Free Death of Yesterday by M. C. Beaton Page B

someone from her past, maybe someone from London.”
    Elspeth left the manse and was about to get into the car she had borrowed from the hotel when she was approached by a small, grubby little girl.
    “Are you yon lady from the telly?” the child asked.
    “Yes. What’s your name?”
    “Abbie Box. I’ve got something to sell.”
    How old was she? wondered Elspeth. Maybe about ten years. Abbie had an untidy shock of ginger hair over a freckled, pinched little face. Her eyes were pale green. She was wearing tracksuit bottoms, rolled up, and a grimy T-shirt.
    “Is it raffle tickets?” asked Elspeth.
    “Naw. Pictures like that dead woman drew.”
    “Where did you find them?”
    “Up at the council dump. I go there a lot. Sometimes there’s good pickings.”
    “I’d like to see them.”
    “How much?”
    “I’ll tell you when I see them. Where are they?”
    “Up at the caravan park,” said Abbie. “But if my brother is there, you’re not to say a word.”
    “I promise. Get in the car and I’ll take you there.”
    In the caravan park, Abbie directed Elspeth to a dingy caravan up on bricks. “Where’s your mother?” asked Elspeth.
    “Ma’s doing time.”
    “And your father?”
    “Don’t know. Never knew him. Wait here.”
    Elspeth waited impatiently while the child went into the caravan. When Abbie returned, she was carrying a sketchbook. It was stained with water and kitchen refuse on the outside, but inside were cleverly drawn faces, and one seemed to leap off the page: Pete Eskdale.
    “You cannae take it unless you pay up,” said Abbie.
    “I should really take this to the police,” said Elspeth.
    “Then I’ll burn it.”
    “No, don’t do that. How much?”
    “Cost you fifty pounds.”
    Elspeth passed over the money and thought rapidly. “Look, Abbie, if anyone knows you have found this, you could be in danger.”
    “My brother mustn’t know! He’d beat the crap out o’ me!”
    “Then it’ll be our secret. I’ll drive you up to the dump and you show me where you found it. Didn’t the man or men who are in charge of the dump try to stop you?”
    “Naw, I go up at night. There’s a hole in the fence.”
    “Look, forget about the dump. I’ll say it was left on the bonnet of my car. Right?”
    “Grand.”
    “And remember! Not a word to anyone.”
    Elspeth phoned Hamish and said she was heading for Lochdubh with some exciting news. Then she phoned her crew and asked them to meet her at the police station.
    Seated at the kitchen table in the police station half an hour later, Elspeth handed Hamish the sketchbook.
    “Where on earth did you find this?” asked Hamish.
    “It was left on the windscreen of my car.”
    Hamish studied the sketches and let out a low whistle. “Well, there’s Pete Eskdale for starters,” he said. “And there’s Stolly Maguire behind the bar.” He turned the pages over. “Morag said something about a face at the window, but there’s nothing here. I’ll need to question everyone in this sketchbook. Damn!”
    “Damn, what?” asked Elspeth.
    “This could have been drawn on any evening. Anyway, I’ll phone Jimmy and we’ll start with Pete.”
    “Wait a minute,” said Elspeth. “Don’t forget. This is my news story. Before you take that book away, I want film of it.”
    “Hurry up,” urged Hamish. “But film it away from the police station and I’ll say you did the commentary before you came to me.”
    Fortunately for Hamish, Blair was away “sick,” which usually meant another crashing hangover, and so he was allowed to be at the interview of Pete Eskdale.
    “I can’t remember when that was,” said Pete. “I hardly ever go there and it certainly wasn’t on the evening Morag said she was drugged.”
    “We’ll be asking everyone whose sketch is on this book,” said Jimmy.
    Pete grinned cockily. “Ask away.”
    Hamish and Jimmy questioned him for two hours but always got the same replies. He seemed supremely confident.
    Wayne Box