Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [22]
“You mean God might have told him to bump off his harlot of a daughter?”
“No. He wouldn’t have sent something so elaborate as a letter bomb.”
“Does it take a lot of skill to make a letter bomb?”
“The bomb’s not hard. It’s aluminium powder and iron, I think. But the skill comes in making the fuse and making it all so cleverly that it won’t go off in the post sorting office.”
“So you should be looking for someone with a terrorist background or someone with a good knowledge of chemistry? What about Harry Etherington? His friends knew how to detonate dynamite. Maybe one of them’s got an iffy background.”
“Nothing showed up on the computer but a few drunk and disorderlies. Anyway, young Harry hadn’t long arrived in the area. He didn’t have the time to make Annie’s acquaintance.”
“What about the wildlife park? What’s it like?”
“Hard to tell now that the animal libbers have let all the creatures out of the cages, but if the lion’s anything to go by, I think the whole sorry place was a desert of mange and mud. Owners are Jocasta and Bill Freemont. Jocasta is posh and overworked. Bill is lower down the social scale.”
“Bit of a rough?”
“Not that low down. A chancer and, I guess, a fantasist. I think he sold poor Jocasta some dream of the Highlands that only the lowland Scots on the tartan lunatic fringe know how to do.”
Priscilla frowned. “Do you think this Bill…how old is he?”
“Older than her. Maybe getting on for fifty.”
“I wonder if he or his father or anyone in his family were ever associated with the militant side of Scottish nationalism.”
“There’s a point. I think I’ll pay them an evening visit.” Hamish stood up and lingered by the office door. “I suppose I’d better say goodbye—again.”
“ ’Fraid so.”
He moved a little forward as if to kiss her. Priscilla sat down abruptly behind the desk and began to shuffle papers. Hamish trailed out with his dog and his cat behind him.
He stopped on a rise on the road before the wildlife park and let the dog and cat out. He knew they liked playing in the snow and they needed to run off some of the fat they had gained by mooching in the kitchen of the Italian restaurant.
It was a bright moonlit frosty night. He smiled indulgently as Sonsie and Lugs tore through the snow.
It was on nights like this that Sutherland became a fairy county, all black and white, the silhouettes of the mountains rising up to a sky blazing with stars. He wished this murder could be quickly solved. Then he would concentrate on getting rid of Josie.
He called his pets, helped them into the back of the car, and drove to the park. He could see the lights were on in the office. Something made him switch off the engine and the headlights and cruise gently down the slope towards the office with the window open.
He slowly got down from the car and pressed his ear to the wall of the office. He heard Jocasta’s voice. “I’m telling you. She said she saw you at Annie’s house. It was one day a month ago when Annie said she was ill and you said you were going into Strathbane. She says you were in there for two hours!”
“If you’re going to believe every malicious auld biddy in Braikie, you’re dafter than I thought.”
“Yes, daft enough to sink my money into this failure. I’m leaving you.”
“Oh, come here, darlin’,” wheedled Bill. “You know I’d be lost without you.”
“But you went to her house!”
“I swear to God I never went near her.”
Hamish thought he had heard enough. If one of the neighbours had seen Bill, why hadn’t they told the police? Was it Mrs. McGirty? Or Cora Baxter?
He knocked loudly on the office door. Jocasta opened it. Her eyes were red with weeping.
“Have I come at a bad time?” asked Hamish.
“No, no, don’t worry about me. I haven’t been crying. Just some sort of allergy.”
Hamish followed her into the office. There was a flash of fear in Bill’s eyes, quickly masked.
“What kind of person was Annie Fleming?” asked Hamish.
“Ask Bill,” said Jocasta. “I’m going up to the house. Good night.