Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob (11 page)

“And then I got up,” Jane went on. The black dress had a deep V at the front. She leaned forward and stared at Blair, whose eyes goggled at the amount of rich cleavage exposed. “Diarmuid—Mr. Todd—was in the lounge and shortly afterwards I joined him. The rest, minus Heather, came back. We went out to search. I was on my own. I walked as far as the centre of the island before I gave up. I didn’t see any of the other searchers until I got back.”

Blair asked her a few more questions and then dismissed her after asking her to send John Wetherby in.

The barrister appeared looking cross, dressed in pyjamas and dressing-gown. He railed on for several minutes about the ‘indecent’ party until he was silenced by Blair’s remarking patronizingly that he had obviously never attended a Highland funeral, just as if he, Blair, had not been equally shocked by the festivities.

Blair’s questions, to Hamish’s surprise, were only’ perfunctory. His surprise increased as the Carpenters and Hariet were also questioned in the same brief manner. Where was Blair’s usual hectoring and bullying?

They were finally all allowed to go to bed, Blair saying he would be back first thing in the morning.

“It nearly is morning,” said Harriet to Hamish and then gave a cavernous yawn. “So much for a police grilling. He never really asked anything. Maybe he’s saving his big guns for Diarmuid.”

“Maybe,” said Hamish, although in his heart of hearts he felt that Blair, who had worked Christmas so as to have extra time to enjoy the New Year celebrations, was only interested in getting it written off as an accident.

♦

Blair did not turn up until ten o’clock, and with him he brought Jessie Maclean, Diarmuid’s secretary, who had ar rived on a fishing boat. She was a slim, pale girl in her late twenties with straight brown hair and horn-rimmed spectacles.

Diarmuid was summoned to Jane’s office. Jessie went to fetch him and tried to follow nun in, but Blair told her sharply that as she had reported to him as soon as she had got off the boat and he had taken her statement, he had no more need ofher.

Flanked by his detectives and this time with a uniformed policeman complete with tape recorder, Blair started his interrogation. Hamish hovered by the door, watching Diarmuid’s bland and handsome face. He discovered to his surprise that he did not like Diarmuid, but why, he did not know. Heather had been so awful that all he had felt before for Diarmuid was mild pity.

“Now,” said Blak, “we are sorry we have to put you through this, Mr. Tbdd, but I’ll need your movements yesterday.”

Diarmuid took out a pipe, filled it and lit it carefully. “I had a row with my wife when we were out walking, I confess that.”

“What was it about?”

“Money,” said Diarmuid. “I told her she would need to pull her horns in a bit when we got back to Glasgow. No more lavish entertaining. She took exception to this and stormed off. I walked about a bit and then returned to the hotel. There was no sign of Jane, so I read a book. Jane emerged from her room just as the others returned.” He went on to describe the search, saying he had walked miles along the beach on the eastern side of the island in front of the hotel.

“I gather from Miss Maclean that your finances are in a bad way,” said Blair.

“Well, I must-admit the slump in house sales caused by the high interest rates caught me on the hop. That’s why Heather and I could take such a long holiday. I dismissed the staff and locked up for the whiter. I’d already sold off two of my branches, so there was just the main office left. What a mess. Thank God Jessie’s here. She’ll be able to sort it all out.”

“Do you inherit anything on your wife’s death?”

“Nothing but a joint overdraft,” said Diarmuid.

“Was her life insured?”

Hamish listened hard.

“It was, but we didn’t keep up the payments, so there’s nothing from mat.” Diarmuid sighed heavily.

Blair looked at him sharply. “You know we can check on all this at the Glasgow end?”

“You don’t even need to do that,” said Diarmuid a trifle smugly. “Jessie’s brought all the relevant business papers with her.”

“Why should she do that?”

“Because I phoned her and told her to.”

Blair looked at him suspiciously as he sat there smoking and frowning deeply, like an actor sitting smoking and frowning deeply. There was always something stagy about Diarmuid, Hamish thought.

The Detective Chief Inspector was worried. He did not like Diarmuid’s attitude. He did not like the way he had had the foresight to get his secretary to come up, complete with papers. But Blair wanted to wrap the case up as soon as possible.

“How did Miss Maclean get here so quickly?” he asked.

“There’s a night train from Glasgow to Oban, which arrives at six in the morning. I told her to get that and I phoned the hotel and arranged for one of the fishing boats to go over and pick her up.”

“You must ha’ paid a fair whack to get a fishing boat to go all that way.”

“Yes, but I needed Jessie’s help,” said Diarmuid patiently.

“Who was the fisherman?” asked Hamish suddenly.

“Angus Macleod. Him that usually runs trips to the mainland for Jane,” said Diarmuid.

“But,” expostulated Hamish, “Angus Macleod iss the fellow who shut Jane up in that pillbox.”

“What’s this?” asked Blair.

With a studied patience that was beginning to get on Hamish’s nerves, Diarmuid explained about the ‘prank’. Hamish could almost sense Blair relaxing. There was now no doubt in Hamish’s mind that Blair was going to do everything to prove Heather’s death an accident, and unless Diarmuid was incredibly naive, he was helping the inspector do just that.

Blaur brought the interview to an end. He said he would go back to the hotel and see if the forensic team had reported in with anything.

Hamish went in search of Jane. “Would you mind very much if I stayed on for a bit?” he asked her. “lam convinced that Blair is going to drop the case. I would like to stay on and see if I can discover anything.”

“Then you should,” said Jane earnestly. “I can see you are dedicated to your job, Hamish, and you must have peace of mind or you will begin to suffer from stress.”

Much as Hamish had expected, Blair came back in two hours’ time and called them all together. “The forensic team found nothing on thae rocks or on the beach.”

“Which proves,” said Hamish quickly, “that someone must have struck her a blow on the neck. If she had hit a rock on her road down, then—”

“Aw, shut up,” said Blair, his Glaswegian accent becoming thicker in his irritation. “Better heads than yours, laddie, hiv discovered it was an accident. Mr. Tbdd, your wife’s body has been taken to the procurator fiscal at Strathbane and can be recovered there. As I said, it was an accident, and that’s that.”

Hamish followed him out. “I don’t think you really believe what you’ve just said,” he remarked.

“Don’t you tell me what I’m thinking or no’ thinking,” sneered Blair, “and remember you’re addressing a senior officer. Accident, Macbeth. That’s all. Anyway, you got a tasty piece there tae keep ye warm.”

“Don’t dare speak to me of Harriet Shaw in those terms,” shouted Hamish.

“Ach, dinnae be daft. I’m no’ speakin’ about the auld bird what writes cookery books. Jane Wetherby. Yum, yum.” And with a heavy wink, Blair got into a battered rented car. Jimmy Anderson, at the wheel, threw Hamish a sympathetic look before driving off.

Hamish went back indoors to hear Diarmuid say pathetically that he would like to stay on for a couple of days to recover before going to Strathbane to make arrangements for the body to be taken down to Glasgow for burial. Jessie, he said, was in the office making all the necessary phone calls.

Harriet looked at Hamish sympathetically. “Care to go out?” she asked.

Hamish looked at her, at her clear eyes, crisp hair and firm figure and felt all his anger and irritation melt away.

“What had ye in mind?” he asked.

“A late working lunch, copper. We’ve had nothing to eat. Get some paper and we’ll go down to the hotel and try to work out who did it.”

“So you think it might be murder as well?”

“Not exactly. But I think we ought to be sure. Blair’s the sort of man who makes one want to prove him wrong.”

They walked briskly towards Skulag. The day was crisp and clear, and for once, windless. The sea shone with a dull grey light on their left. Hamish was surprised not to see Geordie’s truck. Geordie, it appeared, plied his way regularly between the west coast and the village of Skulag, bringing lobsters and fish over, to be loaded onto the ferry when it arrived for delivery to the mainland, or, in summer, put in a large refrigerator shed behind the jetty to await the arrival of the next ferry. In winter, it was always cold enough to store the seafood on the jetty. He also collected goods brought over by ferry or fishing boat and delivered mem to various croft houses dotted over the island. He had been working over Christmas, so it was possible he had finally decided to take a rest. The islanders were mainly Presbyterian and a lot of them would think Christmas, despite its name, a pagan festival. Hogmanay—New Year’s Eve—was the real celebration.

The owner of The Highland Comfort, who acted as barman and, it appeared, just about everything else, informed mem sourly that the dining-room was closed in the winter but that they could have a meal in the bar. When they were seated, he handed them two greasy menus and left diem to make up their minds.

“So much for Highland delicacies,” mourned Harriet. “Chips with everything. Hamburger and chips, lasagne and chips, pie and chips, sausage and chips, and ham, egg and chips.”

“I’ll have the ham, egg and chips,” said Hamish, “and a half pint of beer.”

Harriet settled for the same. The landlord wrote their order down carefully. “I shouldnae hae tae do this mysel’,” he complained. “But I cannae get staff. There wass wan girl left and herself walked out on me.”

He slouched off.

“Since it’ll probably take him about an hour to fry an egg,” said Hamish, “let’s get started.” He opened out a folded pad of paper and took out a pen. “Jane Wetherby first. Any views?”

“I keep thinking about that coat,” said Harriet eagerly. “Look, while Jane was away, we watched an Agatha Christie play on television. A woman calls in Poirot to protect her against somebody who has already tried to murder her. She invites her cousin to stay a few days with her. The cousin puts on the woman’s highly coloured wrap and is killed by mistake. But it turned out that the cousin was the intended victim all along. The woman had manufactured attempts on her life to hide that fact. Jane wasn’t with us. But she could have watched the show on television at her friend Priscilla’s hotel.”

Priscilla. Hamish looked startled. He hadn’t phoned to wish anyone a happy Christmas. They would not know what he was up to, because there would only be about two lines in the newspapers describing the accidental death of a tourist on Eileencraig. Harriet was still talking.

“So you see, Hamish, we have something of the same scenario here. Jane told you of attempts on her life. And it was Jane who told Heather to take her coat. Jane could easily have lied about that headache and slipped out of the house by the back way. The question is…why?”

“That brings us to Diarmuid,” said Hamish. “Heather was older, a bore and a snob. He married her for her money and that money is gone. Did he have someone else ready to be Mrs. Tbdd Number Two? His business is so bad, he closed down for the whole of December and a bit of January. He could have run after Heather when he was out of sight of the rest of you, stalked her over to the west coast, waited until she climbed up on that crag, and then struck her on the side of the neck with a sharp rock. All he had to do then was hurl the rock in the sea. As I told you, I saw Jane slipping him a note. Jane is a very wealthy woman with a good business. She’s also got looks, and Heather had none. Worth killing for, don’t you think? Diarmuid is incredibly vain, and vain men are dangerous.”

“What about John Wetherby?” asked Harriet. “You know, Hamish, for all his sour manner, I think he’s still in love with Jane. What if something made him go mad with jealousy? What if he went over the edge and struck down Heather when we were searching for her, seeing only that yellow oilskin and thinking it was Jane?”

Hamish wrote busily. “We’d better check into John Wetherby’s business affairs and find out if Jane still has a will in his favour, that is, if she ever had one. What about the Carpenters? Is there something there?”

“I don’t think so,” said Harriet roundly, “and neither do you. But I suppose they’ll have to be checked into as well. But how can you do it, not being officially on the case?”

“Wonder o’ wonders,” said Hamish, “here comes our food and beer.”

As they munched their way through greasy chips, salty, fatty ham and watery eggs, and drank their flat beer, Hamish kept looking down at his notes. “I think I should find out what was in that note Jane slipped to Diarmuid,” he said. “But then, we should concentrate more on Heather’s character. See what you can get out of that secretary. Make a friend of her.”

Harriet grinned. “Right you are, Sherlock.”

♦

When they returned to the health farm, it was to find Diarmuid had retreated to his room again. The rest, including Jessie, were watching television.

Harriet asked. Jessie if she would like to take a walk and get a bit of fresh air. Jessie agreed and the pair walked outside.

Harriet studied her companion as they both strolled along the beach. Jessie was attired in a chain store’s contribution to ‘power dressing’. She had on a pin-striped suit, the jacket having very large square shoulder pads, and a short tailored skirt. With it, she wore a high-necked white blouse and black court shoes with low heels.

After some general conversation on the tragedy, Harriet asked curiously, “But what about you? What will you do now? I mean, I gather Diarmuid’s business was pretty much finished.”

“Oh, there’ll be a lot of winding-up of affairs,” said Jessie. “I’ll be kept busy. Then I might go away somewhere. Try going to another country.”

“But you’ve had a month off.”