Death of a Maid Read Online Free Page A

cheap. At that time, she and her husband had a joint account. They paid for
it fair and square. Only cost fifteen thousand pounds at that time. They got a mortgage and paid it off. That would be about ten years ago. Then Mrs Gillespie cancelled the joint account two years
ago. Her husband agreed. It’s after that that all the payments were made in cash.’
    ‘I’ll be off,’ said Hamish. ‘You’ll no doubt be getting a visit from my superior, Detective Chief Inspector Blair.’
    Hamish returned to the professor’s house. The forensic team were still at work. Blair was in his car with the heater running, swigging something from a flask.
    Hamish rapped on the window.
    ‘Whit?’ demanded Blair, lowering the window.
    Hamish told him about the bank statements and finished by saying, ‘She could have been blackmailing some of the people she worked for.’
    Blair stared past Hamish. Hamish turned and saw the diminutive figure of Shona Fraser, who had been listening eagerly to every word.
    ‘Tell Jimmy Anderson what you’ve got,’ snapped Blair, ‘and get back to your police station and await further orders.’
    Hamish moved away. Shona followed him. She looked up at him suspiciously. ‘I’m still waiting for signs of the great detective from Mr Blair.’
    ‘Oh, hang in there. He’s deep. Verra deep. You wouldnae think it, but the wheels of his brain are turning.’
    Hamish saw Jimmy and hailed him. He handed Jimmy the bank statements and told him about his suspicions of blackmail.
    ‘You’d better start interviewing them,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ll tackle the professor.’
    ‘I’ve been told by the old sod to get back to the police station.’
    Jimmy took out a list of names. ‘Tell you what, go over and see this Mrs Barret-Wilkinson at Styre, and I’ll clear it with Blair.’ His blue eyes in his foxy face narrowed as he
saw Shona talking to Blair. ‘What’s the wee lassie doing?’
    ‘Strathbane Television wants to do a documentary on Blair, the great detective. She’s a researcher.’
    ‘Let’s hope she finds some intelligence in that whisky-soaked brain. Talking of which – have you any whisky at that station of yours?’
    ‘About half a bottle.’
    ‘That’ll do. I’ll call on you this evening.’ Unlike his superior, Detective Inspector Jimmy Anderson had a great respect for Hamish’s police work.
    Hamish drove back to Lochdubh and collected his pets and put them in the police Land Rover and then took the road to Styre. Styre was more of a hamlet than a village,
consisting of only a few fishermen’s cottages, three villas and a small general store.
    It lay on the small sea loch of Styre which formed a sort of bay, affording little protection from the might of the Atlantic, lying just outside.
    Hamish’s stomach gave a rumble, reminding himself he hadn’t eaten. He parked in front of the general store, owned, as he remembered, by a Mrs Beattie. Mrs Beattie, a small, fussy
woman, was behind the counter. The shop was dark, the shelves crowded with very old-looking tins of stuff, sacks of feed, coils of rope, and lobster pots.
    ‘It’s Mr Macbeth!’ exclaimed Mrs Beattie. ‘You havenae been around here this age.’
    ‘I’m looking for something to eat,’ said Hamish, ‘and some tins for my dog and cat.’
    ‘The dog and cat food’s ower to your left. I’ll go and make you a sandwich. Spam all right?’
    ‘Spam’s fine.’
    Hamish collected a tin of cat food for Sonsie and a tin of dog food for Lugs. He knew his spoilt pets preferred people food but decided they’d need to rough it for once. If he could be
content with a Spam sandwich, then they could put up with commercial pet food.
    After a short time, Mrs Beattie returned and handed him a thick sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. Hamish added a bottle of mineral water to his purchases. ‘How much for the
sandwich?’
    ‘Have it from me. What brings you?’
    ‘Mrs Gillespie, herself what cleaned for Mrs