Death of Yesterday (3 page)

“No kitchen or bathroom,” commented Hamish.

“My guests use the bathroom on the first floor and the kitchen on the ground floor,” said Jason.

“What brought you up from England?” asked Hamish.

“Quality of life.”

“What! In Cnothan?”

“It’s beautiful round here. I do a bit of fishing. Suits me.”

Jimmy drew back the curtain of the “wardrobe.” “Clothes are all here,” he said, “and a suitcase.” He opened the suitcase. “Empty.”

Outside, a cloud passed over the sun and Hamish repressed a shiver. “I don’t like this, Jimmy,” he said. “I think me and Dick ought to stay here and see if he comes back. He’s by way of being the only witness we’ve got.”

“Suit yourself.” Jimmy’s phone rang. He glanced at it. “Blair on the warpath,” he said. “I’m not answering it, but I’d better get back down to the factory.”

* * *

Hamish sat down on a hard chair and looked around the room. It did not look like a young man’s room. There was no computer, no posters to brighten the walls. He wished now that he had asked Fergus more about himself. The door opened but it was only Dick, who had opted to stay outside and had become bored.

“I’ve just thought o’ something,” said Hamish. “I can’t remember seeing any sketchbooks at all in Morag’s flat. She might have had a sketch of Fergus.”

“Maybe she took them with her when she left,” said Dick.

“But she didnae leave,” exclaimed Hamish, exasperated.

“We going to sit here all day?” asked Dick.

“If that’s what it takes.”

Dick sat down opposite Hamish on another hard chair. He closed his eyes, folded his plump hands over his stomach, and fell asleep.

The hours dragged past. A seagull screamed harshly outside the window. Somewhere a dog barked. Sounds of cooking filtered from downstairs.

“I’ll go and interview the other tenants,” said Hamish.

Dick gave a gentle snore.

“Useless,” muttered Hamish and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

Three men were seated at the table, eating bacon, eggs, and fried haggis. “I want to ask you about Fergus Mc-Queen,” said Hamish, taking out his notebook. “When did you last see him?”

A burly man with thinning grey hair and dazzlingly white dentures said, “Cannae mind. Quiet wee soul. Us three work at the forestry. Fergus just mooches around.”

“Hamish!”

Hamish swung round. Jimmy was standing in the doorway. “Come outside. I’ve got something.”

Hamish followed him outside the house. “It’s like this,” said Jimmy. “Our Fergus has a wee police record. Petty theft. His parents live in Dingwall. He might have gone there.”

“Give me the address and I’ll get over there,” said Hamish.

“No point. Dingwall police have got it covered.”

“Jimmy, Morag was aye sketching folk. But I can’t remember seeing any sketchbooks in her flat.”

“When the murderer put that card on her door,” said Jimmy patiently, “it stands to reason he went in and took away anything incriminating. There wasn’t a mobile phone or a computer in the place. There’s something else. A preliminary examination of the body shows she was strangled with a scarf. Also, she was three months’ pregnant. The local doctor finally coughed up, after the usual complaints about patient confidentiality, that she had been consulting him about it.”

“That means she was having an affair,” said Hamish. “Surely someone knew who the man was?”

“Maybe. But by the time Blair had finished shouting and yelling, I doubt if anyone wanted to confide in him.”

“Where is Blair now?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Stormed off, threatening to return in the morning.”

“I’m going to ask around the place now he’s gone. Is the factory shut up for the evening?”

“There’s a late shift.”

“I’ll get down there,”

“See you tomorrow,” said Jimmy.

In his eagerness to find out something—anything—to break the case, Hamish forgot about Dick.

The lights from the factory were reflected in the black waters of the loch. He could hear the clatter of sewing machines. He was somehow surprised that sewing machines were still used, having imagined that some computer technology might have taken over.

It was a small enterprise, he had learned, helped by government funding to bring work to this part of the Highlands. There were eight women busy at the sewing machines while a supervisor walked up and down, checking their work.

Hamish approached her. He guessed she was in her fifties with a pouchy raddled face and piggy eyes.

“No’ the polis again!” she shouted above the clattering of the machines.

Hamish gave her a charming smile. “I’m sure these ladies can look after themselves for a bit while we have a dram in the pub.”

“Aye, weel, I wouldnae say no.”

To Hamish’s relief, the pub on the waterfront that the staff used, the Loaming, was fairly quiet. The supervisor, who had introduced herself as Maisie Moffat, asked for a vodka and Red Bull. Hamish got a tonic water for himself and guided her to a table in the corner.

She took a swig of her drink and then said, “I suppose ye want to know about the dead lassie.”

“She was pregnant,” said Hamish. “Three months. Might you have an idea who the man might be?”

“When herself arrived three months ago, I mind she was stepping out wi’ Geordie Fleming. I wouldnae tell that cheil, Blair. Nasty bully. Geordie’s a wee meek creature. It waud be the virgin birth if he had anything tae dae wi’ it. God, I’m gasping for a fag. Bloody nanny state. Can I have another?”

“Sure,” said Hamish. He made his way to the bar, hoping he could get the drinks on expenses.

When he returned to join her, he asked, “Where does Geordie live?”

“Big hoose along on your left called Ben Cruachan. Cannae miss it. Got wan o’ thae big monkey puzzle trees outside.”

“And what’s his job in the factory?”

“He’s an accountant. Works in a wee office next to where Morag worked.”

“And how long did their relationship last?”

“Och, they went to the films in Strathbane once. Morag was a snotty, nasty piece o’ work. Considered herself too good for the rest of us. I think she dumped Geordie after a week.”

“Did she have any female friends?”

“Maybe the one. Freda Crichton, works in design. Another snobby bitch.”

“Where does she live?”

“Up the main street. Cottage next tae the post office stores.”

Geordie Fleming’s house was not big. It was a trim bungalow. Hamish looked up at the monkey puzzle tree, wondering if it had been there before the house was built. It must have been, he decided, to grow to such a size.

He pressed the doorbell and waited.

It never really gets dark at night in the far north of Scotland, more a sort of pearly gloaming, when—so the old people still believe—the fairies come out to lead unwary highlanders astray.

The door opened and a young woman stood there, looking up at the tall figure of Hamish. She was a highland beauty. She had a pale white face and brown-gold eyes like peat water. Her thick, black glossy hair fell almost to her waist. She was wearing a thin cambric blouson over brief shorts and low-heeled strapped sandals.

Hamish whipped off his cap. “Is Mr. Fleming at home?”

“My brother is in the shower. What is this about?”

“I am investigating the death of Morag Merrilea.”

“You’d better come in.”

She led the way into the living room. “Take a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Hamish looked around. It was such a plain, ordinary-looking room to house such a goddess. There was a three-piece suite in brown cord. A low coffee table held a few fashion magazines. The carpet was brown with swirls of red and yellow. A small television stood on its metal stand in a corner. There were no photographs, books, or paintings. The room was dimly lit with one standard lamp in the corner.

Hamish was about to sit down when she returned. He got to his feet. She surveyed the tall policeman with the hazel eyes and flaming red hair. “Geordie will be with you shortly.”

“I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Sergeant Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh.”

“I’m Hannah Fleming. I’m up from Glasgow.” Her voice had a pleasant lilt. “Do sit down.”

Hamish sat down in one of the armchairs, and she perched on the edge of another.

“Are you here on holiday?”

“Just a short visit,” said Hannah.

“And what do you do in Glasgow, Miss Fleming. It is ‘miss’?”

“Yes. I work as public relations officer for Dollyton Fashions in the arcade in Buchanan Street. Oh, here’s Geordie. I’ll leave you to it.”

Hamish guessed that Geordie Fleming was possibly in his thirties, although his stooped shoulders and thinning black hair made him look older. It was hard to believe he was the brother of such a beauty. He was wearing a dressing gown over his pyjamas and had a pair of battered carpet slippers on his feet.

“I’ve been interviewed already by your boss,” said Geordie crossly. “Is it necessary to go over the whole thing again?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Both men sat down. Hamish took out his notebook. “Where were you on the evening of fourteenth July?” he asked.

“Was that the day that Morag said she was drugged?”

“Yes.”

“I was probably here. On my own, watching television.”

“Do you go to that pub?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Recovering alcoholic?”

“Of course not! I just don’t like the stuff.”

“Now,” said Hamish, “it has been said that you were dating Morag.”

“We went out a couple of times,” said Geordie. “Once to the movies and then another time for dinner.”

“Did you have a relationship with her?”

“Sex?”

“Well, yes.”

“No. She was a patronising cow, if you ask me, and I dumped her after the second date.”

“
You
dumped
her
?”

“She yakked on the whole time about what a lot of peasants we were and about how superior she was. Got on my nerves.”

“Did you know she was pregnant?”

“No! And believe me, it had nothing to do with me. I didn’t even kiss the lassie.”

“So who else could she have been involved with?”

“Can’t think. You’d best ask Freda Crichton. They were close.”

“Would you be prepared to give a DNA sample?”

“Of course. Got nothing to hide.”

“Did she say anything about an appointment with a hypnotist?”

“Yakked on about it all over the factory.”

“It’s getting late,” said Hamish, rising to his feet. “I’d better catch Miss Crichton before she goes to bed.”

Geordie escorted him out. Hamish looked back, hoping to get a glimpse of Hannah, but there was no sign of her.

“Thon’s one big tree,” commented Hamish. “Must keep the house dark.”

“
Araucaria araucana
,” he said bitterly, glaring up at the monkey puzzle. “Yes, it was there when I got the house built. I was going to cut it down but they said it was the lone survivor of old Lord Barrie’s estate which got drowned in the new loch. He owned the old village. The bloody thing’s got a preservation order on it.”

Hamish looked back at the house as he was about to get into the Land Rover. Hannah was looking out of one of the windows. She quickly closed the curtains.

I’ve had it with women anyway, thought Hamish as he drove off. He had been briefly engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the retired colonel who owned the Tommel Castle Hotel, and then had thoughts of marrying Elspeth Grant, a television presenter, but she was engaged to Barry Dalrymple, the man in charge of the news programmes. He had so far heard no further news of their wedding, which was supposed to take place in Lochdubh.

At first he thought Freda Crichton was not at home. Thinking the doorbell might not be working, he had hammered on the door, but her cottage remained in darkness. He was just about to turn away when a light went on upstairs. He turned back and waited patiently.

At last the door opened and a very small woman stood there. Her hair was wound up in pink rollers above a small nut-brown face. Two small black eyes surveyed him curiously.

“I am sorry to disturb you so late,” said Hamish, “but I have a few questions. I am Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.”

“I have already been interviewed by the police.”

“Just a few more questions,” said Hamish stubbornly.

“Oh, come in,” she said ungraciously. “But don’t take all night about it.”

She had a Yorkshire accent.

Her living room was a jumble of swatches of bright cloth. A large table at the window held a drawing board and drawing materials. “Clear a chair and sit down,” she ordered.

“I believe you were a friend of Morag’s,” said Hamish.

“For the umpteenth time—yes.”

“How would you describe her?”

“Clever. Intelligent. A good friend.”

“Was she having an affair with any of the men at the factory?”

“Absolutely not. She wouldn’t lower herself.”

“Yet she was three months’ pregnant,” said Hamish.

She stared at him out of those small black eyes and then she dipped her head and began to cry. Great sobs racked her small body.

“There now,” said Hamish. He rose up and went and knelt in front of her and gathered her in his arms. “Shh, now. It’ll be all right. Tell Hamish what’s bothering you.”

He held her and patted her back until the crying ceased. She pulled a handkerchief out of her dressing gown pocket and mopped her eyes.

Hamish retreated to his chair. “She couldn’t have been,” said Freda finally.

“Well, she was, sure as sure.”

“Maybe some bastard drugged her like they did the night she disappeared.”

“Morag did not complain,” said Hamish quietly. “In fact, she consulted the local doctor to confirm the pregnancy.”

“But we were mates. I loved her!” wailed Freda. “She said she loved me. She said we’d be together always.”

“Are you by way of being a lesbian?” asked Hamish.

“Yes. So what?”

“So nothing,” said Hamish sharply, thinking that Morag could not have been much of a friend. “I have to ask you what you were doing on the evening of the fourteenth of July.”

“I was here, working on some designs.”