Death of Yesterday Read Online Free Page A

relationship with her?”
    “Sex?”
    “Well, yes.”
    “No. She was a patronising cow, if you ask me, and I dumped her after the second date.”
    “ You dumped her ?”
    “She yakked on the whole time about what a lot of peasants we were and about how superior she was. Got on my nerves.”
    “Did you know she was pregnant?”
    “No! And believe me, it had nothing to do with me. I didn’t even kiss the lassie.”
    “So who else could she have been involved with?”
    “Can’t think. You’d best ask Freda Crichton. They were close.”
    “Would you be prepared to give a DNA sample?”
    “Of course. Got nothing to hide.”
    “Did she say anything about an appointment with a hypnotist?”
    “Yakked on about it all over the factory.”
    “It’s getting late,” said Hamish, rising to his feet. “I’d better catch Miss Crichton before she goes to bed.”
    Geordie escorted him out. Hamish looked back, hoping to get a glimpse of Hannah, but there was no sign of her.
    “Thon’s one big tree,” commented Hamish. “Must keep the house dark.”
    “ Araucaria araucana ,” he said bitterly, glaring up at the monkey puzzle. “Yes, it was there when I got the house built. I was going to cut it
     down but they said it was the lone survivor of old Lord Barrie’s estate which got drowned in the new loch. He owned the old
     village. The bloody thing’s got a preservation order on it.”
    Hamish looked back at the house as he was about to get into the Land Rover. Hannah was looking out of one of the windows.
     She quickly closed the curtains.
    I’ve had it with women anyway, thought Hamish as he drove off. He had been briefly engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,
     daughter of the retired colonel who owned the Tommel Castle Hotel, and then had thoughts of marrying Elspeth Grant, a television
     presenter, but she was engaged to Barry Dalrymple, the man in charge of the news programmes. He had so far heard no further
     news of their wedding, which was supposed to take place in Lochdubh.
      
    At first he thought Freda Crichton was not at home. Thinking the doorbell might not be working, he had hammered on the door,
     but her cottage remained in darkness. He was just about to turn away when a light went on upstairs. He turned back and waited
     patiently.
    At last the door opened and a very small woman stood there. Her hair was wound up in pink rollers above a small nut-brown
     face. Two small black eyes surveyed him curiously.
    “I am sorry to disturb you so late,” said Hamish, “but I have a few questions. I am Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.”
    “I have already been interviewed by the police.”
    “Just a few more questions,” said Hamish stubbornly.
    “Oh, come in,” she said ungraciously. “But don’t take all night about it.”
    She had a Yorkshire accent.
    Her living room was a jumble of swatches of bright cloth. A large table at the window held a drawing board and drawing materials.
     “Clear a chair and sit down,” she ordered.
    “I believe you were a friend of Morag’s,” said Hamish.
    “For the umpteenth time—yes.”
    “How would you describe her?”
    “Clever. Intelligent. A good friend.”
    “Was she having an affair with any of the men at the factory?”
    “Absolutely not. She wouldn’t lower herself.”
    “Yet she was three months’ pregnant,” said Hamish.
    She stared at him out of those small black eyes and then she dipped her head and began to cry. Great sobs racked her small
     body.
    “There now,” said Hamish. He rose up and went and knelt in front of her and gathered her in his arms. “Shh, now. It’ll be
     all right. Tell Hamish what’s bothering you.”
    He held her and patted her back until the crying ceased. She pulled a handkerchief out of her dressing gown pocket and mopped
     her eyes.
    Hamish retreated to his chair. “She couldn’t have been,” said Freda finally.
    “Well, she was, sure as sure.”
    “Maybe some bastard drugged her like they did the night she