Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [35]
‘Now, there’s an odd thing,’ said Hamish. ‘I was just thinking of a trip to Edinburgh myself. Could you give me a lift?’
‘Yes, I’d be glad of the company. I’ll be leaving at eight in the morning.’
‘That’s grand. I’ll be outside your house then. We can share the driving.’
Hamish then phoned Willie Lamont at the Italian restaurant and asked if he would periodically check on the dog and cat the following day.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Willie.
‘And I’ll leave food for them, so don’t be feeding them. Lugs is getting a bit fat.’
‘Aye, they’re a rare pair of goormitts.’
‘Gourmets.’
‘Whateffer.’
It was a lovely morning when Hamish walked along the waterfront to Angela’s home. A delicate mist was rising from the loch, where the calm waters were broken by a couple of seals.
He wished with all his heart that the murders could be solved and leave him free to return to his old ways of lazing around and enjoying the scenery.
Angela was already sitting in her car. ‘New car?’ asked Hamish, sitting in the front seat of the Ford Escort.
‘New secondhand,’ said Angela, moving off.
The Currie sisters watched them go from behind their lace curtains. ‘You don’t think …?’ asked Jessie.
‘I wouldn’t put anything past thon policeman,’ said Nessie. ‘He’s a philanderer.’ They decided to go along to Patel’s shop and spread a bit of speculative gossip.
* * *
Angela’s publisher was fortuitously situated in the Royal Mile. Because the famous street was a pedestrian area, Angela found a car park near the Cowgate and they walked together up the High Street, as the Royal Mile was also called. Angela’s publisher had offices in the Grass-market. Hamish agreed to meet her at four in the afternoon. Angela had said she would be having a working lunch in her publisher’s offices. Hamish, as he headed for the Canongate, found he was very hungry. He found a small trendy café which, unfortunately for his rather debased food tastes, turned out to be vegetarian. He reminded himself severely that it was time he switched to eating healthy food and ordered vegetable soup followed by cauliflower and cheese.
Then he left the café and found the address where the prostitute had been murdered.
He walked into the close and then up to the tenement. Like Betty, he found that everyone seemed to be out except for a man who lived under the prostitute’s flat.
Hamish produced his warrant card and then asked politely, ‘May I come in?’
It was the same balding, black-eyed man that Betty had seen. But Hamish did not know that.
‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘I’m busy.’
Hamish raised his voice to a near shout. ‘I am investigating the murder of Betty Close.’
The man grabbed his arm and practically pulled him into the flat. ‘All right, all right,’ he said.
Hamish walked past him into a narrow corridor. He shut the door. ‘In here,’ he said. He opened a door into a living room. It was a strangely sterile room: black three-piece leather suite, low glass coffee table, one huge flat-screen TV and stereo system, but no books or pictures.
‘What is your name?’ asked Hamish.
‘John Dean. Why aren’t you in uniform?’
‘I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. I happened to be visiting Edinburgh and thought I would make some inquiries. Did you speak to Betty Close?’
‘Who’s she?’
Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. ‘Man, it’s been in all the papers. She was a television researcher.’
‘Oh, I mind. The wee lassie that was found in the Gareloch. Shouldn’t you be over there?’
‘You haven’t answered my question. And there was only a head-and-shoulders picture of her published in the newspapers, so how do you know she was wee?’
‘It’s just an expression.’
‘What do you do for a living, Mr Dean?’
‘I’m retired.’
‘From what?’
‘I owned a disco, Dancing Dirty, down in the Grass-market.’
‘You’re in your … fifties? Bit young to retire if it was your own business.’
He sighed. ‘I wish you’d mind yours. I was bought out.’
‘Who bought you