Interview with Marie Bain, one-time chef de partie at StregaSchloss House, Auchenlochtermuchty, Argyll and Bute. Two P.M., fourth of October, attending officers DS Bill Waters and DCI Finbar McIntosh—Something I said amused you, Sergeant Waters?”
“No, sir. Just never heard your name before, sir.”
“Indeed.” The weasel-faced Detective Inspector from the Serious Crimes Unit fixed his colleague with a look so sharp it required its own scabbard. “As I was saying: Interview with Marie Bain, two-oh-two P.M., October fourth, also attending, officers Detective Sergeant Waters and interrogating officer, myself, Detective Chief Inspector McIntosh of the SCU Caledonian Division. The witness was present at the scene of the crime at StregaSchloss House on the evening of August fifth, when she saw the accused acting in a suspicious fashion. In your own words, Ms. Bain, what caused you to become alarmed?”
Sitting across a pockmarked table, Marie Bain twisted her hands in her lap and hunched her shoulders. Observing this, the DS made a note to book a shoulder massage at the police gym; just looking at the witness made his neck ache as if he’d been doing bench presses with a couple of rhinocerii. Marie Bain batted her eyelids at the DCI in a forlorn attempt to make herself alluring; combined with continual hand-wringing and hunched shoulders, this gave her the appearance of a neurotic vulture badly in need of a laxative.
DCI Finbar McIntosh groaned inwardly. It was going to be a long day, and it had barely begun. Come on, woman, he thought. Get on with it. Marie Bain’s bottom lip trembled with emotion and her hands abruptly disengaged, flying off on separate search missions for a handkerchief to stem the flow of tears beginning to well up in her pale eyes.
And this is our star witness for the prosecution, the DCI thought bleakly. Oh, dear, oh, dear. Wish I was anywhere but here. He looked away, trying to appear fascinated by the pattern of cigarette burn marks on the linoleum floor beneath his feet. Beside him, the police tape recorder stopped, standing by automatically until activated by the sound of voices. Time passed, measured out by silent dabbings of a gray handkerchief at Marie Bain’s nose, then Marie Bain’s eyes.
At length Marie Bain composed herself sufficiently to blurt out, “Eeet was so horreeble …” And then they were off, the tape recorder whirring away in a corner, a veritable flood tide of disinformation pouring forth from the vengeful cook; her gray handkerchief growing wetter and wetter until the nauseated DS vowed to buy a box of tissues for the interview room against the possibility of future repeats of Marie Bain’s snurking, blowing, honking, nose-dabbing, and endless unfolding and searching for a mucus-free zone on that vile and disgustingly germ-laden linen square that more than qualified for the name snot-rag.
Finally she stopped, a strangely triumphant smile on her face, a shiny patina of nasal effluent still visible around the general area of her nostrils. “Therrrrre,” she pronounced with evident satisfaction. “Zat ought to nail the murrrderrrous crrreep, n’est-ce pas?”
Something wasn’t right, the DS decided, trying and failing to catch his superior officer’s eye. It wasn’t that Marie Bain’s story didn’t add up; it did, spectacularly, putting that pathetic Italianate landowner slap-bang in the frame for just about every single murder committed in Argyll over the previous decade. This was good news for the crime-solving rate, and the DCI was obviously delighted with Miss Bain’s account, judging by the way he was now praising her powers of observation, but—the DS shook his head—it was too good. Real life and real crime didn’t work like that. Crime was messy; the majority of murders were committed by extremely stupid people in order to get their point of view across when reasoned debate and intellectual argument had failed. In the DS’s opinion, Luciano Strega-Borgia was far too intelligent. He also had too much going for him: beautiful wife, great kids, huge house, new baby on the way … Why on earth would he risk all that by bumping off the nanny? Even if, as Miss Bain had implied, the nanny had witnessed Luciano fatally shooting a lawyer the previous summer—a lawyer who, again according to Miss Bain, was blackmailing Luciano over the matter of a multiple murder Luciano had purportedly also committed the winter before that; this mass murder apparently being a further cover-up attempt after Luciano had fed four of his half-brother’s bodyguards to his pet alligator—or was it a crocodile?
His head throbbed, just trying to straighten out the witness’s tangled account. Rubbing his temples, the DS tried to concentrate on what his colleague was saying. To his annoyance he found that the plan was now for both policemen to escort Marie Bain back to StregaSchloss the next day. The purpose of this trip was to refresh the witness’s memory regarding the exact times and locations of the events leading up to the abduction and murder of Mrs. Flora McLachlan.
“Tomorrow?” the DS squeaked. “But—but, sir, it’s my day off, sir. I’ve got an appointment with my chiropodist at ten. I can’t accompany you to Streg …” He trailed off, aware that he’d need an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon if the Chief Inspector kept spearing him with more of those barbed glances. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Of course, sir. Right away, sir. Say … nine? Sir?”
The DCI stood up and gallantly helped Marie Bain to her feet, steering her out of the interview room with a guiding hand clasped around her elbow. Halfway through the door, he turned round as if suddenly remembering that the DS was still there, waiting for further instructions.
“Bring the car round at nine-forty, Sergeant Waters. That means twenty minutes to ten. Don’t be late. I’m a busy man, as I’m sure you’re well aware. And”—he narrowed his eyes in warning—“a word to the wise, DS Waters. If you are ever to have any chance of promotion beyond detective sergeant, you’d better sharpen up your act.” To the humiliated DS’s horror, the DCI adopted a squeaky falsetto and minced out of the door chirruping, “Ooooh, sorry, sir, can’t come with you to the scene of the crime because my feet hurt something wicked, sir.…”
His voice faded away, leaving the DS staring aghast at the door. Waiting till the red mist cleared from his vision, he counted to ten, cleared his throat, and muttered, “Sorry, sir. Not me, sir. Me, I’m keen as mustard, sir. In fact, sir, I’ll bring the car round now, sir. Won’t bother going home at all, sir. Anything for you, sir. Slurp, slurp, grovel, grovel, lick your boots, sir. Hate your guts, sir; same goes for your voice, sir—Oh, hell’s teeth.” This last remark was occasioned by his discovery that the tape machine was still running quietly in the corner, recording everything he’d just said onto two identical cassettes. For legal reasons, these had been locked into the machine by the duty sergeant; under express orders to unlock and retrieve them only in the presence of his commanding officer, the universally loathed DCI Finbar McIntosh.