“We could say there’s been a report of a couple of burglaries,” said Charlie, “and we’re just going from door to door.”
“Aye, that might just do,” said Hamish. “I hope your friend George leaves things alone.”
“Nothing he can do,” said Charlie. “We’re on the only lead.”
By asking around, they finally located Miss Mackenzie’s home. It was a small bungalow, a box of a place, on the outskirts of the village. There were no flowers in the garden fronting the house, only two squares of grass intersected with a brick path.
Hamish tucked his cap under his arms and rang the bell. A tall, gaunt woman answered the door, leaning on two sticks. Hamish introduced them and explained about the fictitious burglaries.
“The first I’ve heard of it,” she said. “But come ben. I’ve just put the kettle on and I never have much company.”
She led the way into a sunny front room. A comfortable old sofa and chairs flanked a low coffee table. In one corner was an old-fashioned television set and in another a set of shelves crammed with paperbacks.
“I’ll get the tea,” she said. “Sit down.”
“I’ll help,” said Charlie.
“I can manage.”
When she had left the room, Hamish looked around. There were no photographs. Above the fireplace was a Russell Flint print. The carpet was beige and fitted. An arrangement of pinecones decorated the fireplace. Outside, the wind had risen and they could hear the noise of waves on the beach and the scream of the plunging and flying gulls. A newspaper pressed against the window as if staring in before being whipped away again by the wind.
Miss Mackenzie came back in pushing a laden trolley, her two sticks lying on the bottom ledge. Charlie would have risen to help, but Hamish put a hand on his arm to stop him. He was frightened that clumsy Charlie might start breaking things.
She handed them each a thin china cup decorated with roses. They waited patiently until she poured cups of tea and handed round a plate of scones before recovering her sticks and lowering herself into an armchair.
“Arthritis?” asked Hamish sympathetically.
“Bad today,” she said. “My niece is a nurse and she was supposed to bring me some medicine.”
“Who would that be?” asked Hamish.
“Helen. She’s working for a man called Harrison down near Braikie.”
“That’s where all those murders have been,” said Hamish. “Aren’t you worried about her?”
“No, she’s as tough as old boots. Turned out well, mind. I used to worry about her.”
“And why was that?” asked Charlie.
“Oh, she was a bit o’ a handful at one time. My poor brother and his wife were killed when their house went on fire and Helen was put out to foster parents. I wasn’t considered suitable, being a maiden lady. Mind you, I had her here on holidays until…Well, never mind.”
“Lovely scones,” said Charlie. “Light as a feather. Did she do something bad?”
“It was odd. I had this cat, Tufty. I was right fond of it. Helen was only eight. I used to smoke. I had one of those Ronson lighters you fill with petrol. Helen was out in the garden one day. I looked out of the window. She poured petrol over the cat and set it alight. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I sent her packing and told her never to call again. But she turned up last year and told me she was a qualified nurse, and she cried over Tufty and said she must have been jealous of my affection for the cat. After that, she called from time to time and brought me drugs for my arthritis.”
“Was an awful business about that poor second sight woman being killed,” said Charlie.
“Oh, poor Jessie McGowan. Never harmed a soul. Now, what about these burglaries?”
Hamish gave her a fictitious story. “It’s drugs,” said Miss Mackenzie when he had finished. “The pushers are always looking for new markets.”
“Did you ever consult Miss McGowan yourself?” asked Hamish.
“No, the poor woman was mad. Helen believed in that rubbish.”
They thanked her and went outside and drove out of town to the café on the beach where Hamish let the dogs out to play. He watched them sadly. He could not banish the hope that one day, he would look up and see Sonsie playing with them.