Death of Yesterday Read Free Page A

and bloodshot blue eyes alight with amusement. “ ‘I wouldnae put it past Hamish to murder the lassie himself just tae upset me’ is one of his choicest remarks.”
    “I’ve got to find a young man called Fergus McQueen,” said Hamish. “He saw a youth in the pub the evening Morag’s sketchbook was stolen. He lives in a room up on the brae. I called there but got no reply.”
    “Try his work?”
    “He’s unemployed.”
    Dick came back with the drinks. “I think I should go back up there,” said Hamish, “and get a look at his room.”
    “You’ll need a search warrant.”
    “The landlord might let us in. We could aye say that someone told us there was a smell o’ gas.”
    “Wait till I finish this drink,” said Jimmy, “and then we may as well go. We’ve got nothing else.”
    Up above the village, near where Morag had lived, stood a tall Scottish Georgian building with some of the windows still bricked up, dating from the days when house owners wanted to avoid the window tax.
    As they entered the gloomy entrance hall, Jimmy remarked that he bet not much had been done to renovate the old building except to split the large rooms with thin partitions into smaller ones.
    Although the day was warm outside, the inside was cold. The landlord was English, a small, wiry man called Jason Clement, who, to their surprise, seemed delighted to show them Fergus’s room. “He’s a good lad,” he said, leading the way upstairs. “Always pays his rent on the nail.”
    “You can’t charge that much,” said Hamish, “unless he’s working off the books somewhere.”
    “Don’t ask as long as I get paid,” said Jason. “Here we are.” He unlocked a door on the second landing and flung it open.
    It was a very small room with half a window, the other half presumably belonging to the room next door. It was simply furnished with a small table, three chairs, a narrow bed, and a desk. A curtained alcove served as a wardrobe.
    “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