Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [74]
‘Why didn’t you tell me Sandra Prosser had been found?’ demanded Hamish.
Jimmy grinned. ‘You mean, what was left of her? A fitting end. She lived with a shark and got killed by one.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Stop glaring at me. I’ve been right busy. I somehow thought you’d hear. Sorry. Have a real drink.’
‘I’m driving,’ said Hamish huffily.
‘Well, now you’re here, I’ll give you the latest horror story in the Prosser saga. Someone in Jensen Beach took a photo of her. Some woman taking a picture of her child but there’s a clear shot o’ Sandra in the background. They start backtracking through her travels. Found she had been staying in a hotel in Santiago and had spent the night with a young man called Jaime Gonzales, subsequently reported missing. He worked at a clothing firm. He handed in his notice the day after his fling with our Sandra – who had been trying to find him, and paid a girl at the hotel to interpret for her. Next thing, Jaime’s mother reports him missing. As they live in a shantytown, the police don’t care much. The interpreter said that Sandra was very angry. I think this Jaime stole money from her. The safe in the villa in Rio had been cleaned out. I think she caught up with him and killed him to get the money back. Of course, she must have been really tough to live with a psycho like Prosser.
‘Cheer up, Hamish. It’s the final chapter. You can write The End and get back to poaching.’
Hamish decided to do just that. When he returned to the police station, he collected his rod and fishing tackle and, with the dog and cat at his heels, walked up over the moors until he came to the upper reaches of the River Anstey.
Keeping a careful eye out for the water bailiff, because the fishing rights belonged to Colonel Halburton-Smythe, he cast his fly on a glassy pool and felt, for the first time in ages, all the dark worry of the Prosser case fade away.
He broke off for a picnic lunch and had just opened a thermos flask when Sonsie gave a warning hiss but Lugs wagged his tail.
Hamish stood up and saw Elspeth Grant coming down the heathery slope towards him.
‘You gave me a fright,’ he said. ‘I thought you were the water bailiff. How did you find me?’
‘Elementary, my dear Watson. It’s a fine day, the murders are over, and I remembered this was your favourite poaching site.’
They sat down together on a flat rock by the pool. ‘Coffee?’ asked Hamish.
‘Fine. Just black.’
‘You look like your old self,’ said Hamish. Elspeth’s hair was frizzy, and she was wearing an old sweater over a pair of jeans. ‘What brings you?’
‘Just a holiday.’
‘I would have thought they would have sent you back up on the Prosser case.’
‘I didn’t want to risk anyone pinching my job as a news presenter so I got a new contract stating that that was my sole job. So, in future, everyone can murder everyone up here and you won’t see me. Tell me all about it.’
‘Too fine a day,’ said Hamish. ‘I want to forget it.’
Elspeth studied him with those silvery gypsy eyes of hers. ‘Prosser evidently knew this territory like the back of his hand,’ she said. ‘Funny him falling down that gully.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it!’ snapped Hamish, and in a milder voice, ‘Sandwich? It’s chicken.’
‘Thanks. It won’t be one of your hens, anyway. You just let them die of old age. I’ll take you for dinner tonight. Don’t stand me up. Eight o’clock?’
‘I’ll be there. I think maybe I’ll pack up. The fish don’t seem to be biting. I really ought to go over to Drim and see how Milly Davenport’s getting on.’
Milly had never lived in a house with a cesspool before. So when the sink and toilet started backing up, she phoned Ailsa for help. Ailsa gave her the number of a local man who would come and pump out the cesspool.
Three men with a truck with a big tank on the back arrived. ‘I mind the drain is somewhere ower here,’ said the boss. He approached