Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [9]
The body of her husband was to be released the following week, and she would be returning home then to prepare for the funeral. She had given Hamish Macbeth the names and addresses of any of her husband’s old army friends that she could find after writing off to them herself and inviting them to the funeral. So far, not one had replied, even with a letter of condolence. Philomena had said that her brother had been very popular and that the police were probably intercepting the mail for security reasons, which police headquarters denied. ‘Well, they would say that,’ said Philomena, who felt she was always right about everything.
Milly was just wondering whether to buy herself the first pair of high heels she had had in ages – the captain had not approved of her wearing high heels – when a voice behind her asked, ‘Mrs Davenport?’
She swung round and backed nervously against a shop window. The man facing her looked like a large pig. ‘Yes, I’m one o’ thae dreadful reporters,’ he said cheerily. ‘My name’s Tam Tamworth. Fancy a drink?’
‘I mustn’t speak to the press,’ said Milly primly.
‘Och, it’s just the wee dram and I’ll gie ye a piece o’ paper saying I won’t print anything you say.’
Milly wavered. Then she thought of going back to that nasty little flat and being cooped up with Philomena. ‘All right,’ she said.
‘We’ll go to the Grand Hotel bar,’ said Tam. ‘Nice and posh. It’s just a few steps away.’
The cocktail bar of the Grand Hotel was a veritable symphony to Scottish bad taste. The walls were draped in tartan cloth and hung with plastic claymores and targes. There was a huge badly executed portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie behind the bar. The plastic tables were made to look like tree trunks and covered in tartan coasters.
‘What’ll it be?’ asked Tam.
‘Just an orange juice.’
‘An orange juice after what you’ve been through? Have a Tartan Blaster.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Jist a mild cocktail.’
‘All right,’ said Milly boldly.
The Tartan Blaster arrived. It was a bright red drink decorated with two tartan umbrellas.
Tam had a double whisky. ‘What do you think of Strathbane?’ he asked.
‘It’s a bit, well, run-down,’ said Milly shyly.
‘Didn’t use tae be. Before the European Union got its claws into the fishing industry, this used to be a lively place. Now everyone’s on the dole. I’ll be covering your man’s funeral if that’s all right wi’ you.’
‘I don’t suppose I can stop you,’ said Milly. The liquor in the cocktail was sending a warm glow right down to her stomach. ‘And I can’t discuss anything with you, about the murder I mean.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing. It’s just come through. Trust Hamish Macbeth to get it right. Poor wee Pete Ray was murdered and by the same chap who did in your husband.’
Milly shuddered and took a large gulp of her drink. ‘That’s awful. Am I in danger?’
‘I would say that whoever tried to get into the house the other day will be too frightened to come back.’
‘I’m in a safe house,’ said Milly. ‘Well, it’s rather a safe flat – me and my sister-in-law. I don’t think I can take much more of it. We’re under each other’s feet all day long.’
‘Then just go back to Drim. They can’t stop you.’
The police were searching for Milly, alerted by a frantic Philomena screaming down the phone. Like practically every town in Britain, Strathbane was well served by CCTV cameras. A quick scan soon picked up the slight form of Milly being joined by Tam Tamworth and followed them to the Grand Hotel.
Just as Milly was finishing her drink, two policemen and a policewoman came hurrying into the bar. Said the leading policeman, ‘You must return to the safe