Sinclair ignored the question. “You called Donal Gladstone and told him that you heard some people talking about Grace MacKenna.”
Fletcher looked shocked, but quickly recovered. “No, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Donal Gladstone.”
Fletcher shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“You called him to warn him—”
Fletcher interrupted. “I didn’t call him.”
“We have proof that you made the call.”
Fletcher was belligerent. He kept denying, as he finished one pint and began working on another.
Sinclair looked ready to grab him by the throat and shake him until he told the truth.
When it appeared he was ready to bolt, Isabel looked at Sinclair and asked, “May I say something?”
“You still haven’t told me who she is,” Fletcher declared with a suspicious glance in Isabel’s direction.
“My name is Grace Isabel MacKenna, and I want to thank you for calling Mr. Gladstone. Your concern for my safety overrode your fear. It was a heroic thing to do.”
Heroic? That was going a little far, Michael thought. It was the man’s responsibility to do the right thing and call Gladstone to warn him, and also to alert the authorities . . . which he had failed to do.
Heroic? Come on. Isabel’s notion of what was heroic was far different from his.
Fletcher’s eyes widened when she told him who she was. He slumped back against the booth and scanned the room to see if anyone was watching him. He looked ready to bolt again.
Isabel drew his attention. “Have you had the fish chowder?” she asked. “I just had a bowl, and it was delicious.”
Fletcher didn’t respond. He sat silent for a minute, looking around the bar, and then returned his wary gaze back to Isabel.
She wasn’t deterred. “Really, Mr. Fletcher, you should try it. I can’t remember what it’s called . . .”
“Cullen skink,” Fletcher mumbled.
“That’s it,” Isabel said cheerfully. “Have you tried this one?”
“It’s my favorite,” he admitted. “I worry they’ll run out before I order. The cook never makes enough, and it goes fast.”
“We would like to treat you, wouldn’t we?” she asked Michael. She had to elbow him in his side to get him to agree.
Sinclair motioned to the waitress and placed the order.
Fletcher was so nervous, his hands were shaking. He needed to calm down if they were ever going to get answers. Since he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her now, Isabel decided to try to put him at ease with more casual conversation.
“This is such a beautiful area.”
He nodded and continued to stare at her. After answering several more questions with a nod or a yes or a no, he finally began to loosen up.
“Do you live around here?”
“Yes, I do. It’s walking distance from my flat to this pub, and since I’m not driving, I don’t have to worry about how much I drink, though I have learned not to overdo because of the morning-after hangovers.”
Isabel smiled. “I’m familiar with those. They can be brutal, can’t they?”
He chuckled. With her encouragement he started talking about his life in Dunross and how he never wanted to live anywhere else. By the time he finished two large bowls of chowder and four slices of bread, she knew quite a bit about him. She also knew that no one had taught him to chew with his mouth closed and to speak only in between bites. His manners were deplorable, but he certainly had enjoyed his meal. Quite a bit of the chowder was on his chin and on the front of his shirt. She placed a clean napkin in front of him. When he didn’t take the hint, she added another one.
As soon as the dishes were removed, Isabel said, “Mr. Fletcher, won’t you please answer some questions for Inspector Sinclair? It’s very important.”
“You can call me Archie if you want. You sure are a stunner.”
Before she could respond—and frankly she didn’t know what to say to get him on topic—Fletcher leaned forward and blurted, “They hate you.”
Sinclair had been sitting back against the booth, but he leaned forward at that statement. “Who hates her?”
“Lower your voice,” Fletcher pleaded. “It’s bad enough that I’m sitting here with an officer of the law wearing his uniform so everyone knows it, and now you’re yelling at me.”
“Who hates her?” Sinclair repeated, though he lowered his voice. “Who are they and what did they say?”