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
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
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