Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [66]
‘All right,’ said Priscilla. ‘After I phone, I’ll come over and claim Milly as a friend. Let’s hope she plays along.’
Hamish waited. He wondered why Priscilla had not been in touch with him. Maybe she had only just arrived.
Milly was in the depths of despair. The car had been lifted out of the tarn and the decomposing body of Giles Brandon had been found. Blair was bullying and threatening and the questions went on and on. Then the door opened and a beautiful vision walked in. ‘Mr Blair,’ said Priscilla, ‘I have a message from Superintendent Daviot. You’re to phone him right away.’
Blair glared at her but stomped out of the room. Priscilla bent over Milly. ‘We’re dear friends, right?’
Milly gave a startled nod.
‘We’ll just wait until he goes away and then I’ll make you some tea.’
Milly waited anxiously. Then they heard cars driving off. Jimmy Anderson came in with a grin on his foxy face. ‘We’re off, Mrs Davenport. Hamish is to take over the questioning.’
‘Let’s get that tea,’ said Priscilla.
In the kitchen, Hamish carefully took Milly over the events of the day when Giles had disappeared. There was nothing new. He’d gone off to Lochdubh and had never returned.
Priscilla had been introduced to Milly. Milly covertly studied her, remembering from village gossip that she had once been engaged to Hamish.
When Hamish put away his notebook, Milly asked plaintively, ‘But why Giles? Prosser never knew him, I’ll swear.’
‘Prosser wants you on your own so he can search for the money. I warn you again that if you find it, you must phone me right away and get Tam here to write a story about it.’
There was a knock at the door. ‘That’ll be my photographer,’ said Tam.
‘You mean you’re going to write a story?’ asked Milly.
‘Look, dear, I’m a reporter and I can’t sit on this when all the press’ll be around soon. Just a picture of you and then I’ll write it up. I’ll keep the rest o’ the press away from you.’
‘Good idea,’ said Hamish. ‘I hope you’ve got enough groceries in because you’ll be under siege for the rest of the day.’
Hamish and Priscilla went outside. ‘Thanks,’ said Hamish. ‘The least I can do is buy you dinner tonight.’
‘The Italian? Eight o’clock?’
‘Grand.’
Ignoring the reporters, they climbed into their respective vehicles and drove off.
Back at the police station, Hamish began to worry again about his dog and cat. He had a feeling that Prosser was still going to come after him. Sonsie and Lugs were greedy, and if anyone left out poisoned meat for them, he was sure they would gobble it down. But he couldn’t keep moving them out, as some time had now passed and he didn’t know when any attack might come.
He put them in the Land Rover and then drove up round the outlying crofts, asking if any stranger had been seen, but no one had spotted anything. Every guest at the hotel had been thoroughly checked through the police computer.
He returned in the evening, changed into his best suit, and brushed his red hair until it shone. Leaving the dog and cat behind, he walked along to the restaurant, wondering why he should feel so excited at the prospect of dinner with Priscilla. Again, he decided it was like the cigarettes he often craved. Addictions never quite went entirely away.
Halfway to the restaurant, he had an uneasy feeling of being watched. He swung round several times but the waterfront was empty.
In the ruins of the hotel which stood by the harbour, Prosser watched him go. He had disguised himself with a moustache and beard and had a false driving licence and passport.
The moment of reckoning had come at last, he thought. He would pick the lock on the police station, shoot those damn animals, and then wait for Macbeth.
Priscilla was as cool and elegant as ever. She was wearing a smoky blue cashmere twin set over fitted dark blue corduroy trousers and high-heeled black leather boots.
Hamish’s pleasure at seeing her was dimmed slightly. He had that old