Jam and Jeopardy (13 page)

David Moore sat up suddenly. ‘Sir, why don’t we start asking people if they’re diabetic? We’d find out who had insulin, then we could find out if they’d any kind of
motive, and tie the case up that way?’

‘Because,’ McGillivray said, heavily, ‘I don’t want other people to know about the insulin. As long as we keep making it look as if our enquiries are purely about the
arsenic, the murderer’s going to think he’s got away with it.’

The sergeant couldn’t quite understand how that would help, but he nodded intelligently.

The inspector smiled and explained. ‘A cornered killer, or a killer who fears his little trick’s been discovered, often turns nasty and kills again. I want to avoid that, if I can.
And sometimes a killer tries to make another person look guilty. I’d have said, originally, that the first person who mentioned the arsenic, and tried to point a finger elsewhere, was the
person we were after.’

‘But that was Mrs Wakeford.’

‘Exactly. And the dead woman’s nephews would have been the obvious suspects, anyway, even if she hadn’t implicated them. God, Moore, my brain’s going round and round in
ever decreasing circles, like the Hoojah bird, and you know what happened to it.’

The young sergeant chuckled. ‘It flew up its own . . .’

‘Right! Now, if you’ve finished that report, we’ll have time to snatch forty winks before dinner.’

As they stood up to leave, the door burst open and Derek Paul charged in. ‘I found it, Inspector.’ He held up a smallish plastic bag containing a white, powdery substance.

McGillivray’s head had jerked up angrily at the intrusion, but now he beamed with delight. ‘Good lad. Where was it?’

‘Well, there was a pile of logs in one corner, and I decided I’d better shift them in case the arsenic was underneath somewhere. I was going to pile them into the old barrow that was
sitting upside down in another corner, and when I lifted it up, there was the bag. I’m sure it’s the arsenic, sir.’

‘Yes, it probably is. Thanks, Constable, you’ve solved one problem anyway, and it didn’t take you long.’

Full of pride, Derek Paul left the room and the inspector frowned suddenly. ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t the Thornkirk lot find this? They were supposed to have searched
thoroughly.’

‘Sergeant Black handed them what he said was the arsenic,’ Moore reminded him. ‘It was the analyst’s report that showed it to be flour.’ He thought it best not to
say anything about their own unfruitful search. They had gone through the house and the garden like a dose of salts and hadn’t gone into the shed either.

McGillivray’s brows lifted. ‘It must have been the old she-devil herself, right enough. That’s why she was so positive her nephews would be disappointed.’

‘She must have had a mind like a corkscrew,’ remarked Moore. ‘What a thing to do.’

‘Somebody else’s mind must have been even more twisted, though.’ McGillivray lifted the plastic bag off the table. ‘I’d better get this sent to Thornkirk to make
sure it really is the arsenic, but I’m ready to bet a month’s salary that it is. Then we’ll maybe get peace to go back to the Starline and catch up on that forty winks before
dinner.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Damn. Twenty winks is nearer the mark now.’

Saturday 26th November, evening

At eight forty Callum McGillivray looked out, with disgust, from the Starline’s dining-room window at the sleety rain teeming down outside.

‘Bang goes my constitutional,’ he remarked, sadly.

‘What are we going to do, sir?’ David Moore could hardly conceal his relief at not having to walk anywhere in that weather. It would be bad enough going by car.

The inspector rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’d better give Black a ring, in case anything’s cropped up since we left.’

He was gone for less than five minutes. ‘He says he’s picked up a little bit of scandal, but he thinks it could wait till morning, so it can’t be anything of earth-shattering
importance. I was thinking, though, what would you say to popping into the bar for a while?’

‘I’d say that was a good idea, sir.’

‘Right! Lead, on Macduff.’

‘The name’s Moore, sir.’

McGillivray pretended to cuff his sergeant’s ear as they made their way through Reception. ‘Lead on, Moore? That doesn’t have the same impact, does it?’

The young man grinned. ‘Sounds better to me.’

The lounge was crowded, so they had to stand up at the bar, which quite pleased the inspector, who knew from past experience that much gossip was exchanged over a pint in small communities.
Unfortunately, the conversation centred on the Thornkirk football team, which had been winning all its games that season, and had beaten a Second Division club that very afternoon.

At last, one cheery red-faced man turned round, beer mug in hand, and stared at them accusingly. ‘You’re the ’tecs here about old Janet Souter’s murder.’

‘Guilty.’ McGillivray smiled broadly, although he was rather disappointed that they’d been recognised, because the men might close ranks now and tell them nothing. On the other
hand, some people found it exhilarating to talk about a murder if they weren’t actually involved.

‘A dirty business, murder,’ another man commented.

The inspector nodded. ‘It is. Did you know the dead woman at all?’ He knew they would expect him to ask.

‘Oh, aye.’ The first man laughed. ‘I’m Ned French, the postie. She was a right old battleaxe, and no mistake, though I never really fell foul of her. She was glad to get
letters, likely.

McGillivray turned to the other man. ‘Did you know her?’

‘Nobody could help knowing her, she made sure o’ that, but I delivered her milk. Bill Smith’s the name, and many’s the ear-bashing I got for being late wi’ her
pinta.’

‘Did you see her every day?’

‘Every blessed day, but not on the morning of the day she was found dead. I thought she was having a long lie, maybe feeling her age a bit, so I just carried on. I wish I’d looked in
her window now, though. If I’d seen her lying ill in her bedroom I could have got the doctor up. She might still have been alive, and they could have taken her to hospital to have her stomach
pumped out, or whatever it is they do for poison nowadays. I feel kind o’ guilty for not making sure she was well enough, for she wasn’t, was she?’

‘You weren’t to know,’ McGillivray said. ‘That’s life.’

The postman laughed. ‘Not in her case it wasn’t.’

‘That’s not funny, Ned,’ snapped the milkman.

‘You know fine nobody’s sorry she’s gone.’ Ned French did, however, have the grace to look a little ashamed.

David Moore, who had been keeping one eye open for movement in the seating area, nudged his superior. ‘There’s a vacant corner now, sir.’

The inspector smiled apologetically to the two men. ‘Excuse us, we’re going to have a sit-down. My feet are just about killing me. What’ll you have? This one’s on
me.’

Having paid for two pints, he followed Moore to the cushioned bench along the wall and, as he’d expected, the conversation at the bar continued to revolve round the murder. Now he’d
maybe find out something.

‘I know Janet Souter was an old pest,’ the milkman was saying, ‘but she shouldna’ve been bumped off. Nobody deserves that . . . especially poison.’

‘She asked for it, Bill.’

‘What d’you mean?’

Ned French assumed an expression of great wisdom. ‘Well, broadcasting about that arsenic she got and putting the idea in somebody’s head. Only a damn fool would do that.’

‘She was far fae bein’ a fool, though; she’d a’ her back teeth in, that lady. The idea musta been in his head afore,’ the milkman reflected. ‘The arsenic was
just a means to an end.’

‘It must’ve been one of her nephews. She was worth a good bit, and they likely got sick of waiting for her to kick the bucket.’ The postman took a long draught and finished his
beer. Licking his lips, he pushed the empty glass towards the barman. ‘Same again, Joe. What about you, Bill? Right, a pint for Bill, an’ all.’

When the barman laid the brimming glasses down in front of them, Ned clamped his hands round his. ‘Makes you think, poison. Maybe Joe here’s doctored our beer. Eh, Joe?’

The barman looked outraged. ‘For God’s sake, Ned, don’t act the goat. It’s not funny, like Bill said. It could have been anybody. We all knew she’d got arsenic from
Davie Livingstone. Could’ve been you, even. You were at her door often enough wi’ letters, you could easily have done it. Or Bill there, when he was delivering her milk.’

‘Oh, aye, we’re real criminals, Bill and me.’ Ned French threw back his head, roaring with laughter. ‘There’s lots o’ folk I’d like to get rid of
– the wife, for a start. What about you, Bill?’

The milkman laid down his tankard, looking serious. ‘I dinna ken, Ned. It’s OK laughing about it, but somebody must’ve done it.’

‘That’s right, Bill.’ The barman looked solemn. ‘Me and Dolly was just speaking about it at teatime. Somebody must’ve wanted the old woman out of the way desperate,
afore he went an’ poisoned her. Her nephews, now, they ken’t they’d get her money eventually. She was nearly eighty-seven, Dolly says, and she’d have died naturally in a
year or two, so there wouldna’ve been any need for them to do it.’

‘Not unless they were needing the cash in a hurry,’ the postman agreed.

‘They both had their own businesses, I remember her telling me once,’ Bill Smith put in. ‘So they must’ve been well enough off, you’d think.’

The two drinkers mulled this over while Joe served another customer farther along the bar. When he returned, he took up his story again.

‘As my Dolly was sayin’, what about young Douglas Pettigrew? He threatened to sort her out for telling his father about him and May Falconer.’

The postman shook his head. ‘No, that was afore she tell’t his father. She’d said something nasty to Douglas about May, and that’s why he lost his head. Mind you, that
lad’s got a wicked temper.’

Ned French paused to take a drink, and Callum McGillivray nudged his sergeant. Moore obediently cocked his ears and paid avid attention to the men’s conversation.

‘You were saying, Ned, about young Pettigrew’s temper,’ the barman prompted.

‘Oh aye. It was a few weeks back, but I saw him putting his hands round Jim Dunne’s throat to strangle him.’

‘God Almighty! What for?’ Joes eyes nearly popped out.

‘It turned out they’d been discussing girls, and Jim had said May Falconer was the one to go to if you wanted a lark and a roll in the sack. Douglas turned white and jumped on him.
The other lads had to haul him off, and he was shouting, “I’ll kill you for that, Jim Dunne” when they dragged him away.’

‘Well, I never heard anything about that.’ Joe sounded indignant as he leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘He comes in here now and then, but I’ve never once seen him lose
his temper. But it just shows you. He
could
have killed the old woman.’

Ned considered, then frowned. ‘Poisoning’s nae a young person’s style. If she’d been strangled, now, I’d say Douglas could be the killer, he’s strong
enough.’

‘Aye, he’s a strong laddie.’ The milkman nodded, wisely.

‘Aye . . . well . . . but she wasna strangled.’ Ned drained his glass again, but gestured that he didn’t want a refill. ‘I’d better get home, or the wife’ll
be up to high doh.’

As he walked past the two detectives, the postman sketched an exaggerated salute and said, ‘Good hunting, Inspector.’

David Moore opened his mouth to say something, but closed it quickly when McGillivray kicked his ankle. The conversation at the bar was not yet finished.

‘I’d never have thought Douglas Pettigrew had a temper like that,’ Bill Smith was saying. ‘Would you, Joe?’

‘It shook me, but like Ned said, he’s nae the poisoning type. That’s more a woman’s game, if you ask me.’

‘May Falconer? She’s game for anything. Would you believe, she comes to the door on Fridays in her nightie to pay her milk? And nae like my wife wears, buttoned right up to the chin.
Nae much left to the imagination about May’s. Just flaunting herself.’ Bill laughed softly. ‘And she’s got plenty to flaunt. If I wasna a respectable married man . .
.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ Joe turned away to serve again, but was back in a few moments to carry on with the fascinating topic.

‘All May Falconer’s ever been interested in,’ he said, confidentially, ‘even afore she wed Gilbert White, is men, and boys. They tell me young Willie Arthur had to run
for his life one night when he was delivering the papers.’

‘Ach, you’re pulling my leg,’ laughed the milkman. ‘But she’s a proper man-eater.’

‘My very words,’ whispered McGillivray, taking a sip of his whisky during the slight pause that followed.

Having given due consideration to the possibility of May White being a poisoner, the barman gave his verdict. ‘She never gets serious with any of them, though. She only married Gilbert
’cos he’d a good job that took him away most of the time, but she’s not a murderer.’ He rinsed out a couple of glasses and picked up the drying towel. ‘No,
they’ll have to look in another direction for the killer.’

Bill took a gulp from his tankard, then frowned. ‘I just minded. A few days afore Miss Souter was murdered, that Mrs Grant next door to her – the quiet one – was telling me
their dog had been poisoned. She was real cut up about it, and said the old woman had admitted doing it. Sneered about it.’

‘Mrs Grant would never have killed her, Bill. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose.’

‘No, nae her,’ the milkman said hastily. ‘Her sister. That one’s the boss. I wouldna put it past her, and having her dog killed could be reason enough. Some folk get
really attached to their dogs.’

‘True enough.’ Joe mopped up a drop of spilt beer. ‘Me and Dolly think the world of our Bully. If somebody poisoned him, Bill, I’d feel like killing them, I know
that.’

‘There you are then.’ Bill Smith finished his beer. ‘That’s what I mean, but if the ’tecs can’t figure that out for themselves, it’s nae up to me to
tell them. God, look at the time. I’d better be off an’ all, or my life’ll nae be worth livin’.’