Hamish Macbeth 19 (2003) - Death of a Village Read online

  “There iss nothing in that,” said Hamish stiffly, and walked out. Irritating lassie.

  Hamish went back to the police station and took a trout out of his freezer to defrost. Lugs let out a low grumbling sound. He did not like fish and felt his master was being selfish, but he brightened when Hamish began to fry up some lamb’s kidneys for him.

  Food ready, he loaded it all onto a tray and carried it out to the front garden. He placed Lugs’s bowl on the grass and settled down to enjoy a meal of trout dipped in oatmeal, salad, and chips.

  The foxy face of Jimmy Anderson peered over the hedge. “That looks good,” he said. He opened the gate and came in.

  “I hope you’ve eaten,” said Hamish. “I don’t feel like cooking any more.”

  “No, I’m fine.” Jimmy sank down in a chair next to him. He looked around: at the rambling roses tumbling over the front door and then over the hedge to where the loch sparkled in the sun. “You’ve got the life o’ Riley here, Hamish,” he said. “Enjoy it while you can.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Hamish sharply.

  “Well, because of you solving that big insurance case, Daviot’s beginning to make noises about you being wasted up here, and Blair’s encouraging him.”

  “Why? He loathes my guts.”

  “He feels if you were transferred to Strathbane, well, you’d just be another copper and he’d be more on hand to take the credit for anything you found out.”

  “And what brings you up here?”

  “Day off. I came to warn you about what was brewing, and I think you should be offering me something to drink.”

  Hamish sighed but went into the house and came back with a bottle half full of whisky and a glass, which he set on the table. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So what do I do to stop getting a promotion?” asked Hamish.

  “I dunno. Disgrace yourself—mildly.”

  “How do I do that?”

  Jimmy took a mouthful of whisky. “You’ve always managed before,” he said.

  “I do not want to go to Strathbane,” mourned Hamish. He waved his hand round about. “Look what I’ve got to lose.”

  “It’s grand today, I’ll give you that. But what about the long winters?”

  “Believe me, long winters in Strathbane would seem worse than they do here.”

  “Have it your way. Once a peasant, always a peasant. Stuck up here talking to the sheep would kill me.”

  “If the bottle doesn’t get to you first.”

  “I can take it. Wait a wee bit: I’ve got an idea.” Jimmy drank more whisky. “There’s a pet o’ Blair’s just joined the force. Red-hot keen. Arrest anyone on sight. Today, he’s standing out on the main road afore you get to Strathbane with a speed camera. You could pelt past him at a hundred miles an hour.”

  “In a police vehicle? He wouldnae do a thing. He’d think I was chasing someone.”

  “Get a private car, get drunk enough, and see what happens.”

  “I’d lose my licence!”

  “A policeman! He’d be told to hush it up.”

  Hamish snorted in disbelief. “By Blair? Come on, Jimmy. Have some sense.”

  “No, by me. He crawls to me because he wants to make CID. I’ll be on hand to tell him to drop it and leak it to Daviot. Daviot hates drunken drivers but I’ll tell him it’ll be bad for the police image if it ever gets in the papers.”

  Hamish looked at Jimmy thoughtfully and then said, “I’ll get another glass.”

  PC Johnny Peters stifled a yawn. He was bored and tired. Nearly the end of his shift. Like Blair, he was originally from Glasgow and distrusted all Highlanders. He guessed that in their primitive, almost telepathic way, the news of his speed trap had spread far and wide. Cars had passed him doing a mere thirty miles an hour although it was a sixty-mile-an-hour area.

  His radio crackled. “Peters here,” he said.

  “Anderson here,” came the voice. “Just had a report of a stolen car. A white Ford Escort belonging to Mrs. Angela Brodie of Lochdubh.” Peters had just taken down a note of the registration number when his sharp eyes spotted a small white car on the horizon. He checked off, ran to his car, and swung it across the road.

  At first it seemed as if the approaching car, which was coming at great speed, would hit him but the driver braked about one foot from him and sat behind the wheel, smiling inanely.

  Peters climbed out and approached the car and rapped on the driver’s window. Hamish Macbeth wound down the window and let a strong smell of whisky out into the air.

  “Out!” shouted Peters.

  Hamish was breathalysed, handcuffed, charged with being drunk and driving a stolen vehicle. He felt relieved to be out of Angela’s car. He had driven painfully carefully until just before the speed trap, when he had accelerated.

  As Hamish was led out of the police car, Jimmy Anderson was waiting. “Peters,” he said. “What are you doing arresting Hamish Macbeth? He’s the hero of the hour. He’s the one that solved that big insurance case.”

  “I am just doing my duty,” said Peters primly. “He is drunk and was driving a stolen car.”

  “Was it that Ford Escort?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Dr. Brodie has just phoned. It was his wife who reported the car stolen, not knowing her husband had given Hamish permission to drive it.”

  “Nonetheless…”

  “Here. Take the handcuffs off. You’ll learn that we try to keep things like this away from the press. I’ll talk to Daviot. Let him handle it.”

  Peters looked doubtful but was obviously impressed by the fact that Anderson appeared to be on easy terms with the boss. He unlocked the handcuffs on Hamish’s wrists.

  “Come on, Hamish,” said Jimmy.

  Hamish followed him with the stiff, storklike walk of the drunk.

  “Lots of water, Jimmy,” he whispered. “And coffee.”

  “I’ll leave you in the canteen while I talk to Daviot.”

  Peter Daviot listened grimly to Jimmy’s tale.

  “I hope he has been charged,” he said.

  “Well, that’s why I came to see you, sir. Macbeth’s a popular man with a lot o’ friends in the press. If he’s charged, it’ll go to the sheriff’s court and get in the papers. Bad for our image, sir. Besides, we don’t want some reporter remembering how that drunken-driving episode of Chief Inspector Blair’s was hushed up.” Blair had wrapped his car round a tree the year before after drinking heavily at a police party.

  “Where’s Macbeth now?”

  “In the canteen.”

  “To think I was going to promote that man. That such ability should be allied to such dangerous behaviour.”

  “May I offer a suggestion, sir?”

  “Go on.”

  “Macbeth manages to do very well where he is. He’s never been one for the bottle. This was a one-off. Remember that fiancée o’ his, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he’s learned she’s getting married and maybe that’s what upset him.”

  “Send him to me. And get a police officer over to Lochdubh to pick up Mrs. Brodie so that she may reclaim her car.”

  Five minutes later, awash with mineral water and black coffee, a slightly more sober Hamish Macbeth faced his boss.

  “Sit down,” barked Daviot. “I am sure standing must be difficult for you. This is a bad business. You should have your licence removed and be suspended from duty.”

  Hamish let out a giggle.

  “And just what is so funny, Officer?”

  “I couldnae help thinking o’ all the cases I would solve if I were suspended. Thae detectives and policemen on the television are always being suspended from duty and that’s when they solve cases.”

  “Pull yourself together, man. This must be hushed up for the sake of our reputation. Do you know I was going to promote you? That’s all off now. You are only fit to be a village policeman. I am sorely disappointed in
you.”

  “I am very sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t let it happen again. Get out of here. And sober up!”

  “I hope it worked,” said Angela Brodie as she drove Hamish back to Lochdubh.

  “Oh, it worked, all right. Thanks, Angela. Keep your eyes on the road and stop staring at me.”

  “How drunk are you?”

  “Nearly sober. I drank just enough to get over the limit.”

  “This car reeks of booze.”

  Hamish looked guilty. “I spilled some on the seats.”

  “Then when you get back, you can get some upholstery cleaner from Patel’s and clean the lot.”

  “Yes, Angela.”

  “Mrs. Wellington called on me before the police came to collect me. Seems you’ve launched her on a crusade to help Bella Comyn. She says she’s a battered wife.”

  “Not yet. But I gather her husband bullies her and won’t allow her any freedom.”

  “He does seem besotted with her. Do you really think he might harm her one day?”

  “She seems to think so.”

  “I’m going out there tomorrow with Mrs. Wellington to see her.”

  “Let me know how you get on.”

  Back in Lochdubh, Hamish bought upholstery cleaner and diligently cleaned out the front seats of Angela’s car. His mouth was dry and had a foul taste and his head was throbbing. At last he had finished. All he wanted now was two aspirin and a long sleep.

  He was heading for the police station when Elspeth came running up to him. “Hamish, there’s a bit more about Stoyre.”

  His headache was now dreadful. “Is anyone dead or hurt or burgled?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s…”

  “Leave it, Elspeth. Talk to me tomorrow.”

  He strode off, leaving the reporter staring after him.

  In the morning he awoke refreshed and with a hearty appetite. He went along to Patel’s to buy bacon. As he entered the shop door, he could hear the voices of the Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, shrill with excitement.

  “I tell you, he was cleaning out her car and stinking of the booze,” Nessie was saying. “Why would he be doing that?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” said Patel.

  “Because he’ll just lie, just lie,” said Jessie.

  “If you want to know,” said Hamish angrily, “I was taking some whisky to a sick friend in Strathbane and Mrs. Brodie was driving me. She hit a rock and the top was loose and some of it spilled on the upholstery.”

  The shop fell silent. The Currie sisters, who hated being caught out gossiping—a thing they were fond of saying that they never did—paid for their groceries and hurried out. Hamish bought a packet of bacon and headed home. He had no need to buy eggs; his hens supplied him with plenty.

  He turned over the events of the day before and then remembered Elspeth. He simply must stop being rude to her. After breakfast he went to the local newspaper office, to be told she was out reporting on a flower show over at Dornoch. He wondered whether to drive over to Stoyre but then dismissed it. He had other villages on his beat to visit and it wasn’t as if anything criminal had taken place in Stoyre.

  He returned with Lugs in the late evening, satisfied that things on his beat were as quiet as they had been earlier that summer. He cooked a meal for himself and his dog and then was picking up the phone to call Elspeth when it rang. Mrs. Wellington’s voice boomed down the line. “You’ve got to do something.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Sean’s left Bella. I was up there early in the day with Angela Brodie to suggest that Bella should start attending the Mothers’ Union meetings. Sean was there. He seemed pleased at the idea. Everything seemed normal. But Bella’s just phoned in a state. She says he just walked out. Said he wasn’t coming back.”

  “I’ll go right now and see her.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Bella’s eyes were again red with recent weeping and she had a black eye. Mrs. Wellington held her hand while she blurted out her story. Sean, she said, had pretended to be delighted at the invitation for her to join the Mothers’ Union. After Angela and Mrs. Wellington had left, he began to rant and say she had set it up so that she would have an excuse to slip out and meet other men, then he had blacked her eye and said he was sick of her and he was leaving her forever.

  “You’re better off without him,” said the minister’s wife.

  “How will you manage?” asked Hamish. “For money, I mean.”

  “We have a joint account. I can draw on that.”

  “I thought Sean didn’t let you have any money of your own.”

  “He wouldn’t let me draw any without his permission. But believe me, this is one time I’m not going to ask.”

  “So what time did he leave?”

  “About eleven o’clock.”

  “But you didn’t phone Mrs. Wellington until this evening!”

  Bella hung her head. “I thought he would come back. I thought he’d never leave me. I’d given up the idea of running away.”

  There came a long howl from outside. Bella jumped nervously. “What’s that?”

  “It’s my dog,” said Hamish. “I’ll see what’s up.”

  Mrs. Wellington tut-tutted her disapproval. “You shouldn’t take that dog with you everywhere.”

  Hamish went out to the Land Rover. He opened the passenger door and Lugs stumbled down to the ground. He raised his leg against the wheel.

  “So that’s all it was.” Hamish went back inside.

  “Maybe Sean’s just taken himself off to cool down,” he said. “Mind if I have a look around the house?”

  Was there a flicker of apprehension in Bella’s eyes? “Go ahead,” she said.

  Hamish went through to the living room. A nearly new three·piece suite in a mushroom shade dominated the small room. There was a display cabinet with various pieces of china against one wall. No open fire; just a bar heater. Obviously the room was kept for ‘best’: a visit from the minister, the rare party.

  He went next door to the bedroom. The double bed was covered in a blood-red shiny quilt. What was obviously Bella’s side of the bed had a bedside table with film magazines and paperback romances stacked on it. He went to the table at Sean’s side. On top was an alarm clock and nothing else. He jerked open the top drawer. A Gideon Bible and several packets of condoms. Hadn’t Sean wanted children? He went out and through to the back of the small house and pushed open a door. This was Sean’s office. There was an old·fashioned roll-top desk with neatly stacked papers beside a computer. He sifted through them. Farm accounts, sheep-dip papers, electricity and phone bills, nothing that could give him a clue to Sean’s disappearance. He opened the drawers and carefully went through the contents until in the bottom drawer he found two passports, one belonging to Sean and the other to Bella. He opened Bella’s. It was still in her maiden name—Bella Wilson.

  He went through everything again but without finding a single clue to explain why Sean had left.

  The man hadn’t been gone long, he thought. It was surely a waste of police time, panicking so early over his disappearance.

  He was driving back along the waterfront when he saw Elspeth Grant. He screeched to a halt. “Want to come to the station for a cup of tea?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been a bit rude to you. But I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  Elspeth swung round in the direction of the police station. “Meet you there,” she said over her shoulder.

  Hamish drove on. She was walking quickly, and by the time he had parked the Land Rover, she was waiting at the kitchen door.

  He unlocked the door and ushered her into the kitchen.

  “Any crime for me?” asked Elspeth as Hamish plugged in the kettle, a recent purchase. The summer had been so warm that there had been little need to light the stove every day.

  Hamish told her about the insurance fraud. When he had finished, she asked, “Do you know when that will
come up in court?”

  “I’ll find out for you. I’ve just been up to see Bella Comyn.”

  “Lochdubh’s dizzy blonde. What’s up with her?”

  “Her husband’s cleared off. Mind you, he only left this morning. He’ll probably be back. She claims he bullied and threatened her.”

  “I saw them at the Highland Games last year. He seemed besotted with her.”

  “I’m sure he’s all that. Maybe that’s why he keeps such a strong grip on her. Here’s your tea. Help yourself to milk and sugar.”

  “Why is Lugs pawing at my skirt?”

  “He likes tea a lot,” said Hamish. “It’s unnatural in a dog. I give him some on his birthday and at Christmas.”

  Elspeth hooted with laughter. “You treat that dog like a bairn, but then the childless always do.”

  Hamish flushed with anger. “I’m getting a bit weary of your personal remarks, Elspeth.”

  “Sorry. I think you ought to take another look at Stoyre.”

  “Why? Because you sense they’re frightened? I need facts.”

  “Well, there’s a Mr. and Mrs. Bain from Stoyre. They’ve moved into a cottage up the back.”

  “So?”

  “They seem scared and won’t talk about Stoyre.” Elspeth brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “Tell you what: let’s go together to a church service on Sunday. Suss out the place.”

  “I may be busy,” said Hamish loftily.

  “You’re just cross because I teased you about your dog. Come on, Hamish. Might be a laugh.”

  “All right,” he said reluctantly. “The service is usually at eleven in the morning. I’ll pick you up at ten.”

  “Right you are, copper. I’d best be going.”

  She turned in the doorway and looked at him thoughtfully. Then she said, “If it were me, I wouldn’t believe a word Bella says.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  She grinned. “Just a feeling.”

  Hamish went through to the police office after she had left and switched on his computer.