Part 22 (1/2)
He thanked her and touched his cap and was turning away when he swung back. ”But did she ask you?”
”Well, yes, and so late at night, too. I told her she could not have it.”
”Did you suggest anyone who might lend her one?”
”I said she could try old Mr. Ludlow.”
”And where does Mr. Ludlow live?”
”He is not very well, and I would not like to think of him being troubled.”
”I am a police officer, and you are obstructing me in my enquiries. Ludlow's address, please!”
”Mr. Ludlow to you, Officer. Oh, very well. He lives at Five, The Glebe, down at the loch.”
Hamish walked down to where the grey waters of the loch lay sullen under a low grey sky. The great ugly dam soared above the loch. He stopped and stared at it, imagining it cracking, then bursting, then the deluge cras.h.i.+ng through to drown the whole of Cnothan and everyone in it.
He found Mr. Ludlow's cottage. There was a garage next to the cottage.
He knocked at the door and waited.
There was a shuffling sound inside, like that of some hibernating animal turning in its sleep. The shuffling noises grew nearer, and the door was opened a crack and a rheumy eye stared at Hamish.
”Mr Ludlow?”
”I havenae done anything. Go away.”
”n.o.body said you had,” said Hamish patiently. ”I just want a wee word with you.”
The door opened wider. Mr. Ludlow was an old man on whose face a lifetime of bitterness and discontent was mapped out in the deep, dismal wrinkles on a face as grey as elephant's skin.
”Did you lend your car at any time to Patricia Martyn-Broyd?”
There was a long silence. An omen of crows suddenly tumbled overhead, cawing and cackling, and then they were gone.
”Aye, and if I did?”
”May I see your car?”
The old man grumbled out in a pair of battered carpet slippers. He led the way to the garage, took out a key and opened the padlock which secured the door. Inside was an old black Ford.
”When did she ask you for a loan of it?”
”It wa.s.s the night afore that tarty bit was murdered, her what bares her body. Miss Martyn-Broyd, I knew her from the church, she says her car had broken down. She had got me out o' bed to answer the door. I didn't want to let her have it.”
”But she took out a handful of notes, so you let her have it,” guessed Hamish.
”Aye, well, I'm a pensioner, and money's tight.”
”Chust about as tight as that hole in your a.r.s.e that you talk through,” said Hamish.
There was a stunned silence, neither of them able to believe what they had just heard.
”What did you say?” demanded Mr. Ludlow at last.
”I said, chust about as tight as that hole in the road over at Crask,” said Hamish, improvising wildly. ”I'll be on my way, Mr. Ludlow.”
”I didnae do anything wrong?” he asked.
”No, nothing,” said Hamish, and added maliciously, ”provided your insurance covers another driver.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing from the sudden fright in Mr. Ludlow's eyes that it probably did not.
As he walked back to his police Land Rover, he had a new respect for Sergeant MacGregor. If I lived here, thought Hamish, I would end up stark, staring mad.
He opened the Land Rover door. Then he stopped, one foot raised, his mouth a little open. Those two threads of blue tweed he had found on the mountain, the day Jamie died. Could they have been from something Patricia had been wearing?
He got in and drove to her cottage. She had been released from hospital but was obviously not home yet.
He stared at the cottage in frustration. Then he felt in the guttering above the door where locals usually hid a door key, but there was nothing there. Perhaps Patricia had not even bothered to lock up. He tried the door handle, and to his relief the door opened.
He went in and searched for the bedroom, finding it off the kitchen at the back.
There was a wardrobe over on the far wall. He swung open the door. There were a few tailored suits and dresses and, on a shelf above, an a.s.sortment of hats.
He slowly lifted out a blue tweed suit and laid it on the bed and began to go over it inch by inch. And then down at the hem of the skirt, he found where two threads had been tugged out.
He sat down suddenly on the bed. He could hardly go back to Lochdubh and find these threads and present them as evidence, for he would be charged with suppressing evidence.
He was sure now she had murdered both Jamie and Penelope.
And then he heard cars driving up outside. He went to the window. In the first black official car was Patricia with Superintendent Peter Daviot; in the second were Lovelace, Mac-nab and Anderson.
He went to the outside door and opened it. Peter Daviot was helping Patricia from the car. Lovelace and the two detectives had gathered around.
”We must a.s.sure you again, Miss Martyn-Broyd, of our deepest apologies,” Mr. Daviot was saying, when Lovelace suddenly saw Hamish standing there.
”What are you doing?” he shouted.
They all turned to stare at him.
”I think we had better all go inside,” said Hamish.
”You'd better have a d.a.m.ned good reason to explain what you are doing in Miss Martyn-Broyd's cottage,” said Lovelace.
But Patricia, with an odd little smile on her face, had already walked forward. Hamish stood aside, and they all trooped into the parlour.
Hamish was suddenly terrified. All Patricia had to do was deny his accusations. He had no real proof. She could admit to borrowing Ludlow's car but say that she'd had to get away, that in her distress she had forgotten to explain she was not in her own car. But he had gone this far, so he had to take it to the end.
”Perhaps if we all sit down,” said Hamish, ”I'll explain what I am doing here.”