Death of a Gentle Lady

Gentle.’
    ‘Take me with you,’ urged Hamish.
    ‘Well, sit in a corner and keep your mouth shut.’

    Mrs Gentle had had the speech and manners of an upper-class lady. Her daughter, Sarah, although tall and rangy, had the same accent as her mother – the result of a good finishing school in her late teens. Andrew Gentle and his wife, Kylie, came as a surprise. Andrew was stocky and very hairy. His thick brown hair grew low on his forehead and he had hair on the back of his hands, making them look like paws. He was wearing an open-necked shirt displaying a great tuft of chest hair. His accent showed traces of cockney. Kylie was tall and anorexic-thin. She had a stiff, expressionless face – Botox, thought Hamish – and masses of artificially red hair. Her vivid blue eyes were the result of contact lenses. Her unexpectedly generous breasts, revealed by a low-cut blouse, hung on her skeletal figure like ripe fruit on a withered tree. Her accent was highland – or maybe more island, decided Hamish after listening carefully. Although soft, it held the fluting tones of the Outer Hebrides.
    Andrew, it transpired, was fifty years old and his wife, forty-eight.
    Daughter Twinkle was twenty-five. She had a classy accent, but that was the only thing classy about her. She had inherited her father’s stocky figure. Her skin was sallow, her eyes brown, and her large mouth set in a perpetual pout.
    Son John was twenty-three, tall, willowy, and effeminate. He had dirty-blonde hair worn long. His voice was pleasant but was marred by a faint lisp. Hamish noticed that he looked frightened.
    Nephew Mark Gentle had a London accent. He was handsome in a rugged way: well built with a good head of blonde hair and clear grey eyes. His hands were red and callused. Hamish wondered what he did for a living.
    Jimmy said he would interview them one at a time, starting with Andrew, and asked if there was a suitable room. Andrew suggested the study.
    Jimmy, flanked by Andy MacNab, was to conduct the interview. A policewoman was there to take notes, even though the interviews were to be recorded. Hamish sat in a corner of the study and looked around with interest.
    He doubted whether Mrs Gentle had ever used the room. It had a masculine flavour. There was a large Victorian desk and several hard chairs. Sporting prints hung on the walls; a stuffed fox snarled in its glass case on a cabinet by the window. The room was very cold.
    Jimmy shivered. ‘Before we begin the questioning, Mr Gentle, is there any way of heating this room?’
    Andrew left and came back with an old-fashioned two-bar electric heater decorated with fake coals on the top and plugged it in.
    ‘How is the rest of the place heated?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘Coal fires in the rooms,’ said Andrew.
    But not in Irena’s, thought Hamish.
    Glaring at Hamish, Jimmy began the questioning. He already had in front of him a list of names, ages, and addresses. After the usual preliminaries for the tape recorder, he began. Where had Andrew been during the last week? Andrew said he had been at his office in the City of London.
    ‘You visited your mother for a family reunion,’ said Jimmy. ‘What was that all about?’
    ‘She wanted to discuss her will. It was very straightforward: half to me and half to my sister, Sarah.’
    ‘Was your mother afraid of anyone?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you speak to the girl we now know as Irena when you were here?’
    ‘Of course. She was the hired help. I’d ask her to fetch me a coffee, things like that.’
    ‘What time did she get off?’
    ‘I don’t know. Sarah’ll probably know. She was staying here before Mother turfed her out.’
    ‘When you were here, are you sure nothing was said to upset or frighten your mother in any way?’
    ‘Not a thing,’ said Andrew.
    Lying, thought Hamish.
    Jimmy persevered with a few more questions and then asked Andrew to send his wife in.
    Kylie tottered in on her very high heels. She crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up. The room was still cold, and her nipples stood out sharply against the thin fabric of her blouse.
    No bra. Boob job, thought Hamish. Proud of it, too. Would rather die of cold than cover them up.
    ‘Now, Mrs Gentle …’
    ‘Call me Kylie.’
    ‘Your accent sounds local. Are you originally from around here?’
    ‘I was brought up in South Uist.’
    ‘And how did you meet your husband?’
    ‘I got out of South Uist as soon as I could and got a job as an air hostess. I met Andrew