Hamish Macbeth 05; Death of a Hussy hm-5 Page 7

  She heard steps crunch on the gravel and switched off the light and walked outside. A tall dark figure stood outside the house, watching her.

  “Who is it?” asked Alison, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Peter Jenkins.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just need to get some air.” He moved closer, sensing rather than seeing her distress. “You upset about something?”

  “It’s the car,” whimpered Alison. “She scraped the car.”

  “Maggie did? I don’t understand. Is it your car?”

  “No.”

  There was a long silence.

  Then Peter let out a faint sigh. “I don’t want to go back’ in there yet. I may as well hear your troubles. Come and sit in my car and tell me all about it.”

  “I’ll bore you,” said Alison.

  “More than likely. But come along anyway.”

  His car turned out to be the latest model of Jaguar. It was parked with the others in a bit of open space outside the gateposts. He turned on the engine and switched on the heater. “It’ll get warm pretty quickly,” he said. “Cigarette?”

  “I can’t,” said Alison. “I’ve had cancer.” She began to sob and hiccup again.

  He handed her a handkerchief and waited for her to stop, then gently urged her to tell her story. Bit by bit it all came out. “If only she would die,” said Alison. “She’s going to change her will as soon as she chooses one of you as a husband.”

  “She can’t choose me,” said Peter. “I don’t want her.”

  “Why was she so sure of you, then?”

  The end of Peter’s cigarette glowed red in the darkness as he dragged on it. Then he said, “She’s changed. I had a fling with her, oh, let me see, I’m forty-eight now, say, about twenty years ago.”

  “How did it start?” asked Alison, curious despite her misery. “I mean, did you just say, I will pay you ‘X’ amount to go to bed with me?”

  “No, no, that’s not how the Maggies of this world operate. We went out on dates, I fell in love, she appeared to. At first it was expensive restaurants and expensive holidays, then she needed help with her mortgage, then she needed some bills paid, then it seemed logical to besotted me to give her a weekly allowance. But on my part, it was all for love.”

  “And then you got wise to her?”

  “Oh, no, she ditched me, for an Arab sheik, and left for the south of France with him. It took me a long time to get over it. There’s something cruel and, well…unbalanced about her now. I couldn’t believe my luck when I got her letter. I didn’t know she had invited the other fellows. She used to be so funny and warm and scatty and affectionate. You couldn’t help forgiving her. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been carrying a torch for her for years. Never married. What a waste!”

  But Alison couldn’t imagine a loveable Maggie and thought Peter a fool.

  “I wish I could speak to Hamish,” she said in a small voice.

  “Who’s Hamish?”

  “The village policeman.”

  “But, look here, you can’t report Maggie for scraping her own car!”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s just that Hamish seems to make things all right.”

  “Well, as I can’t sleep, I’ll take you there.”

  “But it’s after midnight!”

  “If he’s a conscientious bobby, he won’t mind being woken up.”

  “All right,” said Alison shyly, suddenly elated at the idea of seeing Hamish while being accompanied by this handsome man. And Peter did seem handsome to Alison, who did not notice the weakness in his face, having a pretty weak character herself.

  Hamish Macbeth, opening the kitchen door – Alison had quickly learned that friends and locals never used the front door – thought wearily as he looked at the two faces, God help us all if the meek do inherit the earth. He rucked his shirttail into his trousers. He had been undressing for bed when he had heard the knock at the door “Come in,” he said. “I am sure it must be something awfy important to get me out o’ bed.” Towser stood beside his master, blinking sleepily in the light. He let out a low growl, sensing Hamish’s dislike of Alison.

  “Oh, Hamish,” Alison wailed and threw herself against his chest.

  Peter noticed the way the policeman quickly put Alison away from him. Fat lot of sympathy she’s going to get from him, he thought, feeling suddenly protective of Alison.

  “Sit down,” said Hamish, “and I’ll fetch us a dram.”

  Hamish, when he drank, preferred warm bottled beer. His sideboard contained only a bottle of twelve-year-old malt whisky, a Christmas present he had never broached. It seemed such a waste to open it now, but hospitality was hospitality and Alison, tiresome though she might be, might cheer up with a little whisky inside her.

  He went back into the kitchen, carrying bottle and glasses, and poured three measures. “Now,” said Hamish, “begin at the beginning and go on to the end. I have had a visit from herself today. My! Isn’t plastic surgery and bleach the wondrous thing? She was like one of thae film stars, ye know, she looked like beauty preserved rather than beauty reclaimed.”

  Clutching her glass, Alison told the whole dismal story, of Maggie’s will, of her plans to marry, of her damaging the car, and ended up with, “I can’t have any respect for her, Hamish, not after having read her book.”

  “What book?” asked Peter Jenkins sharply.

  “She’s written a book about her affairs and a nasty bit of pornography it is too,” said Alison. “So what am I to do, Hamish?”

  “I’ve told you before,” said Hamish quietly. “Get away from her. You’re a grown woman. You can earn your own money.”

  “But…but…I’m still weak and what if the cancer comes back?”

  “It’s got more chance of coming back if you stay on with her and keep getting yourself into a state,” said Hamish.

  Peter Jenkins eyed the policeman coldly. What sort of help and comfort was this? In fact, what sort of policeman was this? In Peter’s mind, policemen should always be on duty and always be in uniform. Hamish was wearing a tartan shirt, an old pair of cavalry twill trousers, and had thrust his bare feet into carpet slippers. His red hair was tousled and his eyelashes were ridiculously long.

  “That sort of advice,” said Peter, “is very easy to dole out, but very hard to take.”

  “But the lassie’s in such misery, anything else would be better,” said Hamish patiently. “What would you suggest?”

  “I would suggest, Officer, that you have a word with Mrs. Baird and tell her to be nicer to Alison.”

  “For heffen’s sake.” Hamish stifled a yawn. “If Mrs. Baird wants to play the wicked stepmother and Alison here is hellbent on playing Cinderella, I can’t do anything about it.”

  “Come along, Alison,” said Peter Jenkins sternly. “There’s no point in your staying here. If you ask me, it’s all a great waste of time.”

  “I couldnae agree wi’ you more,” said Hamish sweetly. His hazel eyes mocked Peter. “Och, if you ask me, this lassie’s got nothing to complain about. You’ve got to pull yourself together, Alison, you’ve become a right wee moaning Minnie.”

  Shocked and hurt, Alison stumbled to her feet. Peter put an arm about her shoulders.

  “You despicable pillock,” he raged at Hamish. “Don’t you see she’s had more than enough to bear?”

  “Aw, go and boil your heid,” said Hamish with lazy insolence.

  Peter almost dragged Alison from the police station. As he slammed the door behind them, Hamish leapt from his chair and stood with his ear pressed against the kitchen door. “In future, Alison,” he heard Peter say firmly, “you’d be better off coming to me for help.”

  Hamish grinned. Well, let’s hope that got Sir Galahad up on his high horse, he said to himself, nothing like a bit o’ knight errantry to stiffen the weakest spine.

  Perhaps because of Hamish’s remarks, Alison tried again on the following morning to get Maggie’s permiss
ion to use the car, and the resultant row sounded around the house. If Alison wanted a car that much, she could damn well buy one, said Maggie, ending up by calling her “a useless drip.”

  Alison was shuffling about the garden later that day, kicking the weeds, when Crispin Witherington approached. “Couldn’t help hearing the row,” he said.

  He was dressed in what he fondly imagined suitable gear for the Highlands – lovat green cord breeches with green socks and brogues, tweed jacket, checked shirt, and a paisley cravat held in place by a large gold horseshoe. He had a rasping, rather hectoring voice, but Alison wanted sympathy.

  “I hate Maggie,” she muttered.

  “Oh, it’s just her fun. I’ll bet she’s fond of you. Tell you what, I’ll let you drive my roller.”

  “I’m only used to the small car,” said Alison, looking longingly to where Crispin’s white Rolls Royce was parked.

  “Oh, come on, have a go.”

  “All right,” said Alison, suddenly feeling like no end of a femme fatale. Peter had shown an interest in her and now here was Crispin.

  “Better drive it out onto the road for you,” said Crispin. “I’ll look up the map first and pick a place to go.”

  “I know practically all the places ‘round here,” said Ali-son, but Crispin crackled open an ordinance survey map as if she had not spoken.

  “Ah, let’s try this place, Fern Bay, sounds pretty.”

  “I know the road there,” said Alison eagerly.

  “Now, then, girlie, just you drive and I’ll navigate. Always go by the map, that’s my motto.”

  Alison drove off, nervously at first but then slowly gaining confidence. But it was to be her first experience of a backseat driver, or rather, a front-seat one. “Too fast,” he snapped. “Slow down a bit.”

  Alison dutifully slowed down to thirty miles per hour.

  “We’ll never get anywhere if you’re going to crawl along,” he said after a few minutes. “Turn off next left.”

  “But that’s not the road to – ”

  “I said, turn off,” he growled.

  Alison reduced speed at the turn with a great crash of gears. “No wonder Maggie won’t let you drive,” jeered Crispin.

  She slowed the big car to a halt, switched off the engine and carefully put on the handbrake, and turned to him. Enough was enough! “Why did you want me to come out with you?” she demanded in a thin, shaky voice. “I know all the roads around here and I don’t care what your map says, this is a dead end.”

  He let out a hearty laugh although his eyes were humourless. “You ladies are always touchy about your driving. So, I’m wrong. There! I apologise. Friends?”

  “Yes,” said Alison weakly.

  “You see, we could be of great help to each other.”

  “I don’t see how…”

  “Maggie’s fond of you.” He took out a thin gold cigarette case and extracted a cigarette. “I know she bitches at you like hell but she must like you or she wouldn’t have made out her will in your favour.”

  “But that was before you…”

  “Before we all turned up? I think she’s playing games. I think she don’t want any of us. She’s changed.”

  “When did you…erm…meet her?”

  “Ten years ago just after my marriage broke up. She came in to buy a car, a Jag, and I ended up paying for it and when our affair broke up, she sold it and bought that heap of trash she’s driving around at the moment.”

  “That was a very good car,” said Alison furiously, “before she started mangling it.”

  “Well, have it your way. Anyway, then she was fun. It cost me a bomb but it was a barrel of laughs while it lasted.” He put a pudgy hand on Alison’s knee and squeezed it. “We could get along fine, girlie. Looks to me as if you haven’t had much of a life. I could show you a good time.”

  “I would like to go home now,” said Alison, her voice coming out in a squeak.

  “Not yet. It’s a fine afternoon. Let’s find this Fern Bay and have a few noggins.”

  Alison hadn’t the courage to stand up to him. But he had stopped navigating and criticising her driving. Alison pulled up outside Fern Bay’s one pub, which was more of a shack. It was a dingy bar ornamented with posters warning crofters of the penalties to be incurred if they did not dip their sheep, an announcement of a Girl Guide rally of a few years back, and a notice saying that drink would not be served to minors. A row of small men in cloth caps leaned over the bar.

  Alison felt herself beginning to blush. There were still pubs in the Highlands where the presence of a female was frowned on and she felt this was one of them.

  A jukebox in the corner was grinding out a seventies pop record, the sort of music which might sound catchy to someone stoned on pot, but to the clearheaded appeared a series of rhythmic thumps overtopped by a harsh voice yelling out unintelligible sounds.

  Crispin approached the bar and squeezed his way in between two of the locals. “Hey, mine host,” he cried. “A little service here.”

  “Aye, whit dae ye want?” said the barman, wiping his hands on a greasy apron. He was a great hairy man with an untrimmed red beard.

  “I’ll have a scotch and water,” said Crispin.

  “Aye, and whit aboot yer daughter?”

  “I’ll have the same,” said Alison.

  “My friend will have the same,” said Crispin, who wondered at the same time why barmen the length and breadth of the British Isles usually referred to his female companion as his daughter, no matter what age the lady was, not knowing his offensive manner always prompted the time-honoured insult.

  They sat down at a rickety plastic table by the window with their drinks.

  “This is fun,” said Crispin. “I like these quaint old places. It’s amazing when you look about places like this and realise that Britain still does have a peasantry.”

  One of the small men turned from the bar and approached their table. He went straight up to Crispin who smiled at him weakly and then before Crispin or Alison could guess what the man was about to do, he whipped off his cap and butted Crispin on the forehead.

  Crispin groaned and clutched his head.

  “You assaulted him!” screamed Alison. “I’ll call the police.”

  But the word police seemed to have an amazingly restorative effect on Crispin. “I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s get out of this smelly place.”

  When they got outside, Alison noticed he looked white and shaken and there was a lump beginning to form on his forehead.

  “I’d best get you back,” said Alison. “Are you sure you’re all right? I mean, I could call the police.” Fern Bay was probably on Hamish’s beat, thought Alison, and then remembered Hamish’s cruelty of the previous evening.

  “No, no, I’ll be all right in a tick. That little bastard. Did you see the way he just put his cap back on and went back to his drink as if nothing had happened?”

  “It’s because you’re English,” said Alison soothingly. “They don’t like the English and I don’t suppose they like being called peasants either.”

  Maggie was waiting for them when they got back. She was holding a pile of typed manuscript.

  “I’ve made some changes,” she said nastily to Alison, “so you better get in there and start typing.”

  “Alison said you were writing a book. Are we all in it?” asked Peter Jenkins.

  “Wait and see,” said Maggie with a husky laugh. The four men who were in the living room exchanged uneasy looks. Maggie rounded on Alison. “Well, stop standing there like a drip and get to work!”

  “I’d like a word with you in private, Maggie, now!” said Peter.

  “Very well. Come outside.”

  Alison went into the study, feeling a little glow of warmth. Peter was going to give Maggie a telling off about her harsh treatment of her. The study window overlooked the garden. Alison longed to hear what Peter was saying. She pushed open the window and listened hard.

  Peter’s well-modu
lated drawl reached her ears quite clearly.

  “This advertising business of mine has been going through some hard tunes, Maggie,” she heard him say. “But I’ve got some new top clients and the money will be coming through soon. If you could see your way to lending me a few thousand, I can pay you back at the end of six months and at a good rate of interest, too.”

  “So you want my money without having to marry me to get it?” said Maggie.

  “Oh, love, come here and give me a kiss. If I thought I had a hope in hell of getting you, I wouldn’t have asked…”

  Alison closed the window and sat down, feeling miserable. No one loved her; Hamish was fed up with her and Peter and Crispin were only making up to her because they thought she had an in with Maggie.

  The study door opened and James Frame sidled in. “I say…” he began tentatively.

  “If you’ve come to ask me to put in a word with Maggie, forget it!” said Alison bitterly. “She hates me and I hate her and I wish I were dead but I’d like to see her in her grave first!”

  “Gosh, you are in a tizzy,” said James, smoothing down his patent leather hair with a nervous hand. “I only came to ask you…well, don’t you see, it’s that damn book that’s worrying me. Be a good chap and tell me if she’s got me in it.”

  Alison looked at him with loathing. She hated them all. “You’re all in it,” she said spitefully, “and highly pornographic it is, too. Do be an angel and tell the rest, won’t you? I’m sick of being pestered and I’ve got work to do.”

  The study door opened again and this time Maggie walked in. She stopped short at the sight of James. If Alison had listened at the window a little bit longer, she would have heard Peter defending her. That and the fact that her niece had been out driving with Crispin had put Maggie in a towering rage. The sight of James bending over Alison was the last straw.

  “When you’ve finished typing that book,” said Maggie to Alison, “you can pack your things and leave.”