When Hamish emerged from the house, he saw Fiona and Charlie seated in the back of Fiona’s car, their heads together, talking intently. He rapped on the window. Fiona looked up and scowled, and then she and Charlie got out of the car.
“You took your time,” she said.
“I have the address of her accountant,” said Hamish. “I thought it would be a good idea to go through her old phone bills. If Gloria phoned this man from the house, we might be able to find out who he is.”
“I’ll let you do that,” said Fiona. “Charlie and I will go to headquarters to see if there is any further news about Andrew’s alibi.”
She and Charlie got back into her car, her driver let in the clutch, and they drove off.
So it’s Charlie again, thought Hamish sadly. I wish she’d leave that innocent alone.
He looked at his watch. It was nearly five thirty. He got into his Land Rover and raced off, hoping to find the accountant still in his office.
Chapter Seven
He’s an Anglo-Saxon Messenger—and those are Anglo-Saxon attitudes.
—Lewis Carroll
Hamish caught Mr. Wither as the accountant was just about to leave his office. He thought that Wither was a good name for the bent little old man. Surely he must be nearly as old as Mrs. Whittaker.
He explained the reason for his visit and Mr. Wither put his grey head on one side like a bird searching for a worm. Then he said in a high, thin voice, “My! This is very exciting. Yes, I keep all the papers. Come into the office. I am afraid my secretary has left for the evening. Not that she would be much good. She has pictures of David Bowie painted on her nails and that seems to go along with lethargy and inefficiency. It’s very hard to get good help these days when all the young want is to be famous without doing any work at all to get there.”
Hamish stared in awe at the banks and banks of dusty files rising from floor to ceiling. “Don’t you computerise this lot?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he said ruefully. “I have an analog brain. But fear not. If you will just bring that ladder over.”
“If you just point to what you want,” said Hamish anxiously, “I’ll get it for you.”
“No, no. I’m quite spry.” He scuttled up the ladder and pulled out a file. “Here we are. Whittaker. Phone bills. Catch!”
He threw the file down and Hamish caught it. “Have you a copying machine?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Wither proudly. He descended the ladder and went over to a corner of the office. He removed a pile of papers and said, “There it is.”
“I’ll just copy what I think are the relevant dates,” said Hamish.
“Yes, yes, go ahead. Perhaps we might have a meal together when you are finished?”
Hamish turned round to refuse but was stopped short by the loneliness looking out of the old man’s eyes. “Aye, that would be grand,” he said.
The copying machine was so old that Hamish was relieved when it sprang into life.
After he had copies of all the bills he wanted, he switched off the machine and reluctantly followed Mr. Wither out of his office, wishing he didn’t have to waste time going for dinner.
Mr. Wither led the way to a nearby restaurant called Scottish Fayre. It was in a converted haberdasher’s. Hamish gloomily surveyed the menu. Why did they have to give everything silly descriptions? He settled for “Flora Macdonald’s Cock-a-Leekie Soup,” followed by “Over the Sea to Skye Cod and French Fries.”
Mr. Wither said he would have the same and ordered a carafe of the house wine.
“Can’t you get a decent secretary?” asked Hamish.
“I had Mrs. Richards for years and then she died. After that, I got temps from an agency. I advertise from time to time, but no one wants to work much in Strathbane. They prefer to register as unemployed and then work on the black.”
“I might be able to help you out,” said Hamish. “Mr. Patel runs the shop in Lochdubh and he’s got a nephew here on a visit, a young lad who’s a whiz wi’ computers. I could send him over and you could see how you get on. He could computerise all your files and then give you lessons.”
The old man gave a mischievous grin. “You are dragging me into the twenty-first century.”
“Doesnae hurt,” said Hamish.
Mr. Wither asked about the murders and Hamish told him all about them, and when dinner was over, he promised to return and give both Miss Whittaker and Mr. Wither the latest news.
When he got back to the police station, he phoned Mr. Patel and asked him if his nephew would be interested in working for Mr. Wither. “Jump at the chance,” said Mr. Patel. “The laddie’s bored out o’ his skull.”