Death of a Gentle Lady

you see anyone?’
    ‘Let me think. Oh, turn the sound down, Jessie. Aye, I mind I was coming out o’ Patel’s. He’d just got in some nice ham. I like a slice of ham at teatime. I’d got that and a can of Russian salad. What else? Oh, I know, another packet of beef lard. You can’t make proper chips with oil. And –’
    ‘For heffen’s sakes!’ howled Hamish. ‘Forget the shopping list and chust be telling me who you saw.’
    ‘No need to shout, laddie. It was a woman, quite tall, wearing a headscarf, but she had brown hair, I could see that, and dark glasses. She was wearing a tweed jacket and shooting breeches, lovat socks and brogues on her feet. The head scarf was a red-and-gold pattern.’
    Hamish wrote busily in his notebook. ‘Anything about her face?’
    ‘She had a big mole on her chin, on her chin,’ said Jessie.
    ‘That’s all we could see,’ said Nessie. ‘Those dark glasses were so big.’
    ‘Did you see anyone speaking to her?’
    ‘Mrs Wellington tried to. But the woman just put her head down, got on her bike, and pedalled off.’
    ‘On a bike? What kind of bike? Mountain bike?’
    ‘No, it was one o’ thae old-fashioned ladies’ models with the basket on front. We used to call them sit-up-and-beg, didn’t we, Jessie?’
    But Jessie had returned to watching her wildlife programme, where the helicopter carrying the cameraman was buzzing a herd of antelope and sending them stampeding in panic.
    ‘I’ll go and see Mrs Wellington,’ said Hamish, closing his notebook.
    ‘You’d better get yourself over to the hospital for a blood test,’ said Nessie.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘You could have AIDS.’
    ‘I neffer slept with the lassie,’ shouted Hamish.

    He shook his head in bewilderment as he walked up to the manse. He should not let the Currie sisters rile him, but they always managed to.
    Mrs Wellington answered the door to him. ‘Come in, Hamish. I’d offer you a cup of tea but I don’t want to catch one of those sexual diseases.’
    ‘I did not even kiss her,’ said Hamish grimly. ‘All I want from you is a bit of information. Now, yesterday morning, the Currie sisters said you tried to talk to a tall woman who then rode off on a bike.’
    ‘Oh, her. I was about to welcome her to the village and tell her about the church services, but she just ignored me.’
    Mrs Wellington’s description of the woman tallied with that of the Currie sisters. Hamish thanked her and picked up his peaked cap, which he had laid on the kitchen table. Mrs Wellington whipped a disinfectant wipe out of its packet and scrubbed the table where his hat had been lying.
    Hamish sighed. The news that he had been on the point of marrying a prostitute would be all around the village, and would seep up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. The colonel would no doubt phone his daughter, Priscilla, to tell her all about it.
    He collected the Land Rover and went back to the police station. He fed the dog and cat but only made a sandwich for himself. He sent over the description of the mysterious woman to Strathbane and was about to go to bed when Jimmy Anderson arrived.
    ‘I could almost wish Blair were back on his gouty feet to take over,’ groaned Jimmy. ‘Daviot’s decided to head the investigation himself.’
    ‘Surely anything’s better than Blair.’
    ‘Daviot fusses and frets. Usually when he deals with the press, it’s a carefully orchestrated press conference. He’s not used to dealing wi’ the wolf pack on the ground. The forensic lab’s groaning that it’s got cases a year old, but Daviot wants DNA results now. Dr Forsythe’s working hard. She wants to retire after this case.’
    ‘So how far have they got?’
    ‘Still too early. Dr Forsythe is checking the toxicology. She thinks a big strong lassie like that might have to be drugged first.’
    ‘I thought of that myself. But maybe if she was hit hard on the head with a hammer or something, she wouldn’t need to be drugged.’
    ‘Right. But there were no drag marks on the stairs. I know it looked as if the cellar had been recently cleaned, but something would have shown up if she’d been hit on the head and pulled down the stairs. Even cleaned-up blood shows up under those blue lights they were flashing around. So it stands to reason it was someone she knew. Two glasses on the table, one bottle, no prints. A full bottle of Amontillado. Say someone said, “I’ve got a good bottle of wine in the cellar. Come down and we’ll drink to