Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [37]
Wearily, he trudged on to the home of Charles Prosser. No one replied. He was just about to turn away when a woman in a four-wheel drive turned into the short drive.
She got out exposing a long length of leg.
“Mrs. Prosser?” asked Hamish.
Her eyes behind blue contact lenses surveyed the tall policeman with the flaming red hair.
“That’s me,” she said huskily.
“I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
In her high heels, she was almost as tall as Hamish. Everything that could be done to maintain a woman’s appearance from cosmetic surgery to dyed hair had been achieved and had produced a glamorous effect.
“I say, how exciting. Are you going to put me in handcuffs?”
“Not I,” said Hamish.
Her collagen-plumped lips expanded in a smile. “Pity. Come inside and we’ll have a drink or something.”
In the hall, she shrugged off her coat. She was wearing a low-necked blouse in a leopardskin print with very tight jeans. She bent over in front of Hamish to slip off her high-heeled shoes, revealing two very round, very firm breasts. Silicone, thought Hamish cynically. He remembered from the notes he had read that her name was Sandra and that she was fifty-two years old.
“Come through to the kitchen,” she said, leading the way.
The kitchen was large and square and full of every labour-saving device.
“Coffee, or something stronger?”
“Coffee would be grand.”
The phone rang shrilly. “Probably some bore,” said Sandra. “Ignore it.”
Probably Mrs. Bromley, thought Hamish.
When the coffee was served, they sat at the kitchen table. “Now,” said Sandra, “why are you here?”
“I was visiting an aunt in Guildford and thought I’d check up on a few points. You’ve been asked this before, but on the night of the murder of Charles Davenport, Mrs. Bromley and her husband, Mrs. Castle and her husband, John Sanders and Mrs. Sanders, and you and husband Charles were all having dinner together. Here?”
“Well, we met here for drinks and then we all went on to a restaurant.”
“It doesn’t say anything about that,” said Hamish, taking out a sheaf of notes and scanning them.
“Well, we did.”
“What is the name of the restaurant?”
“Timothy’s. It’s near the town hall.”
“So lots of people would see you there?”
“Timothy himself can vouch for us.”
“What time was this?”
“About seven in the evening.”
Not time for any of them to get up to the Highlands and back. He realised one of her stockinged feet was caressing his ankle. Should he? In the line of duty? An image of his former love Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, cool as a mountain stream, rose before his eyes.
He stood up abruptly.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Prosser.”
“Is that all? Don’t you want to stay, copper?”
“People to meet, things to do,” gabbled Hamish, heading rapidly for the front door.
He had no sooner gone than the phone began to ring again. It was Mrs. Bromley. “There’s some highland copper snooping around,” she said.
“Yes,” said Sandra. “I know.”
“You didn’t speak to him, did you?”
Sandra hesitated only a moment. “No, of course not.”
Hamish found Timothy’s restaurant and asked to speak to the owner. Timothy was squat and balding. He had a heavy accent. Hamish decided he might be Greek or Turkish. To Hamish’s questions he replied testily that he had already gone over everything with the police. So Sandra had lied. Why? The police knew about the restaurant.
What a wasted trip, thought Hamish. He had walked a few steps away from the restaurant when a thin, sallow-faced young man with thick oily hair grabbed his arm. “I want to sell you a bit of info,” he whispered.
Now, thought Hamish, a proper copper would tell him it was his duty to report what he knew and drag him off to the Guildford police. On the other hand, he was not supposed to be in Guildford.
They walked along the street. “How much?” asked Hamish.
“A hundred.”
“Fifty or nothing,