Death of Yesterday Read Online Free

live?”
    “Big hoose along on your left called Ben Cruachan. Cannae miss it. Got wan o’ thae big monkey puzzle trees outside.”
    “And what’s his job in the factory?”
    “He’s an accountant. Works in a wee office next to where Morag worked.”
    “And how long did their relationship last?”
    “Och, they went to the films in Strathbane once. Morag was a snotty, nasty piece o’ work. Considered herself too good for
     the rest of us. I think she dumped Geordie after a week.”
    “Did she have any female friends?”
    “Maybe the one. Freda Crichton, works in design. Another snobby bitch.”
    “Where does she live?”
    “Up the main street. Cottage next tae the post office stores.”
      
    Geordie Fleming’s house was not big. It was a trim bungalow. Hamish looked up at the monkey puzzle tree, wondering if it had
     been there before the house was built. It must have been, he decided, to grow to such a size.
    He pressed the doorbell and waited.
    It never really gets dark at night in the far north of Scotland, more a sort of pearly gloaming, when—so the old people still
     believe—the fairies come out to lead unwary highlanders astray.
    The door opened and a young woman stood there, looking up at the tall figure of Hamish. She was a highland beauty. She had
     a pale white face and brown-gold eyes like peat water. Her thick, black glossy hair fell almost to her waist. She was wearing
     a thin cambric blouson over brief shorts and low-heeled strapped sandals.
    Hamish whipped off his cap. “Is Mr. Fleming at home?”
    “My brother is in the shower. What is this about?”
    “I am investigating the death of Morag Merrilea.”
    “You’d better come in.”
    She led the way into the living room. “Take a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
    Hamish looked around. It was such a plain, ordinary-looking room to house such a goddess. There was a three-piece suite in
     brown cord. A low coffee table held a few fashion magazines. The carpet was brown with swirls of red and yellow. A small television
     stood on its metal stand in a corner. There were no photographs, books, or paintings. The room was dimly lit with one standard
     lamp in the corner.
    Hamish was about to sit down when she returned. He got to his feet. She surveyed the tall policeman with the hazel eyes and
     flaming red hair. “Geordie will be with you shortly.”
    “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Sergeant Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh.”
    “I’m Hannah Fleming. I’m up from Glasgow.” Her voice had a pleasant lilt. “Do sit down.”
    Hamish sat down in one of the armchairs, and she perched on the edge of another.
    “Are you here on holiday?”
    “Just a short visit,” said Hannah.
    “And what do you do in Glasgow, Miss Fleming. It is ‘miss’?”
    “Yes. I work as public relations officer for Dollyton Fashions in the arcade in Buchanan Street. Oh, here’s Geordie. I’ll
     leave you to it.”
    Hamish guessed that Geordie Fleming was possibly in his thirties, although his stooped shoulders and thinning black hair made
     him look older. It was hard to believe he was the brother of such a beauty. He was wearing a dressing gown over his pyjamas
     and had a pair of battered carpet slippers on his feet.
    “I’ve been interviewed already by your boss,” said Geordie crossly. “Is it necessary to go over the whole thing again?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    Both men sat down. Hamish took out his notebook. “Where were you on the evening of fourteenth July?” he asked.
    “Was that the day that Morag said she was drugged?”
    “Yes.”
    “I was probably here. On my own, watching television.”
    “Do you go to that pub?”
    “I don’t drink.”
    “Recovering alcoholic?”
    “Of course not! I just don’t like the stuff.”
    “Now,” said Hamish, “it has been said that you were dating Morag.”
    “We went out a couple of times,” said Geordie. “Once to the movies and then another time for dinner.”
    “Did you have a