweating on the wheel. Another corner was looming up. She screamed, wrenched into a low gear, and seized the handbrake and pulled with all her might. The car skidded off the road and slithered to a stop, the little front wheels of the mini hanging over the cliff edge.

Alison sat there, numb with shock. Below her the sea heaved and sucked at the base of the cliffs. She gave a whimpering sound and released her seat belt. Although she moved only slightly, the car gave a creak and seemed to dip. She twisted her neck. It was a two-door car and so she could not climb into the back seat and escape that way. It was out of the question to try to struggle through one of the back windows for they were too small and any effort to escape that way might overset the car.

She sat there for what seemed like ages while the screaming seagulls wheeled overhead. The wind was rising, she realized numbly. If she sat there much longer, one good gust would tip the little car into the sea.

Praying loudly, she grasped the door handle and pressed it down. The door swung open. Immediately below her was the sea and just behind, springy turf.

With a yell, she flung herself out of the car, twisting sideways, her fingers scrabbling at the springy turf. She lay face down, her legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. Beside her, with a sad little creak, the mini slowly slid over the edge of the cliff and plunged down into the sea.

Sobbing and grasping grass roots, Alison pulled herself forward on her belly. She heard a car drive up and a car door slam, but still she continued to ease forward until she was well clear of the cliff edge. Then she looked up.

Peter Jenkins was standing there, his hands on his hips, looking down at her.

‘Whatever are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Playing games?’

Hamish Macbeth could never understand why mews cottages, those old converted carriage houses, should be considered chic. They had been built for carriages and coachmen out of the poorest of brick and usually faced north. The cobbled way outside mews cottages always seemed to be a magnet for dog owners who allowed their pets to use it as a lavatory.

The cottage owned by Glenys Evans was painted white and bedecked on the outside with honeysuckle and roses in tubs. Inside it was decorated in neo-Georgian with hunting prints on the walls, fake Chippendale furniture, and a ‘Persian’ rug made in Belgium on the floor.

Hamish Macbeth was not a sentimental man and did not believe in the fiction of the tart with a heart and Glenys was not of the breed to prove him wrong. She was a thin, stringy woman dressed in tweed skirt, twinset, and pearls. The tarts who squandered their money went down to the gutter and the ones who invested became middle class, thought Hamish, if Glenys and Maggie were anything to go by.

Charm was not going to work with this one and so he did not waste any time in conversation but got down to the interview, asking her respectful questions and calling her ma’am.

Glenys visibly thawed before all this correct courtesy and began to talk about the old days. It was rather like listening to an opera star reminiscing about her heyday, thought Hamish. She talked of the casinos, the private planes, the best hotels, the best restaurants, her eyes filled with happy dreams. Hamish gently steered the conversation round to the four men he was interested in.

‘It’s all so long ago,’ sighed Glenys. ‘Let me see, Crispin Witherington.’ Her face darkened. ‘I remember him. Maggie and I were sharing a flat at the time. He had the nerve to say it was his flat and tried to turn us out. There was ever such a scene. But the deeds to the flat were in Maggie’s name whether he paid for it or not. He was only sore because she’d ditched him for that little pipsqueak, James Frame. Now what she ever saw in him, I don’t know. Anyway, I remember, she was just getting tired of him when he disappeared from the country. He wrote to say he was bankrupt, I remember. What a laugh we had about that. As Maggie said, it was nothing to do with her. He would have gone bankrupt anyway. Then Steel Ironside. I don’t know that much about him. I was living in Cannes with Lord Berringsford at that time, but she was always in the papers. Said they were going to get married. Not her type. But I suppose she enjoyed all the fuss. Peter Jenkins was soppy about her. Wrote her poetry and turned white when she came into the room. She liked that. We used to have such a giggle. “Here comes love’s young dream,” I used to say. But this Arab sheik came on the scene and Maggie flipped off with him. She said he was a beast, the sheik, I mean, and she didn’t get as much out of him as she had hoped.

‘Wait a minute. I might have some photographs.’

Hamish waited patiently while she disappeared upstairs. So much for the fallen woman of Victorian novels, he thought. Glenys showed no signs of being racked with guilt about her past. In fact, she seemed proud of it and obviously thought she had had a successful life which, indeed, in material terms, she had obviously achieved.

She came back downstairs, carrying a box of photographs which she proceeded to rummage through. ‘There we both are with Crispin,’ she said at last.

Hamish looked at the photograph. Crispin had been a fairly good-looking young man. He was standing with Maggie and Glenys beside a white Rolls Royce. Maggie was slim and blonde and Glenys a sultry brunette. They must have been a formidable pair, thought Hamish. There was a press photograph of Maggie leaving a pop concert with Steel Ironside, a thinner, younger Steel without the beard.

‘What happened to her husbands?’ asked Hamish suddenly.

‘Baird died not long after she married him. He was a stockbroker. Taught her all about the market.’

‘What did he die of?’

‘Heart attack. He was a lot older than her. The other one, let me see, Balfour, was a bit of a crook. Got done for doing a bank and went inside. Maggie divorced him.’

‘What is Balfour’s first name and where did he live?’

‘His name was Jimmy and he lived in Elvaston Place in Kensington, but I can’t remember the number. It wouldn’t help you anyway, because he rented the flat and that was years ago.’

‘And when did you last see Mrs Baird?’

‘The last time I saw her was about a year ago. We didn’t part friends. In fact, I gave her a lecture. Letting herself go like that and all over some two-bit waiter. “Get on a diet,” I said. “You look a fright, you do.”’ Glenys patted her bony hips complacently. ‘“You should be like me,”’ I said. ‘“You’ve forgotten that men are only good for one thing.”’

‘Sex?’

Glenys looked amused. ‘No, darling, money.’

‘What about this waiter?’ asked Hamish.

Glenys sighed impatiently and told Hamish as much as she knew about the waiter but said she could not remember either his name or where he had worked but that Maggie had allowed herself to be cheated ‘just like a beginner!’

Hamish asked more questions and looked at more photographs, and then finally took his leave. He felt he had learned nothing much to help towards solving the case.

He seemed to have spent hours and hours with Glenys, but he found to his surprise that it was only eleven in the morning and that he had only been with her for an hour. He decided to catch the midday train to Inverness.

During the long journey back north, he kept turning the case over and over in his head. If only Priscilla would call on him, he might be able to see things more clearly. He always did after talking to Priscilla.

But there was no one waiting for him at the police station. Only a note from Alison to say she was staying the night at Mrs Todd’s cottage in the village and would he call on her, no matter how late.

Hamish sighed. He hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be a waste of time.

There was a constable on duty outside Mrs Todd’s cottage, relieving PC Graham. He told Hamish that Alison claimed the brakes of her car had been tampered with and that the mini had ended up in the sea after she had managed to get clear, but that a storm was blowing hard and there was no way they could get the car up until the wind died down.

Hamish knocked on the cottage door and Mrs Todd let him in. ‘I told her she was safer here with me rather than staying up there with a houseful of murderers,’ she said, ‘although I don’t know why she wants to see you. She’s told that Italian all she knows.’

Mrs Todd led the way into her parlour. It was scrubbed and clean with comfortable old-fashioned furniture. There were several photographs of Mrs Todd in army uniform. She must have been a holy terror, thought Hamish. Alison came down in dressing gown and slippers and Mrs Todd went off into the kitchen to make tea.

Alison looked crushed and subdued. In a little girl voice, she told Hamish about her escape from death, and how Steel, Crispin, and James had all tried to get money out of her. All the while, Hamish was remembering what Glenys had said. He was sure all four men had been genuinely infatuated with Maggie at one time but equally sure that they had never forgiven her for getting their money and then ditching them.

‘It couldn’t have been Peter, could it?’ asked Alison tremulously. ‘I mean, he was down in the village getting cigarettes.’

‘It’s my belief the car’s brakes could have been tampered with any time. When did you last use it – I mean before you drove along the cliff?’

‘The day before.’

‘And it was therefore just lying in the garage where anyone could get to it.’

‘I wish Peter were here with me,’ said Alison miserably.

‘There’s nothing to stop you from going back to your own house.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Alison. ‘You see, I slept with him.’

‘So?’

Alison hung her head. ‘A man doesn’t respect a girl for just jumping into bed with him when she hardly knows him.’

‘That’s a pretty old-fashioned way of thinking. Last time I saw you, you looked tae me as if you’d had the experience and enjoyed every minute o’ it.’

‘Don’t!’ Alison put up a hand as if to ward him off. ‘You men just don’t understand.’

Hamish sat up late that night, typing out his report for Donati. He really shouldn’t be worrying so much about this case, he chided himself. Donati was highly competent. He would get Scotland Yard to ferret into all the background.

He decided to give his report to Donati first thing in the morning and then go about his village duties and only work on the case when asked to do so, and having come to that decision, he felt much better. Blair’s bullying and stupidity in the past was what had spurred him on to all the effort.

He stacked the notes in a neat pile on the desk and reached over to switch off the lamp when there came a hammering at the door.

Hamish opened it. Detective Jimmy Anderson stood there, his fair hair plastered down by the rain, his face grim.

‘Come along, Hamish,’ he said. ‘There’s been another murder.’

‘Alison?’

‘Naw. That pop singer, Steel Ironside.’

Steel Ironside lay across the bed. There was blood everywhere. The meat cleaver which had struck a deep gash right across his neck lay discarded on the floor.

Forensic men were dusting every inch of the room for fingerprints and combing the carpet for signs of clues.

Donati turned and left the room, signalling to Hamish and to the two detectives, MacNab and Anderson, to follow.

‘Where are the remaining three guests?’ asked Hamish. Donati paused on the stairs. ‘They’re in the sitting room, waiting to be questioned. Mrs Todd is on her way here with Miss Kerr.’

‘A meat cleaver,’ said MacNab. ‘It must hae been the Todd woman.’

‘As far as we know, she didn’t leave Lochdubh,’ said Donati. ‘Her car engine’s cold. Jenkins discovered the body. He said he was uneasy. He said he heard thumping noises coming from Ironside’s room and went to investigate. He must have discovered the body minutes after the murder. The body was still warm when we got here.’

He went on down the stairs and the others followed him.

The three men were grouped together in the sitting room. All looked white and strained. Crispin Witherington’s eyes were blank with shock, James Frame was hugging himself and shivering, and Peter Jenkins was drinking steadily.

Donati started with Peter. ‘If you will just go over it again. You say you heard thumping noises. When was that?’

‘I looked at my alarm clock,’ said Peter, ‘and it was just after one in the morning. I’m upstairs and Steel is … was … on the ground floor. Then I thought I heard a door slam. I decided to go down and have a look. I looked in Crispin’s bedroom first. I didn’t put on the light but I could make out his shape under the bedclothes in the light from the passage. Then I opened Steel’s door.’ He gulped. ‘I could just make out his figure on the bed but I felt there was something wrong. I don’t know why. I switched on the light and saw … and saw …’

‘All right,’ said Donati. ‘Take it easy. Now what made you go looking after you heard … bumps, was it? I mean, what made you think there was something up?’

‘I can answer that one,’ said Crispin waspishly. ‘He thought Alison had returned and gone to bed with one of us and bang goes his millionairess.’

‘Is this true?’ asked Donati.

‘Of course it’s not true,’ said Peter in a shrill voice. ‘I tell you, I can’t quite explain it but there was something odd about the sounds. Then I’m sure I heard a door slam, and I wondered if Alison had changed her mind and come home.’

Donati sighed. ‘It’s a good thing the victim wasn’t Miss Kerr or you all might be under suspicion. I gather from PC Graham that both of you, Mr Frame and Mr Witherington, had tried to get money out of her. If she dies, you inherit, and when we get that car of hers up, I’m sure we’ll find the brakes were tampered with, that is, if this storm ever dies down.’

There was a silence and all listened as the wind shrieked around the house.

The door opened and Alison came in escorted by Mrs Todd. Alison moved like a sleepwalker. Peter rose to meet her and held out his arms but she shrank away from him.

‘Now,’ said Mrs Todd, folding her arms, ‘which one o’ ye has been using my good meat cleaver?’

Hamish had a mad desire to laugh.

‘So it was your meat cleaver,’ said Donati. ‘Sit down, Mrs Todd, and I’ll get to you soon. I am going into the study and I’ll interview you one by one. MacNab, you stay on duty here. Anderson, come with me and bring your notebook.’ He turned to Hamish and said mildly, ‘No need for you to stay, Macbeth. The press will be back here in droves tomorrow and they’ll be at Mrs Baird’s funeral. I’ll need you then.’

Hamish walked out of the bungalow. Well, it was what he’d decided, wasn’t it? Donati was highly competent and it was a messy murder. But as he drove back to Lochdubh, he could feel anger boiling up in him. Lochdubh was his patch. It was his responsibility to find out the murderer. He was being blinded by Donati’s efficiency. Also, it was almost as if Donati had assumed the mantle of Blair and had decided he didn’t want Hamish Macbeth on the case. So forget Donati and imagine the man in charge of the case to be Blair. If Blair were on the case, what then would he, Hamish, do?

Keep it very simple, he thought.

He went into the police station and made himself a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table. He longed for a cigarette and wondered if the longing would ever go away or whether he would be stuck with it for life.

He went through to the office and got pen and paper and then sat down at the kitchen table again and began to make notes.

He went back to the start of the case. Someone had rigged that Renault to make it burst into flames. Someone had bought a felt mat and spark plugs. The efficient Donati had covered every garage in Sutherland. It was odd that Strathbane should have two detective chief inspectors. It meant that Donati had been recently promoted and Blair should be a very worried man for surely he was due to be demoted so that the police headquarters should have just one of them in charge. Forget Donati. Garages. There might be one somewhere else. There was a shop in Dingwall in the county of Ross and Cromarty which sold motoring accessories. Forget it. Garages and shops in the counties adjoining Sutherland had probably been covered as well. Where else?

Scrap yards. He threw down his pen. There was a sort of graveyard of old cars over at Brora. Anyone wanting cheap spare parts went there. But would four men from London know that?

He picked up the pen again and went on making notes. Gradually his head sank lower. He put his head down on the kitchen table. Just five minutes sleep, that was all …

He awoke with a start. Daylight was streaming in the kitchen window. He felt stiff and grimy. He bathed and changed and shaved and went out to feed the hens. Then he got into the Land Rover and drove towards Brora. The funeral was at ten that morning. He must make sure he was back in time for it.

But when he got to the yard it was to find only a mechanic on duty who had recently started work there. The boss, he said, had taken the day off to see friends in Golspie. He’d be back that evening. Hamish stopped off at a phone box in Brora and called Priscilla.

‘Look,’ he said urgently, ‘I wonder if you could do something for me. Will you be at the funeral?’

‘Yes,’ said Priscilla. ‘Daddy’s not going. He’s getting worse. We still can’t find out what’s worrying him. What do you want me to do?’

‘Do you still have your Polaroid?’

‘Yes, it’s around here somewhere.’

‘I want you to get photographs at the funeral of the four guests and Alison and Mrs Todd.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Hamish!’ Priscilla sounded shocked. ‘The press will be there in droves and if I start taking pictures as well, they’ll think I’m some sort of ghoul.’

‘It’s awfy important,’ pleaded Hamish. ‘Tell Alison and anyone else that you are taking the pictures as a memento. Tell them it’s an old Highland custom. Tell them anything. Please, Priscilla.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Priscilla crossly. ‘But if I get into any trouble, I’ll blame you.’

The wind had died down and a warm drizzle was falling as Maggie Baird’s coffin was lowered into the grave. All the villagers were there as they were at any funeral in Lochdubh. It seemed to Hamish that they were nearly outnumbered by the press. Television vans stood outside the graveyard, photographers perched on the top of tombstones, and reporters in black ties stood respectfully around, although questioning everyone they could get hold of in hushed whispers.

The funeral reception was to be held in the village hall, Mrs Todd and the minister’s wife, Mrs Wellington, having decided Alison would not be able to manage the funeral baked meats on her own. Hamish reflected that it might have been better if the organisation of the reception
had
been left to Alison. She looked very frail and she had nothing to take her mind off her fears.

Priscilla was discreetly taking photographs but there were so many press photographers around that no one seemed to notice.

At the funeral reception, she handed Hamish the photographs. ‘When this is all over,’ said Hamish, ‘let’s you and me go off somewhere and talk. You’re not looking your usual bonny self these days.’

‘I’m worried about Daddy,’ said Priscilla. ‘Yes, I’d like that. The atmosphere at home is all gloom and doom. Did you see Daddy at the funeral? Why on earth did he decide to come along? Thank goodness he didn’t stay for the reception. There is so much whisky on offer here and Daddy’s been sinking quite a lot of it recently. Look at this photograph. He’s standing with Mrs Todd and Alison. See how swollen his face is? He’s all bloated up. He won’t go to Dr Brodie anymore either.’

Hamish wondered whether to tell Donati where he was going. But Donati would simply phone the police at Brora and tell Hamish sharply to leave the case alone. Something made Hamish approach Donati and say earnestly, ‘I’ve got some ideas about the case I would like to put to you, sir.’

Donati frowned. ‘I haven’t time to listen to you at the moment,’ he said. ‘The press are all over the place. The wind has died down so we’ve got a chance of getting that car up out of the sea. Just stand by for the moment until I give you your orders.’

Hamish humbly touched his cap and strolled away. He obeyed orders for the rest of the day and even the news that he was to guard the bungalow from the press in the company of PC Graham didn’t seem to ruffle him. He stood by one gatepost and PC Graham stood at the other, flashing him an occasional venomous glance. At six o’clock, Hamish looked at his watch and then began to walk off down the drive.

‘Hey, you!’ yelled Mary Graham. ‘Where dae ye think you’re going?’

But Hamish did not even turn around.

As he was driving along the waterfront, he saw the gnarled figure of the gardener, Angus Burnside, leaning over the sea wall and drew up.

Angus turned round. ‘Ach, what is it noo, Hamish?’ he asked crossly. ‘I’ve been answering the polis’s questions fur days.’

‘Well, humour me, Angus,’ said Hamish. ‘When you were working around that bungalow, did you see anyone go into that garage apart from Miss Kerr and Mrs Baird?’

‘That wee greaser wi’ the uppity manner.’

‘Which could apply to all of them,’ said Hamish patiently. ‘Which one was it?’

‘The smarmy one, him called Witherington. It wass about twa days afore the death o’ Mrs Baird. “Whit d’ye want?” I went and asked him, and he got very hoity-toity. “Go back to your gardening, my good fellow,” he says. Damp English. They should all stay on the other side o’ the border.’

‘Anyone else apart from him?’

‘Naw, no one but that daftie, Miss Kerr. D’ye ken, she used tae go and
talk
tae that car!’

Hamish thanked him and drove off on the long road to Brora again. It was still high summer and in the north of Scotland it hardly ever gets dark. There was a blazing sunset as he arrived at the scrap yard. The derelict cars lay about in various stages of rust and decay. The purple flowers of the willow herb bloomed amongst the heaps of twentieth-century junk and long sour grass sprouted through shattered doors and windows of the less popular models – less popular for their spare parts. The whole thing was like a graveyard, a monument, a tombstone to death on the roads. That Ford over there, thought Hamish, had anyone survived that crash? The whole front was smashed and buckled.

Somewhere a dog howled dismally and the wind whistled through the rusty cars and swaying grass. At least the rain has stopped, thought Hamish, picking his way round the muddy puddles to a hut in the middle of the yard.

Cars, he thought. This case is all about cars. Forget the meat cleaver for the moment. Cars. Crispin knew about cars. James Frame once worked for him. The others probably knew a bit about car engines. Alison’s obsession with driving. What an odd girl she was. Pity she seemed to have taken an aversion to Jenkins. A weak man to look after was just what she needed to stiffen her spine.

There was no one in the hut. Hamish sighed impatiently and sat down in a battered armchair beside the hut door to wait. He was very tired. Poor Priscilla. What on earth could be bothering that father of hers? He couldn’t help there. The colonel loathed him. His eyes began to close. Then he heard the sound of a car approaching and straightened up.

The owner of the scrap yard, a small greying man in blue overalls, drove up.

‘What do ye want?’ he demanded as he approached Hamish. ‘There’s not one stolen car here.’

Hamish got to his feet. ‘I’m not here about stolen cars,’ he said. ‘I want to show you some photos and I want you to look at the folk in the photos and tell me if one of them called at your yard and asked for an old felt mat, like the kind you see under the bonnets of some engines, and two spark plugs.’

He looked at the man without hope. It was too long a shot. ‘Funny that,’ said the owner slowly. ‘I call to mind someone asking me for thae things.’

Hamish held out the photographs.

The man took them and led the way into the hut. He switched on the light and then with maddening slowness took a pair of glasses from his overall pocket and put them on his nose. He peered at the photographs.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That’s who ye want.’

Hamish looked down. His finger was almost covering one face.

‘My God!’ said Hamish. ‘Are ye sure? Ye have to be awfy sure. If it’s that one, man, I couldnae for the life o’ me think why.’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ he said testily. ‘I can call tae mind every sod that comes in here. Came and asked fur spark plugs and then fur the felt tae line the bonnet o’ a car. A Renault it was.’

Hamish took out a form he had brought with him and took down a statement and got the scrap yard owner to sign it. As he drove off, the sun was slipping below the horizon and the perpetual twilight of a northern summer lay across the countryside.

He drove a little way and pulled off the road and sat, thinking hard. Why?

And then, after an hour, all the little bits and pieces fell into place and he was looking at an almost complete picture. There was only one large piece missing and that was the reason for the death of Steel Ironside.