Death of a Nag Read online

  "Call for you, Hamish," he shouted. "The police at Skag."

  Maggie waited in her car. Hamish seemed to be away a long time. As he came out, she wound down her window. "Trouble?" she asked.

  "Aye. You'd best get down to Mrs. Maclean's and pack up your things. We're off to Skag."

  "What's happened?"

  "Another murder."

  "What! Who?"

  "Thon Jamie MacPherson, the boatman."

  8

  We must never assume that which is incapable of proof.

  —George Henry Lewis

  Smells of fish and chips and salt sea, cold wind, blowing sand, bleakness; only the end of July, and yet a strong suggestion of a dying year. Skag.

  It was two in the morning. Hamish sat in the police station facing an unshaven Deacon.

  "Tell me again, sir," said Hamish. "How did it happen?"

  "If I knew how, I would know who," said Deacon crossly. "But as I said, it was like this: Mrs. Flaherty and her husband wanted to take a boat out. It was late afternoon. They go to the boat-shed, that shack, you know, at the back o' the jetty. They go inside and look about. No one seems tae be there. Then, like a Hitchcock movie, missis sees a foot stickin' out from the back o' the door to that wee office he has at the back where he keeps his records. Well, they don't think o' murder, do they? Think some poor sod has passed out. Mr. Flaherty says he's probably drunk but they have a look anyway. Jamie MacPherson is very dead. Mr. Flaherty prides himself on his cool nerve and promptly tries to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. To do so, he slides one hand under Jamie's neck. That's when he feels wet stickiness, pulls his hand away and finds it covered wi' blood. Shows his hand tae his wife, who starts screaming like a banshee. So the first estimate by the pathologist and by the forensic boys is that Jamie was sitting at his desk when someone stabbed him in the back of the neck wi' something like a dagger, but not all that sharp."

  "So it would take some muscle to stab him?"

  "Aye, that's the way it looks. He fell off the chair, backwards, knocking the chair over, rolled towards the door, and died on his back behind it. So either this is not related, or Jamie knew something and was blackmailing someone and that someone did for him."

  "And we haff the blackmailer in the shape of Rogers."

  "Aye, but at roughly the time o' the murder, Rogers was here, being questioned again. In fact, he was here all afternoon."

  "What about the rest of them?"

  "Dermott Brett was interviewed again at lunch-time and sent away, Doris Harris and Andrew Biggar were interviewed again in the morning, as was that Miss Gunnery. Cheryl and Tracey say they were on the beach, but nobody saw them."

  "If Jamie MacPherson was trying to make money out of someone," said Hamish, "then someone's bank account is going to show a recent withdrawal that someone might not be able to explain."

  "We're working on that." Deacon passed a weary hand over his face. "Do you know, I've got a gut feeling someone murdered Jamie MacPherson, if he was a blackmailer, before the first payment was made. I don't know what the weapon was."

  "Would it haff been something that wass just lying around?" suggested Hamish. "A paper-knife, boat-knife, something like that?"

  "Aye, it could well be."

  "What about family? Was he married?"

  "Wife died a whiles back. One son in America. That's all. He lived alone, the auld bugger, so there's no one that we know of that he might hae confided in. Solitary bloke. No friends. Bit o' a quiet drunk, from all reports, solitary drunk."

  "I hate being stuck here," said Hamish after a short silence.

  "Why? This is where it's all happening, laddie."

  "There's something nagging at me. Doris Harris lives in Evesham and Andrew Biggar in Worcester. They weren't far from each other. The horrible Bob was a traveller, so Doris must have had some time to herself. Now Andrew Biggar appears to be the country gent, large house with mother outside Worcester, judges dog shows, rides in local point-to-points. If he even keeps one horse, that's an expense. Someone like that does not suddenly decide to holiday in a tatty cheap boarding-house on the Moray Firth."

  "Okay," said Deacon. "Let's look at it. The gentlemanly Andrew is madly in love with Doris. So why the hell would he want to torture hisself by seeing her in company wi' her dreadful husband, eh?"

  "Unless," said Hamish quietly, "he planned to murder Harris afore he came. Now you can get the local police at Worcester to dig deep, if you like. But you know what police routine is like. One bored constable or detective constable sent to ask patient questions. But I hae the knack of finding out things," said Hamish with simple Highland vanity. "I would like fine to get down there and see what I could come up with."

  "And what could you do that any detective could not?"

  "Use my imagination," said Hamish eagerly. "Figure out if I were Andrew and meeting Doris on the sly, a Doris who would be terrified of any neighbour seeing her. I could figure out where they would meet. They don't look like a couple who've slept together, so I would be asking at the sort of restaurants or pubs they would go to, that sort of thing."

  Deacon leaned back in his chair and surveyed Hamish's tall figure. "How do I cover for ye? You'd need to do it at your own expense and without the local police knowing."

  "I'll take a gamble," said Hamish. "If I solve this case, I'll leave it to you to fiddle the books to cover my costs. If not, I'll pay for it. I brought the police Land Rover wi' me. I could use that to get me south and then hire a car in Worcester or use public transport. I've done this sort o' thing before."

  "With results?"

  "Always with results," said Hamish, firmly tucking away in the back of his mind several wasted trips south.

  "All right," said Deacon suddenly. "I'll do it. We'll say some relative of yours in the south has died. This is just between you and me. But don't be long. Two days at the most. I've photos of Doris and Andrew taken by the local man I can give you."

  Hamish drove back to the boarding-house in the Land Rover, which still smelt disturbingly of dog. He entered the unlit hall and stiffened as a dark shape on the staircase rose in front of him.

  "Hamish?" came Miss Gunnery's voice.

  "What are you doing there?" he demanded.

  "I couldn't sleep. I heard from that policewoman that you'd returned. You've heard about this other murder?"

  "Come into the lounge," said Hamish.

  He switched on the lights and they sat down facing each other. She was still dressed. Black shadows circled her eyes. She seemed all at once old.

  "I'm going away tomorrow," said Hamish.

  "Oh, no. You mustn't. I'm frightened."

  "I'll be gone two days at the most," said Hamish soothingly. "I'm going to Evesham and Worcester. What are the others saying about this latest murder?"

  "Dermott and June are protecting the children as much as possible, so they're very quiet. The noisiest was Cheryl, who went into hysterics, screaming she knew she would be next. Mrs. Rogers has gone to stay with a relative in Dungarton, so we have to cook our own food, not that that's a hardship. I was thinking of leaving and then this other murder happened, so we're all trapped in this dreadful place."

  "I won't be away long," Hamish explained again.

  "I don't know why they are keeping us," said Miss Gunnery, a nervous tic jumping on her left cheek. "What can the murder of that boatman have to do with Harris?"

  "Jamie could have been blackmailing the murderer," said Hamish flatly.

  "But that's ridiculous!"

  "Maybe. But it's a strong possibility. He was an odd, solitary man and a drunk. Go to bed, Miss Gunnery. I need a few hours' sleep. I've got an early start."

  "Could you do something for me?"

  "Depends what it is," said Hamish cautiously.

  "You won't be far from Cheltenham. Could you possibly call on Ada, my friend Ada Agnew? Tell her I'm all right."

  "You could phone her."

  "I know. It's silly of me. But Ada is lookin
g after my cat and I'm sentimental about that animal. He's called Joey. Just call and see if the cat looks all right. Dear me, I sound like an old maid."

  "Give me her address and I'll call if I can," said Hamish.

  Miss Gunnery stood up and took an old magazine and tore off a strip of the margin and wrote "Mrs. Agnew, 42, Andover Terrace, Cheltenham" on it and passed it to Hamish.

  He suddenly felt exhausted. He gave her an abrupt "Good night" and strode out without waiting to see whether she followed him or not.

  Hamish had told Deacon that he would leave at seven in the morning but he actually left at six, frightened that he might find Maggie Donald waiting for him on the doorstep at seven.

  It was with a feeling of relief that he drove off from Skag and took the long road south. The motorways farther south made it a relatively easy journey and it was late afternoon when he arrived in Worcester, finding a bed-and-breakfast place on the London road. Although he was tired after his long drive, he washed and changed and phoned around for the cheapest car-rental place he could find, eventually settling for a doubtful firm called Rent-A-Banger. The couple who ran the bed and breakfast were elderly and with a refreshing lack of curiosity as to why a Scottish policeman would wish to leave his Land Rover in the street at the back of their house while he rented a car. The house was dark and old-fashioned, but his room was comfortable.

  He picked up an old Ford Escort from the rental firm and headed out on the Wyre Piddle Road towards Andrew's home. It was only when he was on his way there that he began to feel rather silly. All around Worcester there were pubs and restaurants, not to mention all those in the town itself. This was not the far north of Scotland. There were hundreds of places where a couple could meet. Andrew's home was called High Farm. As he approached, he saw that it had indeed been at one time a farmhouse but was now a private dwelling, the outbuildings converted to stables and garages. He could see it all clearly from the road. He pulled into the side and wondered what to do. It was then he saw a tall, powerful-looking woman with white hair emerge and get into a Range Rover and drive off. There was something about her features that made him sure that this must be Andrew's mother. After she had gone, he continued to study the house. He noticed a burglar alarm box on the wall of it and wondered whether the place was really wired up or if it was just an empty box to deceive burglars. It was in that moment that he realized that all the while he had subconsciously been planning to break in. Ignoring the warning voices in his head, which were screaming at him that it would mean an end of his lowly career as constable of Lochdubh if he were caught, he drove a little along the road until he came to a side road. He drove up it, parked the Ford close in under an overhanging hedge, and then strolled back. There was no one around. The house was large. They might have a servant who lived in. But the place had the deserted blind air of a house when no one is at home. To be on the safe side, he rang the bell and waited. There was no reply. Looking all about him to make sure no one was watching, he ambled around to the back of the house, which was two-storeyed and of red brick.

  There was a one-storey extension on part of the back of the house. He peered in the window. It was an extension to the kitchen area. He backed off and looked up and then a smile curved his lips. For above the flat roof of the extension was an open window with two cats lying on the sill. He thought briefly of Miss Gunnery and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to all cat lovers. Still, he had better move fast. The very fact that she had left a window open for the cats meant she did not mean to be away long.

  He climbed nimbly up the drain-pipe onto the flat roof and gently shooing the cats inside, quietly raised the window and eased himself in over the sill.

  He found himself in an upstairs corridor. He opened one door. Box-room. He shut it and tried the next. This was obviously Andrew's bedroom: photographs of army groups on the walls, older photographs of university days, Rugby-team photographs. But Hamish was looking for letters.

  There was a desk by the window. He carefully sifted through tax accounts and various bills, replacing every bit of paper exactly as he had found it. Night was falling. It would soon be dark here compared to the north, where it would still be light. He quickened his search, not wanting to be forced to switch on a light.

  He let out a click of exasperation. There were no private letters at all, only business letters. There were no photographs apart from the ones on the walls. He turned away from the desk to a low bookshelf and carefully took out book after book and shook it, hoping that Andrew had hidden a photograph or letter in one of them, but there was nothing except the occasional bookmark.

  Perhaps he had a study downstairs, thought Hamish, another desk where he kept more personal things. He made his way quietly downstairs. He opened the door of a small but pleasant sitting-room. Here were family photographs in silver frames. There were various groups. Andrew at school, Andrew at university, Andrew at Sandhurst, and so on.

  And then he heard a car driving up. He made a dash for the door, tripped over a cushion which he hadn't seen lying on the floor, and measured his length on the carpet. He scrambled on his hands and knees behind the sofa, cursing silently. Mrs. Biggar, Andrew's mother, for it must surely be she, obviously moved very quickly, for she was inside the house and inside the sitting-room only moments after Hamish had heard the car arrive. He lay behind the sofa, and sweated. He heard her cross to the fireplace. The fire must have been already made up, for soon after the striking of a match, he heard the crackle of burning wood. He hoped she would leave the room, but the sofa creaked as she sat down on the end of it.

  And then the telephone in the room rang loudly, making him start.

  He heard her answer it, heard her say sharply, "Andrew?"

  There was a silence. Hamish desperately wished he could hear what was being said at Andrew's end of the line.

  Then Mrs. Biggar said, "Another murder! Andrew, this is dreadful, dreadful. But don't say I didn't warn you."

  Another silence, then Mrs. Biggar said, "I wish to God you had never become involved with that woman."

  A faint noise came from the other end of the line, Andrew protesting or explaining.

  "You should have told the police," complained Mrs. Biggar. "What if anyone saw the pair of you? No, don't tell me about discretion ...

  "Where? Well, that old cat Harriet Gourlay saw you in that Chinese restaurant in Evesham for a start. It's all most unlike you. And now you see what comes of knowing those sort of people. They're always beating each other up or murdering each other."

  Another long silence. She said in a softer voice. "I know you don't want me to come up, but if you need a lawyer or anything, you must let me know ...

  "Right, phone me at this time tomorrow if you can. Goodbye, darling."

  The receiver was replaced.

  Go away, prayed Hamish silently. Oh, please, go away!

  He heard her moving about the room and pressed his thin body even closer to the back of the sofa. And then one of the cats strolled round the back of the sofa. It climbed onto his chest and began kneading its claws into his sweater.

  He glared at the cat, willing it to go away, but with the cat's genius for loving where it is not wanted, it transferred its affections to his chin by butting its furry head against it. Its fur tickled Hamish's nose. He felt a sneeze coming and twisted his body round to dislodge the cat. To his relief he heard Mrs. Biggar leave the room. He took a swipe at the cat and missed. It pranced away happily. He heard a faint clatter of dishes in the distance. He eased himself to his feet. He went through the open door of the sitting-room and into the hall. To his immeasurable delight, the door stood open. He slipped outside. Then he stopped. He could not risk her seeing him walking away from the house. He turned about and rang the bell.

  She came to the door, wiping her hands on an apron. "Yes?"

  Hamish fixed her with a steely glare. "Have you found God?"

  "Go away!" she said and slammed the door in his face. He walked off down the drive, feelin
g almost light-hearted at having got clear away.

  He found his car where he had left it, got in and headed for Evesham. It had been scary, but overhearing that phone call had been marvellous. He could not tell Deacon that he had broken into Andrew's house and that was how he knew the couple had met before. But if he took those photographs of Andrew and Doris to the right Chinese restaurant and the owner recognized them, then that would be proof enough.

  Once he reached Evesham, he parked the car and decided to search on foot, knowing that country towns can have bewildering one-way traffic systems. A couple directed him to a Chinese restaurant in the High Street, saying that the other Chinese places, as far as they knew, were mostly take-away shops. It was housed in an elegant wood-paneled Carolean building. He asked the waiter for the manager or owner and a sober-suited Englishman appeared from the back premises. Hamish explained who he was and where he was from and produced the photographs of Doris and Andrew and then waited hopefully.

  To his disappointment the man shook his head but then said, "You'd best ask one of the waiters. I'm hardly ever in the restaurant itself." He summoned a waiter. Hamish studied the Chinese face of the waiter, wondering if all Occidentals looked the same to oriental eyes.

  But to his amazement the waiter said, "Yes, they were here." He put one long finger on Andrew's photograph. "I serve them. Both times. He very good tipper."

  Privately thanking Andrew Biggar for his memorable generosity, Hamish took a statement from the waiter and got him to sign it. He felt quite scared at his own luck.

  He drove happily back to Worcester, stopping at a pub on the road for a plate of sandwiches and a soft drink. He wondered whether to extend his researches on the following day by going to see Alice Brett, the legal secretary, or checking further into the Harrises, but on reflection decided that he had promised not to be away too long. He would return the hired car and go to Cheltenham and see this Mrs. Agnew, inquire after Miss Gunnery's cat, and then head north.