Page 7 of A Very Bookish Murder (Ally McKinley Mystery #3)
SIX
Morag untied the pinny from around her ample curves, wiped her brow and sat down with a cup of tea in the kitchen, as she did every morning when she’d finished doing the bedrooms. She was a small, plump woman of sixty with permed, not-very-well-dyed greying hair and bright-blue eyes.
‘Well I never!’ exclaimed Morag. ‘A detective.’
‘He seems really nice,’ Ally said, listening out for her new friend coming down the stairs. Then, aware of footsteps on the stairs, she said, ‘Excuse me for a minute, Morag.’
She met Amir in the hallway, where he handed her back the key to Room 1.
‘I’ll let the husband clear her personal effects,’ he said, ‘when he arrives tonight.’
Ally nodded as she showed him towards the door.
‘I’ve no doubt our paths will be crossing from time to time,’ he said, bestowing her with another dazzling smile. ‘Thanks for your cooperation today, Ally,’ he added.
Ally smiled. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Amir.’
Back in the kitchen, Ally replaced the key to Room 1 in the drawer of the dresser.
‘He called ye Ally !’ Morag exclaimed.
‘Well, that’s my name,’ Ally replied. ‘And I called him Amir .’ She poured herself a cup of tea, still reeling with the shock that Rigby had considered her to be a ‘good sleuth’ – Rigby, who’d questioned and doubted everything she’d ever suggested on previous occasions.
Did Amir think she was some sort of expert then?
She’d hate to disillusion him. And they’d already got on to first name terms, unlike Rigby, who had always called her Mrs McKinley.
‘Well I never!’ Morag repeated, draining her mug. ‘Wait till I tell Murdo.’
At that moment, Ally spotted the husband, Murdo, with his shiny bald head and prolific white moustache. He had just pulled up outside in his little red van.
‘Murdo’s arrived,’ Ally said.
‘Oh, tell him to come in,’ Morag said eagerly, plainly desperate to impart this latest piece of information.
Murdo didn’t need much persuading because he often stopped for a cup of tea on his postal rounds.
‘Phew! It’s warm today,’ he exclaimed as he came into the kitchen and handed a bunch of letters to Ally. He looked at his wife. ‘Ye’re still here then?’
‘Ye wait until ye hear what I have to tell ye, Murdo McConnachie,’ Morag shouted at him. ‘We’ve had a visit from the new detective !’
‘Oh aye? I heard all about some woman bein’ killed and that Rigby was in hospital. So, what’s he like?’ Murdo accepted his mug of tea and helped himself to a chocolate biscuit, completely unfazed by Morag’s excitement.
‘ My goodness, he’s an awful lot younger and better lookin’ than Rigby,’ proclaimed Morag triumphantly. ‘And he cannae be more than twenty-somethin’.’
Ally sighed. ‘Morag, I think he must be in his forties, but he is very good-looking.’
‘And he’s callin’ her Ally !’ Morag continued. ‘And she’s callin’ him Amour ! I thought that meant “ love ”.’
‘ Amir ,’ Ally corrected. ‘He’s a charming man who’s taken over from Rigby for the moment.’
‘Well I never!’ said Murdo, gulping down his tea and obviously eager to be off to spread this gem all around the village. ‘Well I never!’
As soon as Morag and Murdo had departed, Ally decided she needed to have a look in Room 1 while the house was empty and to see what Brigitte had been looking at. She made her way upstairs.
There was no sign of the diary. Had Amir taken it? She looked around and then moved the chest of drawers slightly forward. And there was the diary! It had slipped down the back of the chest, so Amir had obviously missed it.
On picking it up, Ally realised that it was marked by a ribbon for this particular week, but the page for the first four days had been torn out.
Why? On closer inspection, she could see the indent of Jodi’s heavy-handed writing on the previous page.
She could just decipher ‘meeting with Brigitte’.
So, Jodi should have been having a meeting with Brigitte on that very day!
Why would she be doing that? And had Jodi torn the pages out herself for some reason, or had Brigitte done so? What did it mean?
Ally wondered for a moment what to do. Then, slipping the diary into her pocket, she decided to hang on to it and show it to Amir when she next saw him.
Locharran Village Post Office and General Stores was run by two elderly spinster sisters, Queenie and Bessie MacDougall. They’d taken over from their parents fifty years ago, and, by the look of things, not a great deal had changed since.
Ally had no doubt that this would have been Murdo’s first port of call because, Queenie, in particular, was the centre of all village gossip.
She spent her time permanently hunched across the counter in an effort to see and hear everything that could be going on and that might otherwise escape her notice.
So when Ally arrived in the shop later that day to buy some milk, she found Queenie typically misinformed.
‘I hear they’re havin’ to bring the pollis i n from India now!’ Queenie said, by way of greeting.
‘I’d hazard a guess that he’s come all the way from Glasgow,’ Ally said. ‘And he’s extremely nice. I’ll take two pints of milk, if you please, Queenie.’
‘Milk fer Mrs McKinley,’ Queenie bawled at Bessie who, as usual, was unpacking boxes and stocking shelves.
‘And what about this poor woman at the Craigmonie?’ she continued.
‘Strangled when she went for a pee! Ye canna go anywhere and be safe thae days.’ She looked hard at Ally. ‘And it wiz yersel’ what found her!’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Ally admitted.
‘Well, well, well!’ said Queenie, plainly momentarily at a loss for words. ‘And I’m hearin’ that ye’re right pally with him and callin’ him Amour ! What’s yer boyfriend goin’ to think of that, eh?’
‘Amir,’ Ally corrected. ‘ Amir. Nothing whatsoever to do with love!’ Although, she thought privately, he was extremely dishy.
‘Yer milk, Mrs McKinley,’ said Bessie, who was clad in her normal uniform of ancient jumper and droopy skirt that barely concealed her billowing underwear. Ally had often wondered who bought these old-fashioned knickers, elasticated just above the knee. Now she knew.
Ally had just got home when she had another visitor. She wasn’t surprised to see Desdemona arrive because she had called her the previous evening to tell her of the death of her friend but hadn’t been able to get through. And it was too delicate a subject to impart in a voicemail.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Desdemona asked as, without preamble, she marched in through the door. ‘I heard it on the news ! My friend Jodi!’
Desdemona was a little odd, no two ways about that, but she was a brilliant painter.
Then again, her entire family had been a little odd, according to local legend.
Her father had been a professor of English, her mother an actress.
Nobody knew what had brought them and their two daughters – Desdemona and Ophelia – up from London to this remote highland region, to the isolated house on the side of Loch Trioch.
The professor had constructed a large, walled garden, where Desdemona, now the only survivor of the family, still grew exotic herbs, spices and vegetables, which she sold in the village from time to time.
Now she plonked herself down on a kitchen chair, in a colourful flurry of violently patterned kaftan with purple beads and purple leggings, and patted an enthusiastically welcoming Flora.
Ally nodded as she began to make coffee. ‘I’m really sorry you had to find out that way, Desdemona, as I know she was your friend. I tried calling you last night, but you didn’t pick up. It’s a real tragedy.’ She could see Desdemona’s eyes were full of tears.
Desdemona dabbed her eyes. ‘Who, in God’s name, would do such a thing? And why ?’
‘Well,’ said Ally, clearing her throat, ‘I have to tell you that she was accused of plagiarism publicly by one of the women, and then one of the other women, who’s staying here, has said much the same thing.
I’ve no idea if that was the reason for her murder but must admit it seems a bit extreme. Remind me how you like your coffee?’
‘Black, please.’ Desdemona leaned forward. ‘There are only a few things that really cause people to kill, and having a silly story copied is not one of them! There’ll be far more to it than that, you mark my words. Love, hate, jealousy, revenge – take your pick.’
‘I daresay you’re right,’ Ally said, handing her a mug of coffee, ‘but without knowing these women’s histories, it would be difficult to pinpoint.’
‘That’s what the bloody police are supposed to be doing!’ snapped Desdemona, gulping some coffee. ‘Solving crime. Not farting about checking on vehicle MOTs and car tax.’
‘Have you sorted yours out yet?’ Ally asked, gazing out of the window at the mud-covered decrepit old Land Rover parked outside.
‘I damn well had to! Rigby got on to me. Gave me twenty-four hours to get it all sorted out or he’d be informing the authorities.’
‘Well, at least he gave you time to get it put right. Poor old Rigby,’ Ally said sadly. ‘Did you hear that he had a heart attack?’
‘Good Lord! Did he die?’ Desdemona asked.
‘Fortunately not,’ Ally replied.
‘So who do we have now ?’
‘Detective Inspector Amir Kandahar,’ Ally said. ‘He’s a Glaswegian and very charming, and he appears to be very much on the ball.’
Desdemona looked unconvinced. ‘Like I said, he needs to begin by checking on these women’s backgrounds just for a start.’
‘I’m expecting a visit from Jodi’s husband,’ Ally said. ‘He’s coming to collect her things, I believe.’
Desdemona snorted. ‘Bloody Owen! Him and his self-built shack in the woods! Jodi wasn’t having that !’
‘Did she leave then?’ Ally asked.
‘Oh yes, long time ago. She’s had several lovers, has Jodi, but she’s been with the same man now for a number of years.
But, of course, Owen’s still legally her husband I think, so I suppose he’ll inherit all her worldly goods, the bastard.
Makes me sick! And he’s having it off with someone else I’m told. ’