Festival of Murder by Ross Macfarlane KC, Chapter 9: On What Charge?

Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane | Illustration: Lesley-Anne Barnes Macfarlane

Doc tapped on his pint glass: ‘Surely the son’s conduct alone was enough to arrest him?’

Wood narrowed his eyes: ‘On what charge? An assault and a Section 38?’

JD leaned in: ‘Section 38 - was that not a science fiction film?’

‘It’s a statutory breach of the peace.’

‘Close, then.’

Wood sat back in his chair. ‘So, what was the detective expected to do? Detain Bryant under Section 1 of the “Benny Hill (Scotland) Act”?’ He pursed his lips: ‘Bryant says that he hated his mother. Hadn’t seen her in months.’ Wood sipped from his Guinness: ‘He said he wasn’t loved enough as a child.’

Doc raised his glass: ‘Sounds to me as if he was loved a bit too much…’

‘Anyway, he’s adamant that he has proof of where he was on Wednesday morning. Maddy says she’ll get his alibi checked.’

JD leaned in: ‘Oooh “Maddy says…” - very cosy!’

‘What was that sound?’ Wood cocked his head and cupped his hand to his ear: ‘ Oh - it was the sound of me ignoring you.’

JD nodded: ‘Sorry. I admit it. I’m lassie-daft….’

Doc sipped from his glass: ‘Well, you got that half-right.’ He turned to Wood: ‘So what’s the next step?’

‘Maddy…um…Detective Price is interviewing the cleaning lady tomorrow. Wants me to come along. Apparently, she’d value my experience as a questioner.’

A comfortable silence among friends. The faint sound of music and hubbub of people ordering at the bar.

Doc smiled: ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you Wally.’

‘What?’

‘Being back in the saddle again. Getting your teeth into a juicy case…’

‘I was never a detective.’

‘I know, but your job as a prosecutor meant that you had to look at all the evidence and try to piece it together. Find an answer. Like you’re doing now.’

Wood sipped from his drink: ‘You know me too well.’

JD chimed in: ‘And - don’t kill me -but Doc and I were saying: this is the happiest we’ve seen you in yonks.’

Wood nodded: ‘I confess - I have been bored lately…and then this…this puzzle comes along…well...’’. He shrugged.

Doc grinned: ‘And all these new friends you’re making - “Alex” and “Alexis” - for two…’

*****

‘Oh, she was a horrible, horrible person. Just horrible.’ Mags Hampton, (71, overalls, burly cleaning lady) was being interviewed by Detective Madeleine Price and William Wallace (‘Wally’) Wood KC (retired Advocate Depute). ‘I say that. And I think - at the end - that I was the nearest thing to a friend that she had. But it had to be said.’ She shook her head: ‘A horrible person. I don’t know how that boy of hers survived.’

Maddy Price looked up from her notebook: ‘And what do you think happened to her?’

‘On Wednesday morning, like?’

The detective nodded.

The cleaner narrowed her eyes: “Why are you asking me that, hen? I thought she was meant to have killed herself?’

Maddy gave a comforting smile: ‘Just covering all the angles, Mrs. Hampton.’

The lady pursed her lips tight. “Well, did you speak to all the people that she owed money to?’

‘She owed money?’

‘She owed everybody money, dear. There’s a fishmonger in Stockbridge - they threatened to sue her in the Small Claims - three times, I think it was - before she would cough up. And the woman is... was loaded as well.’

The detective wrote in her notebook. Then asked (too?) casually: ‘And did she owe you money?’

Mrs Hampton: ‘No - well, she did once, but we sorted it out. Just to put you in the picture, after I started to clean for her, she tried to diddle me, but I got my son, Andy, to come and sit down and reason with her. He’s a sort of counsellor in our church. And, oh, after that Mrs Bryant fair took to my wee Andy.’ The cleaner smiled: ‘She used to say that my Andy was the son she never had.’

It was not lost on either Wally or Maddy that the deceased, Rose Bryant did, in fact, already have a son – Alex Bryant - but they left it there.

‘Oh, aye, and sometimes, when Andy finished his night shift, he would come up and fix her blocked sink or change her plugs or whatever she needed.’ Mrs Hampton shook her head: ‘But what a moaner she was. She had problems with her feet – terrible corns. And terrible arthritis, an’ all. Her fingers were so crooked that we had to open her jars and wind up that temperamental old clock on the mantelpiece. Always running down after a couple of days. And that house. What a mess. Never met anybody so…what is the word?..slubbinly…’

‘Slovenly?’

‘Aye, that’s it – slubbinly…And her feet! Ugly, ugly corns – made her life a misery. Maybe that was why she was so crabbit. I used to have to dress her feet. I was a nurse for many years, you see – so it came in handy for a bit of extra money, doing her feet and sometimes helping her into the bath and whatnot.’ She gave a mirth-free chuckle: ‘But at Christmas, nae sign of a bonus for me, ye ken. But fair play, she would give my wee Andy a bottle of something. Just a minding of sorts.’ She thought for a moment: ‘I think the old biddy had a stash of whisky miniatures that her late husband had collected over years. One or two of them she’d give to my Andy.’

Maddy nodded and noted: ‘And when was the last time that you saw Mrs Bryant alive?’

The cleaner narrowed her eyes in thought: ‘That would have been a week past Wednesday. I usually come every Wednesday, but I was not well this Wednesday. In fact, thought I had the Covid again.’

She sighed: ‘So, I’ll not be coming next Wednesday either, then.’ She reached into her bag and produced a large bunch of keys. She fiddled with the bunch, removed a set and put them on the table. ‘I won’t be needing these, then, eh?’ She pursed her lips: ‘I’ll need to find another customer now. Things are so tight these days, ye ken?’

*****

Festival of Murder continues tomorrow in: '‘Appraised’ or ‘Apprised’?’