Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob (12 page)

“And glad of it, too,” said Jessie waspishly. “The Tbdds were a couple of slave-drivers.”

“How can that be, if the business wasn’t doing at all well? I mean, what was there to do?”

Jessie stopped and looked at Harriet suspiciously and then shrugged. “It was her that was the problem. I don’t believe that woman even knew how to wipe her own backside.” The crudity sounded odd, spoken as it was in Jessie’s prim, Scottish-accented, carefully etecuted vowels. “Who do you think did all the work, setting up her ‘little parties’? Who typed her damn letters to this and that? Me. Even if the business hadn’t collapsed, I meant to leave anyway.”

“Did she entertain much?” Harriet watched fcssie closely, thinking what a moody, rather spiteful girl she appeared. “Oh, lots. It was all supposed to help the business. Invite the ‘right’ people in the hope they would become clients, lavish drink and concert tickets on them. And a useless lot they were, too. Occasionally she’d net a celebrity, by playing one celebrity off against the other, you know—‘Mr. Bloggs is coming, Mr. Biggs’, and Mr. Biggs is reassured that mere is to be another eminent celebrity, as is Mr. Bloggs when he is phoned and told that Mr. Biggs is coming. Old trick, but a surprising lot fell for it. I think Mr. Todd will find he hasn’t a friend in the world when it gets about he hasn’t any money.” This was said with a peculiar relish.

“Heather told me some very colourful stories about her upbringing in the Gorbals when it was one of the worst shims in Glasgow,” said Harriet, “so how did she have so much money?”

Jessie sniffed. “That was one of her lies to make her a genuine member of the left. She was brought up as an only child in a large house in Billhead, which, in case you dont know, is a posh suburb near the university. She became left-wing to get an entree into a society which would otherwise have rejected her—you know, theatre, writing, me arts.”

“Was Diamond a good boss?”

“Yes, he’d have been all right on his own, but he expected me to work for his wife as well.”

“So why didn’t you leave? How long were you with them?”

“Six years. Look, they paid well, I’ll say that for them. I’ve always wanted to-live in Spain and I’ve kept that as my goal. Now, I’m cold. Run off and tell that copper boyfriend of yours everything I’ve said because that’s the only reason you’re marching me along this cold beach.”

And Harriet Shaw had the grace to blush.

…the motive-hunting of motiveless malignity—

how awful it is

—SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

H
amish returned to the village alone and ran Angus Macleod to earth. After lecturing the unrepentant fisherman on his disgraceful behaviour, pushing Jane into the pillbox, Hamish asked him about that phone call from Diarmuid, requesting him to pick Jessie up at Oban.

“Oh, aye, he phoned in the middle o’ the evening in a rare state,” said Angus, “Asked me to take the boat out and go tae Oban. I telt him tae get lost, but he offered me a lot and the wind was dying, so ower I went.”

“Had you ever seen the girl, Jessie Maclean, before?”

“No, first time I’d seen her.”

Hamish then took himself along the main street to Mrs. Bannerman’s cottage. She was furious when he questioned her about her movements on the night of the murder, but eventually said she had been at a neighbour’s party. Hamish checked with the neighbour, a Mrs. Gillespie, who confirmed that Mrs. Bannennan had been there all evening. But the murder could have been committed earlier, thought Hamish. No pathologist could ever tell the exact time of any murder. The closest he could come to it was between about four in the afternoon and nine in the evening. Hamish asked Mrs. Gillespie if she had seen Mrs. Bannerman earlier and got the reply that Mrs. Bannerman had also been there in the late afternoon, helping Mrs. Gfllespie with the arrangements for the party.

By the time Hamish returned to The Happy Wanderer, he was beginning to wonder whether Heather had actually fallen to her death after all. There did not seem to be any motive. He was told Diarmuid was stifl in his room. When Hamish opened the door, Diarmuid was lying flat on the bed, looking at the ceiling.

“I just want to ask you one thing,” said Hamish. “On Christmas Eve, Jane slipped you a note. What was that about?”

Diarmuid struggled up and smoothed down his ruffled hair with a careful hand, looking across at himself in the mirror. “Oh, that? I asked her if she had any contacts in the real estate business. I’m looking for a buyer. She gave me a note telling me to try James Baxter of Baxter, Fredericks and Baxter. James Baxter is an old acquaintance of hers. She bought the health farm from him. He’s expanding his business.”

“I don’t suppose you kept the note,” said Hamish suspiciously.

“Of course I did,” said Diarmuid crossly. He got up and went to the dressing-table and slid open one of the drawers. “Here it is. I meant to give it to Jessie so that she could make an appointment for me to meet Baxter when we got back to Glasgow.”

“I’d just take this fora while,” said Hamish.

“Don’t you think I have enough to bear?” demanded Diarmuid with a rare show of animation. “Good God, man, my wife’s dead! It’s an accident. Jessie says, and quite rightly, that you have no authority.”

“I’ll hae a word wi’ the lassie,” said Hamish grimly. “But I’ll be keeping this note for now.” He turned in the doorway, “By the way, where was your wife’s coat, the one she couldn’t find?”

“Hanging in the wardrobe,” said Diarmuid. “Overthere. The police examined it but could find nothing sinister about it.”

Hamish ran Jane to earth in the kitchen. “I want to ask you about Diarmuid,” he said. Jane turned a little pink and stirred something she was cooking energetically. “What?”

“This note.” Hamish held it out. “Did you write h?”

Jane glanced at it. He sensed she was relieved and wondered why. “Yes, it’s the name of a big estate agent,” she said. “He wants to sell what’s left of his business.”

Hamish thanked her, returned the note to Diarmuid, and went back to the lounge, where Harriet drew him aside and repeated the conversation she had had with Jessie. “Are you sure it isn’t just an act?” asked Hamish. “I mean, she’s a wee bitch in my opinion, but there’s something, well—sexy—about her. Don’t you think she and Diarmuid…?”

“Nothing mere that I can see except a lot of contempt for her employer on Jessie’s side,” replied Harriet. “How did you get on?”

Hamish told her in a low voice the result of his investigations while John Wetherby, reading a London newspaper that had come over on the Boxing Day ferry and had been delivered along with other newspapers and magazines, suddenly glared at mem suspiciously over the top of it.

“I would like to think there might have been some sort of collusion between Jessie and Diarmuid,” Hamish said.

“That contemptuous manner of hers could be all an act.”

“But she wasn’t even on the island,” pointed out Harriet.

“Nonetheless, there could be something between them, and if there is, they’ll drop their guard pretty soon. Icannae stand that Diarmuid. His vanity is pathological.”

“Are you sure you are not letting this dislike of Diarmuid colour your attitude?” asked Harriet.

Hamish laughed. “I’ll try not to. Where’s Jessie?”

“Watching television.”

Hamish went into the television room. Jessie was sitting with the Carpenters. Hamish looked thoughtfully at the Carpenters. Was he right to dismiss them so easily as possible suspects? But he leaned over Jessie and said quietly, “A word with you, Miss Maclean, if you please.”

She followed him out. “We’ll use Jane’s office,” said Hamish.

“I asked Jane about you,” said Jessie when they were seated on either side of the desk. “You’re nothing but a bobby from some hick Highland village, and you have no right to bother my employer or me with questions. It was an accident.”

“Then if it was only an accident, you should not object to my questions,” said Hamish mildly. “I thought Diarmuid was your ex-boss anyway.”

“I’m working for him until the funeral arrangements are over and I’ve promised him I’ll pack up Heather’s effects.”

“And then what?” asked Hamish.

She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Probably go abroad for a bit.”

“Where?”

“Spain, somewhere like that.”

“Did Diarmuid ever have extra-marital affairs?”

Her reply startled him. “Lots.”

“And did Heather know about any of them?”

Again that shrug. “I suppose she did. He’s not good at keeping anything quiet.”

“Neither was she,” said Hamish drily, “She must have given him a rare blasting.”

“Not she. She didn’t mind what he did as long as he toed the line and paid out for all the entertainment for her parties and bridge clubs and golf clubs and what not. She wasn’t interested in sex. He tried to tell her the money was running out due to the housing slump. I tried as well. But she wouldn’t listen. She couldn’t imagine a life where she wouldn’t be lording it at one of her get-togethers and fancying herself as a leader of Glasgow society. This year was the worst.”

“Why?”

“Well, Glasgow got the award of Cultural Capital of Europe, and that meant more celebrities to try to get into her home.”

“Have you ever had an affair with him?”

“Don’the daft,” said Jessie. “The man’s useless. All he’s ever really fancied in the whole of his life is his own reflection.”

Hamish told her that would be all for the moment, and once on his own, thought about her. He thought she was as hard as nails. Had she been Diarmuid’s Lady Macbeth?

After dinner, he tried to question John Wetherby, but John told him acidly that he had no right to question anyone.

Hamish retreated once more to the office and phoned Detective Jimmy Anderson in Strathbane. “You’re lucky,” said Jimmy. “Blair’s off on holiday. Never tell me it’s murder or he’ll be having your guts for garters.”

“I’ta trying to find out,” said Hamish. “That John Wetherby. I was wondering if he’s such a successful banister after all.”

“Believe me,” said Jimmy with a laugh, “Blair checked into everyone when he returned, just to make sure. I’ll get out the file if you want to hear it.”

Hamish readily agreed.

After a few moments, Jimmy came back on the line. “Here we are. Wetherby, John. Yes, rolling in money. Got family money as well as earned money. Very successful.

“Carpenters. There’s a surprise. Now they’re rich. Own a good part of north Yorkshire. Told friends they were looking forward to a free holiday. Like all rich people, they seem to love getting something free.

“Jane Wetherby. Good family. Not all that much money. Made a success out o’ that health farm o’ hers. Got a reputation of being a loose woman.” Hamish grinned: nothing like the Scottish police for using old-fashioned terms. If Jimmy had called her a harlot, it wouldn’t have been surprising either. “Not much known about her. Seems to have hundreds of dear acquaintances and not a single friend. Got a younger sister, Cheryl, who says Jane’s bats.

“Harriet Shaw. Successful writer. Talks on cookery on television and radio. Moderately well off. Knew Jane slightly, I gather. Widowed.

“Diarmuid. Well, we really dug into him. Business on the skids but nothing to gain from his wife’s death. Few affairs on the side but no grand passion.”

“What about the secretary, Jessie?” asked Hamish.

“She turned up on the island after the death. But she’s been employed by him for six years. One of the office staff said she ran the business, not Diarmuid.”

“So why did it become so unsuccessful? Jessie?”

“Naw. There’s estate agents closing down all over the place.”

“Well, thanks, Jimmy; I’m only surprised Blah- went to so much trouble.”

“Blair! It was me he got to go to the trouble, Hamish. He’s that frightened you’ll spring a murder on him and make him look a fool.”

Hamish thanked him and rang off. He sat chewing the end of a pencil, thinking over the case. Why? Why had anyone wanted to murder Heather? She had been a nasty woman. But there was no motive. Diarmuid did not stand to get any money from her death. Why?

He decided to stay awake that night, to wait and watch and see if anyone else also stayed awake. If, say, Jessie and Diarmuid were involved, then they would be desperate to speak to each other.

He waited until they had all gone to bed and then went into the lounge and sat down in the darkness. The hours passed slowly. There was still no wind outside and the silence was eerie.

And then, at two in the morning, just as he thought he could not keep his eyes open any longer, the light in the corridor leading to the bedrooms went on.

Hamish rose silently and crossed to the window and hid behind the curtains. He peered through the thick folds.

Jane came in, followed by Diarmuid. “What is it, darling?” asked Diarmuid. “What’s happened?”

“I’m worried,” said Jane in a low voice. “That secretary of yours is very much in your confidence. You must not ever tell anyone what we did.”

“Are you mad?” demanded Diarmuid. “Get rid of that tame copper of yours, for God’s sake.”

“There’s a ferry the day after tomorrow,” said Jane. “Believe me, you’ll all be on it.”

“But the ferry left on Boxing Day. There won’t be another for a week. I was going to hire Angus to take me across.”.

“This is an Oban company. It’s a small ferry which doesn’t take cars, only passengers. I suggest you and Jessie get on it. You can hire a car in Oban and get from there to Strathbane.”

Diarmuid shivered. “I’ll send Jessie. I couldn’t bear to see Heather’s face again.”

“That’s understandable. Now get off to bed, Diarmuid, and let me get to mine. I’m tired.”

He stretched out his arms. “Jane…”

“Oh, leave me alone,” said Jane crossly.

Hamish waited until all was quiet and went to Harriet’s room and walked in. He woke her up and then switched on the bedside light and sat on the edge of her bed.

“What is it?” demanded Harriet.

“I hid in the lounge and heard Diarmuid and Jane talking.” Hamish told her what they had said. “So it’s plain to me they arranged this murder between them.”