Death of a Maid (16 page)

He decided to hand his resignation in to Superintendent Daviot. Go right to the top, that was the answer.

Helen, the secretary, threw him a look of dislike. ‘You have not got an appointment,’ she said. ‘Mr Daviot is busy.’

The door to the superintendent’s office, which had not been quite closed, swung open to reveal Daviot putting golf balls into a paper cup.

‘Ah, Hamish,’ he said, ‘come in.’

Helen leapt to bar the way. ‘I was just telling this constable that you are busy.’

‘That’s all right, Helen. What is it?’

At that moment, Hamish’s mobile phone rang. He drew it out and was about to switch it off when Daviot said good-naturedly, ‘You can answer that. It might be something to do with the
case.’

Elspeth’s urgent voice came on the line. ‘You’re about to do something stupid, Hamish. Please don’t do it until you speak to me.’

‘How did you . . .?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’m at the hotel. Come and see me.’

Hamish rang off.

‘Now, Macbeth,’ said Daviot, ‘what seems to be the problem?’

Cursing Elspeth in his mind, Hamish crushed the letter in his hand and pinned a pious look on his face. ‘I chust wondered if Mr Blair was all right. I heard a rumour he was ill.’

Daviot’s face darkened. ‘That is good of you, but at the moment, Detective Chief Inspector Blair is suspended from duty.’

‘Why?’

‘I appreciate your concern, but it is nothing to do with you, so go about your duties.’

Hamish reflected angrily on Elspeth’s psychic powers, which he only half believed in. He screeched to a halt in front of the hotel and marched in.

Elspeth was waiting for him at the reception desk, her face anxious. ‘Come into the bar,’ said Hamish, ‘and tell me what the hell you were talking about.’

When they were seated at a corner table, Elspeth said nervously, ‘It’s like this. I’d a sudden awful feeling you were about to leave in the middle of this case. You were fed up
and worried and then you felt free.’

‘I wass about to hand in my resignation,’ said Hamish bleakly, the strengthening of his accent revealing he was upset. ‘I am that fed up wi’ being pushed here and ordered
there by the likes o’ Blair and Gannon. And dinnae tell me it’s a’ my ain fault for not moving up the ranks. I’m frustrated by lack o’ information at every
turn.’

‘I would only point out that a mere copper isn’t given all the information, but I won’t.’

‘Not Irish, are you?’ asked Hamish sarcastically.

‘Hamish, you’ve got to press on. You can’t walk away from this. Just think how you would feel if you did and the murders were never solved. Think of the black suspicion in
Braikie. They would start to think the husband had done it. They’d make his life a misery. And what of poor Shona? Her parents came here from Glasgow yesterday. They’re devastated. They
need a resolution. Let’s go down to the police station and make notes. I’ll be your Watson. Let’s go over everyone from the beginning.’

In the police station, Hamish made coffee, and they both went through to the police office.

‘Right,’ said Elspeth. ‘The first. Professor Sander.’

‘There’s a good chance he pinched one of his students’ book on Byron,’ said Hamish. ‘But the student is dead. The prof has no real alibi, and he was the nearest
person to Mrs Gillespie. From the post-mortem, it seems she had only been dead for a short time before I found her. So he could have followed her down the drive and struck her in a fit of
rage.’

‘I’ll dig a bit more into his background for you. Next?’

‘Mrs Fiona Fleming. Mrs Samson seemed to think that Mrs Gillespie believed her to have killed her husband by pushing him down the stairs. I’ve a feeling in my bones that the
man’s death was an accident, pure and simple. Maybe Mrs Fleming was in the early stages of her affair with Dr Renfrew, and Mrs Gillespie was blackmailing her over that. I don’t like the
woman, and I feel she could be quite vicious. But no. I think it was someone cold, calculating and ruthless. Maybe someone who met Mrs Gillespie at the foot of the drive and said, “Let me
help you put your stuff in your car”, and then swung the bucket hard.’

‘Now comes Mrs Styles.’

‘The saint of Braikie. I don’t think so. I think if Mrs Gillespie had tried to blackmail her, she would have gone straight to the police. The same with Mrs Wellington.’

‘Mrs Barret-Wilkinson?’

‘I can’t get the hang o’ that woman. She’s playing at being the country lady. But she’s got a good alibi for the time of Shona’s death.’

‘What alibi?’

‘On the night of Shona’s murder, she was staying with a friend in Glasgow. Then she had a hotel receipt from the Palace in Inverness. Says she stopped there on the way
back.’

‘What about Dr Renfrew?’

‘He must have been terrified that she’d gossip about his malpractice suit. Could be. Then there’s Miss Creedy, who admits to having rigged the bingo so that Mrs Gillespie would
win. I want that kept quiet. I don’t believe for a moment she murdered anyone.’

‘What about Mrs Gillespie’s stepdaughter?’

‘Damn! I’d completely forgotten about the lassie. I suppose she’ll have been asked for an alibi for the time Shona was murdered, but I’d better have a talk with her
again.’

‘Let’s go back to Mrs Barret-Wilkinson,’ said Elspeth. ‘I wonder if a friend would lie for her?’

‘Strathclyde police will have checked out her alibi.’

‘It’s not their case. It would be interesting to get down there and suss out whether she might be lying.’

‘I can’t take the time off to go down there. They’d be down on me like a ton o’ bricks.’

Elspeth looked at him mischievously. ‘And you don’t want to lose your job?’

Hamish gave her a reluctant smile. ‘You’re right. That was a real daft moment I had. Thanks. You scare me sometimes, Elspeth. Do you always know what people are thinking?’

‘No, hardly ever, and when I’m down in the city, not at all. Put it down to a lucky guess. Tell you what, if you see the daughter, I’ll nip back to Glasgow and interview Mrs
Barret-Wilkinson’s alibi. What’s her name and address?’

Hamish consulted his notes. ‘Bella Robinson, The Croft, Mylie Road, Bearsden.’

‘I’ll have a go.’

They both stood up. Hamish looked down at Elspeth. He had a sudden longing to take her in his arms. As if she sensed his feelings, Elspeth gave an awkward little duck of her head and muttered,
‘Goodbye. Talk to you later.’

Elspeth wondered whether to tell Luke where she was going, but finally decided against it. Luke had said he didn’t come north to work. He was on holiday, and
Elspeth’s wanting to be a reporter night and day was interfering with good drinking time. And Luke drank a lot. Reporters were hard-drinking people, but Elspeth felt uneasily that
Luke’s drinking was getting out of hand. Usually the most boozed-up reporter would chase any story, whether on holiday or not.

As she drove south over the Grampian mountains, she put Luke from her mind and, with an even greater effort, stopped thinking about one village policeman.

When she finally got to the respectable town of Bearsden and found that The Croft was in fact a neat bungalow, she was tired and hungry and wished she had stopped for food on the way.

Her heart sank as she walked up the garden path. Houses with nobody at home always, to Elspeth, radiated an empty feeling. She had debated telephoning first but knew that if by any remote chance
Bella had been covering for her friend, she would be forewarned. She rang the bell and waited and waited.

Depressed, she turned away. She went to the bungalow next door and rang the bell.

The woman who answered the door was a large matron with a well-upholstered bosom and thick flowing hair. She looked like the figurehead on an old sailing ship.

‘Ye-es?’ she asked.

‘I was looking for Mrs Robinson next door,’ said Elspeth.

‘Mrs Robinson hes goan to hir wee house in Spain.’ She had the strangled, genteel accents of what is damned as Kelvinside.

‘When did she leave?’

‘Thet would be yesterday.’

Nothing more to do, thought Elspeth wearily. She drove to her Glasgow flat, planning to spend the night before starting on the long journey north. She phoned Hamish. His mobile was switched off.
She tried the police station and got his answering service and left a message.

Hamish was in the local pub on the harbour, trying to comfort Archie Maclean. A crumpled letter lay on the scarred table between them.

‘Buggering government,’ said Archie, tears running down his face. ‘To decommission my boat! To order me to take her to Denmark where she is to be scrapped! The
Sally
Jane
’s my life. I’ll die without her. What am I goin’ tae do?’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll get up a petition.’

Archie scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. ‘Good o’ ye, Hamish, but that’s been tried afore.’

The British government had massacred more than half the Scottish fishing fleet to prevent the waters being overfished.

‘Are they offering compensation?’

‘Only a wee bit. I didn’t go in for the voluntary decommissioning.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Hamish went out and along to the church, which was never locked. He seized the bell rope and began to ring the bell. It clamoured out over the village of Lochdubh, bringing people hurrying out
of their houses and the minister and his wife from the manse. They knew it was only rung in times of peril. The old folk said it had been rung during World War II when a fishing boat sighted a
German destroyer.

‘What is going on?’ panted Mrs Wellington.

The villagers began to stream in as Hamish went up to the pulpit. ‘The government has ordered Archie Maclean’s boat to be decommissioned. He’s to take her to a scrapyard in
Denmark. I want someone to start a petition.’

‘I’ll do that,’ shouted Mrs Wellington.

‘That’ll be a start,’ said Hamish. ‘But we’ll need more than that. I’ll see if there are any press left up at the hotel and try to get them
interested.’

Mr Patel ran to his shop and came back with reams of typing paper. A table was set up, and people crowded around to sign.

Hamish came down from the pulpit and, after adding his name to the list, headed up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. ‘Are any of the national press still here?’ he asked Mr Johnson.

‘The television people have gone, but there’s two nationals, a French newspaper and some of the Scottish ones. You’ll find them in the bar.’

Hamish walked into the bar, a sudden bold idea striking him.

Luke was there, his eyes blurred with drink.

‘Gentlemen of the press!’ shouted Hamish. ‘I have a story that will interest you.’

Silence fell.

‘Archie Maclean, a local fisherman, is having his boat forcibly decommissioned, and he has been ordered to take her to a scrapyard in Denmark.’

Bored eyes stared at him. Just another poor fisherman out of work. They’d heard it all before.

‘And so,’ said Hamish, raising his voice, ‘the villagers are that mad wi’ the government that they are declaring independence for Lochdubh.’

Now he had their attention. Several were already wondering if a headline ‘The Mouse That Roared’ might be too old hat.

‘If you will follow me down to the church hall, you’ll see what I mean.’

Hamish sprinted out and drove fast back to the hall, where the whole village was now crowded around the petition table.

‘I’ve declared Lochdubh independent,’ he shouted. ‘The press are coming. Stick to the story.’

A big forester asked, ‘Can we put up roadblocks into the village and ask them for their passports?’

‘Great idea,’ said Hamish. ‘But quick. I can hear them coming. Some of you drag me along to the police station and lock me in the cell.’

The press arrived just in time to see Hamish being frogmarched along the waterfront. Thank goodness for all those mobile phones with cameras in them, thought Hamish. This’ll be on
television tomorrow.

He was locked in the one cell in the police station with his dog and cat. They handed the key through the bars to him ‘chust in case you feel hungry during the night’, and headed
off.

Hamish then phoned Elspeth and told her the story. ‘Oh, Hamish, I’m so tired, but I can’t miss out on a story like this. I’ll drive through the night.’

Although not much visited by tourists, Lochdubh was a very scenic highland village. By next morning, the story was round the world. Film of a crumpled and sobbing Archie
Maclean was beamed into homes from the north of Scotland to Japan.

Police contingents, roaring over from Strathbane, found their way barred by roadblocks manned by locals with deer hunting rifles and shotguns.

Blair tried to land in the police helicopter but was driven off by rockets fired up at him – not army rockets, but ones left over from the last fireworks display.

Some wag had found a skull and crossbones used in an amateur production of
The Pirates of Penzance
and had run it up the flagpole on the waterfront. Only the press were allowed past the
barriers.

Hamish was photographed in his cell. ‘This is an outrage,’ he was quoted as saying, ‘but on the other hand, I can’t say I blame them.’

He hoped desperately that the London reaction he was counting on could have its effect before the police decided to use force.

In Number 10 Downing Street, the prime minister, Simon Turl, paced up and down. His popularity had been fading fast. He was addicted to photo opportunities and grabbing
headlines and therefore shoved through unpopular acts of Parliament without even considering the consequences.

‘How am I to handle this?’ he asked his adviser, Sandy McGowan.

‘Oh, stop dithering, man. It’s simple,’ growled Sandy. ‘Say that wee fisherman got the wrong papers by mistake and there’s to be an inquiry. Do it fast. Take the
wind out of those villagers’ sails. No prosecutions.’

‘But other fishermen will try the same trick.’

‘It won’t be newsworthy if they do. Copycat stories never are. Get on with it.’

‘Perhaps I should fly up there myself. I can see myself standing on the harbour . . .’