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By the time they reached the police station, Martha had regained her composure, but her resentment was growing. Paul’s insistence that she shouldn’t come close enough to see the body rankled. But if she was truthful with herself, viewing it might have been more than she could bear. Despite this, she couldn’t stomach the idea that a man wanted to protect her from something he judged upsetting.
Two policemen, kneeling beside a bicycle at the far end of the police quadrangle, looked up, but Martha paid no heed to their curious glances.
‘Ladies,’ Paul said, holding the door of the charge-room open for them.
Martha ignored him but beckoned for Ethel and Kirsty to follow her into the police station. Her nose wrinkled as the warmth of the room increased the stench from the graveyard, which permeated their clothing. Her hand tightened on Victoria’s handbag; maybe that was the source of the smell. She hoped so. Otherwise, she would have to discard the clothes she was wearing.
The sergeant behind the counter leaned forward.
‘What can I do for you, ladies?’ His tone was gruff and his walrus moustache wobbled as he spoke.
Recognition was instantaneous. This was the policeman to whom Martha and Elizabeth Inglis had reported Victoria missing.
‘We’re here to report the death of a woman in suspicious circumstances.’ Paul’s voice sounded from behind her.
Martha gave a shrug of annoyance. Did he assume she was incapable of dealing with the policeman?
‘Ah! It’s Mr Anderson from the Dundee Courier. You do seem to make a habit of finding bodies. What makes you think this one is suspicious, sir?’
Paul leaned his arms on the counter and stared the sergeant down.
‘I think a body lying in the Howff graveyard for several days is a mite suspicious.’
‘I reported Victoria Allan as a missing person to you on Wednesday,’ Martha snapped, ‘and it appears we have now found her.’ She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.
Sergeant Edwards turned to look at her.
‘And how do you know this is the missing woman?’
‘Because this handbag was beside her body.’ Martha slammed it on to the counter.
‘You should not have removed the bag until a policeman inspected it.’ He leaned forward and scowled at her.
‘And leave it there for anyone to remove? Far better to bring it here for evidence,’ Martha snapped.
The sergeant sighed, lifted the flap at the end of the counter and opened the door to the quadrangle.
‘Buchan. McDonald. You’re needed.’
The two policemen left the bicycle they’d been attempting to repair and scurried over to him.
‘McDonald, get yourself to the Howff and mount guard on the gate. Don’t allow anyone to enter. Buchan, fetch Inspector Hammond. Off you go, then, the pair of you. At the double, no hanging about.’ The sergeant returned to the charge-room. ‘The inspector will want to interview you when he gets here, so I suggest you make yourselves comfortable.’ He pointed to the wooden bench running the length of the room.
Martha glared at him, but she perched on the bench, thinking that she would never have described the seat as comfortable. Ethel and Kirsty, after sharing a glance, sat down beside her. Paul remained standing, one elbow leaning on the countertop.
It would probably be a long wait. Martha closed her eyes and tried to obliterate the picture her imagination was conjuring up of Victoria’s body lying in the graveyard. She had no idea whether the image was worse or better than the reality.
* * *
GRAN WAS IN A FOUL mood. It had started at breakfast-time and all because he’d lain in his bed longer than usual.
‘Lazy lie abed,’ she’d said, dolloping a spoonful of porridge into his bowl.
‘But I didn’t get home until after midnight,’ Hammond protested.
‘That’s another thing –’ she slapped a second spoonful into the bowl ‘– stopping out until all hours of the night.’
‘Saturday night’s always busy. There’s hardly one goes by without a riot in the Scouringburn.’ He stirred the greyish mess in front of him. ‘You know fine well it’s my job.’
She snorted and banged the pot into the sink.
‘Time you had a wife. I’m too old to be running around after you.’
Hammond concentrated on his porridge. Cold, tasteless and lumpy. Gran’s cooking left a lot to be desired. As for finding a wife? Hammond had no intention of doing that. He hadn’t met a woman yet who didn’t strike fear into his heart. Why get tied to someone who would turn out to be just like his gran? He pushed the plate back and rose.
‘I’m off to the office,’ he said. ‘I’ve reports to complete.’ He didn’t wait for her response.
It was the middle of the afternoon before he returned, and Gran was in an even worse mood. He was only two steps inside the door when she pounced on him.
‘Why can you never be home on time? What time of day do you think this is to be served dinner? It’s been ready since one o’clock.’
‘Sorry, Gran, but I told you I had to finish reports.’
She snorted.
‘I was tempted to let you go hungry, but I kept something back for you.’
‘That was good of you.’ He pulled out a chair and sat at the table.
Gran bent and drew a plate out of the oven. She slapped it in front of him, making the cutlery rattle and a cup teeter in its saucer.
‘Don’t say I’m not good to you.’
Hammond looked at it and swore under his breath. He wasn’t having the best of days; Gran had taken care of that with her foul temper, and now this. He poked a sausage with his fork. Other folk got beef on a Sunday. But what did he get? Bloody sausage and mash, and burnt sausages, at that. He glowered at it and gave the sausage another poke.
His gran stood over him. ‘Well, don’t just look at it, get it down you.’
The clatter of boots on the path followed by a knock on the door sent his gran scurrying to answer it.
‘It’s one of your bobbies,’ she said, returning to the kitchen. ‘I suppose that means you’ll be off out again.’
Hammond pushed his plate aside. A recall to the police station was preferable to eating the muck his gran cooked for him. He grabbed his jacket and, ignoring his gran’s mutterings, rushed out the door.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Buchan said, ‘but Sarge ordered me to come get you.’
‘What’s up?’ Hammond reckoned it must be an emergency if the duty sergeant had sent for him.
‘He didn’t say, sir. But that reporter from the Courier turned up with three ladies. I reckon it must be something to do with them.’
Hammond suppressed a groan. He could do without having to deal with know-it-all reporters.