Death of a Chimney Sweep hm-1 Read online

  “Come along. I know ye don’t like the siren but we’re going to blast out o’ this village.”

  On the waterfront, Betty swung round as Hamish’s Land Rover sped past with the siren going and the lights flashing. She made her way by a roundabout route to the police station. Once inside, she eased the tape recorder out from behind the files where Hamish had replaced it and switched it on. Her eyes grew wide with excitement. She went out quickly up to the back fields and called the soundman and the cameraman. “Big break on the story,” she said. “Pick me up in Lochdubh. I’ll be outside the shop on the waterfront.”

  “We’ll tell Elspeth,” said George Lennox, the cameraman.

  “Don’t do that,” said Betty quickly. “She’s too ill. May come to nothing.”

  She went to Patel’s grocery store and waited impatiently outside until the large television Winnebago hove into view.

  Hamish, hiding in a lay-by behind a strand of trees, watched the Winnebago rush by, heading north.

  The television team stopped overnight at a small hotel and started out again at dawn. Betty’s heart rose as the weather changed. The wind rose from the west, driving away the rain and mist until the blue sky arched above. George Lennox was driving. He was rather surly in the way of some TV cameramen. Perhaps it was understandable as the presenter on any programme got all the glory, no matter how dangerous the situation. Phil Green was small and cheerful and kept exclaiming at the beauty of the landscape. Up and down the narrow roads they went until at long last they drove into Durness and down to where a curve of pure white sand faced a green-and-blue sea.

  There was no sign of any police Land Rover. Betty climbed stiffly down. It was still and quiet apart from the ceaseless sound of the sea.

  She had a sudden queasy feeling of unease. “This is grand,” said Phil. He had a thermos and a pack of sandwiches. He sat down on a flat rock and stared dreamily out to sea. “This is God’s country!”

  “This is the bloody end o’ the world that God forgot,” said George, glaring at Betty. “Are you sure o’ this? There’s nobody camping on the beach.”

  “We’ll just need to search around,” said Betty desperately.

  “You go and search,” said Phil lazily. “Me, I’m staying right here until you find something.”

  Betty scrambled up from the beach. There were ruined croft houses here and there. No people. The wind whistled amongst the ruins, and the sad cry of a curlew from the heather seemed to mock her.

  Elspeth was feeling much stronger. She sat up in bed and then saw a note, which had been pushed under her door. She struggled out of bed and picked it up.

  “Dear Elspeth,” she read. “Your wee researcher had the nerve to hide a tape recorder in my office so I sent her off on a wild goose chase to Durness. Get well soon. Hamish.”

  Elspeth phoned the television station in Glasgow and asked for her boss. He listened in horror and then said, “Get her back down here. When you’re better, get back down yourself. We’ve had a lot of complaints about your replacement. And see if you can smooth over that bobby friend o’ yours before he sues us.”

  But Hamish had more to worry him now than one overambitious researcher. When he had returned earlier to the station, it was to find Angela Brodie waiting for him. “I’ve come to confess,” she said seriously.

  Chapter Five

  To marry is to domesticate the Recording Angel. Once you are married, there is nothing left for you, not even suicide, but to be good.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  When they were seated at the kitchen table, Hamish said, “Not to the murders, I hope.”

  Angela gave a miserable little attempt at a laugh. “Not them.”

  “Well, what?”

  She took a deep breath. “I gave money to Captain Davenport.”

  Hamish’s stomach gave a lurch. “You what?”

  “It happened like this. I didn’t tell anyone. My last book was rejected. I felt I had lost my cards of identity. My agent said there was nothing up with the book, it was just that the publishers had paid out a vast sum to some celebrity and despite all the publicity, it was remaindered after a few weeks and they lost tons of money. So they turned to their list and started axing off authors who weren’t big sellers.”

  “So where on earth does the captain come into this?”

  “I was upset and I went out for a very long walk and I came across the captain. I was very teary and he seemed kind. He asked me what was the matter and I told him. To my amazement, he said he could fix it for me. He knew a very good vanity press that would publish and publicise my book for five thousand pounds. Now, when I was nominated for the Haggart Prize, I got a large cheque for the publication of my last book. My husband and I have separate accounts. I never told him how much it was, and, oddly enough, he didn’t ask. He just said he thought a new author would be lucky if they got more than a few hundred pounds and I said, ‘Yes, isn’t it sad.’ ”

  “But why? I would have said Dr. Brodie was an easy-going generous man.”

  “I know. But I wanted my independence. I didn’t want to be just a housewife any more.”

  “So you gave Davenport the money.”

  Angela bowed her head, and a tear ran down her thin cheek.

  “So what did you do?”

  “I phoned him and he said it was all going ahead. Then I phoned after a few weeks and he said, ‘I never took any money from you and I don’t even know who you are.’ ”

  “But Angela, the bank will have a record of your cheque.”

  She shook her head dismally.

  “Neffer say you paid the man in cash!”

  She nodded, and then burst out with: “What else was I to think except that he was thoroughly honest?”

  “Did you call on him?”

  “I tried. His wife answered the door. She looked scared but she said he wasn’t at home even though the car was parked outside. Mind you, he often went for long walks, or so he told me.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything before? It looks right bad.”

  “And be dragged off to Strathbane by Blair?”

  Hamish sat back in his chair. She started to speak again, but Hamish said gently, “Shh! I’m thinking.”

  At last he said, “Here’s what we’ll do. If you can wait until tomorrow, Elspeth should be ready for visitors. You tell her your story and get filmed. Then you let her drive you to police headquarters in Strathbane the following day after she’s got her bit shown on the telly. No, they can’t arrest you, but you’ll have an unpleasant time of it. The others’ll be waiting for you when you come out. Be brave. Tell them what drove you into giving the captain the money. Think o’ the publicity! Might start a debate about literary authors getting axed because of vast sums paid to celebrities who can’t even write. I think it might get you a publisher.”

  “What will my husband say?”

  “I’ll talk to him. Have you any money left?”

  “Yes.”

  “So take my advice and get some of the village women in to clean your house. I’m sure Dr. Brodie doesn’t notice much but he’ll be in a better mood wi’ a bit o’ home comfort.”

  Betty wearily trudged back to the beach. She had tried to call her colleagues but could not pick up a signal on her phone. As she neared the beach, though, her phone worked at last and she phoned Phil Green. His voice crackled back over a bad line. “I looked for you, Betty. Thon policeman sent you off on a wild goose chase. He says you planted a recorder in the police office. We’ve been told to go back and join Elspeth immediately. You’re to make your own way back.”

  “How?” screamed Betty, looking wildly around.

  “Taxi.”

  “Here?”

  “Not my problem.” Phil rang off.

  Dr. Brodie was bewildered as Hamish explained the situation. When Hamish had finished, he asked plaintively, “What’s up with being just a housewife? The village is full of them.”

  In a shaky voice, Angela explained how muc
h it had meant to her to be a published writer.

  “It’s all beyond me, Angela,” he said at last. “But you’ve been awfully secretive. Did you think I’d want your money?”

  “No, no. It’s just I’ve never had any money of my own. It felt great.”

  Dr. Brodie shook his head wearily. “Och, do what you have to do.”

  Betty arrived back the following day. She had stayed overnight at Balankiel, taken a bus to Lochinver, and from there travelled by taxi to Lochdubh. A curt message from the television station was waiting for her telling her to return immediately to Glasgow.

  Elspeth, completely recovered, was down in Lochdubh, filming Angela who was seated at her computer at a newly scrubbed and cleared kitchen table. After the filming was over, Hamish said urgently, “Now, remember, Elspeth, I don’t know anything about this.”

  As Hamish walked back to his station, he suddenly stood stock-still. He had been focussing on the four men. What if Angela turned out not to be the only local who had parted with money? He had to see Milly again. He walked to the offices of the Highland Times and told Matthew Campbell, the editor, to get down to Strathbane because he’d just heard a rumour that Angela Brodie had been arrested. Then he went back to the police station to wait through the long day for the evening news.

  At six o’clock, he switched on the Scottish television news. Floods here, road accidents there, murder in Glasgow. “Come on,” he muttered.

  And suddenly there was Angela outside Strathbane police headquarters, her eyes red with crying. Blair had been at his worst until Elspeth had demanded a lawyer for her.

  Then it switched to Angela in her kitchen telling her sad story to Elspeth. Hamish breathed a sigh of relief. She came over very well. Angela exuded goodness.

  Henry Satherwaite ran a small publishing firm in Edinburgh called simply Scottish Literature. He published new authors and had built up a surprisingly successful business with steady sales. He had read Angela’s first book and had thought it very good. He promptly packed an overnight bag, got his car out of the garage, and headed for the Highlands.

  Jimmy Anderson called on Hamish that evening. “Come ben,” said Hamish, eyeing him warily, hoping the foxy detective had not jumped to the same miserable conclusion as he had himself—that there might be more conned villagers in the neighbourhood.

  “So your friend has got herself in hot water wi’ Blair,” said Jimmy. He raised the glass of whisky Hamish had poured him and said, “Rummel, rummel roon the gums, look out stomach here it comes. Ah, that’s better.”

  “It’s your liver, not your stomach you should be worried about.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. But have you thought?”

  “Thought what?”

  “These con artists just keep on going. They jist can’t keep their paws off other people’s money. Your friend Angela Brodie might not be the only one.”

  “Maybe,” said Hamish.

  “Aye, I should guess definitely, which widens the investigation.”

  “Have you suggested this to Blair?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Wait a bit.”

  “Won’t do, Hamish. Do you want me to go all telly on you and say, I will give you twenty-four hours? Sorry. I left a memo on the fat yin’s desk.”

  “I’d better get over to Drim in the morning.”

  “Why not Lochdubh?”

  “Who, for instance?”

  “Could be anyone. He could ha’ promised thae Currie sisters face-lifts. I’ve dealt with fraudsters and cons before, Hamish, and it’s amazing how easily people are tricked out of their money. Besides, the captain’s wife said that he didn’t mix wi’ any of the folk from Drim.”

  “Any murders in Edinburgh just after Philomena’s?”

  “Only one odd one. A brass nail fell out o’ the window o’ her flat in the Royal Mile to her death. Place went on fire.”

  Correctly interpreting brass nail to mean “prostitute,” Hamish asked, “Suspicious circumstances?”

  “You could say that. Bruises on her ankles made it look as if someone had bent down and heaved her out. The fire was started at the fireplace.”

  “Did she have a pimp?”

  “No, an independent lady called Sarah Brogan.”

  “It would be a good idea to give the Edinburgh police the photos of our four men and see if anyone in the tenement recognised one of them.”

  “I suggested that and was told by Daviot to stop flying off at mad tangents.”

  “I’ll try to catch Elspeth,” said Hamish. “I hope she hasn’t left for Glasgow. She might look into it for me.”

  “What about another dram?” asked Jimmy, raising his empty glass.

  “Not when you’re driving.”

  “Calvinist,” said Jimmy. “I’m off.”

  Betty Close packed slowly. She was reluctant to leave. She wondered whether to plead with Elspeth to keep her job, because she had a nasty feeling she might be sacked when she returned to Glasgow.

  She heard Hamish’s voice along the hotel corridor. “Might be a story for you, Elspeth.”

  Betty waited until she heard the door of Elspeth’s room close. She crept along the corridor and pressed her ear to the panels of Elspeth’s door. She heard Hamish say, “It’s a long shot, but when Philomena left that bar, she left with a woman described as small and plump, but she wouldn’t want to be recognised and could have padded herself with something and altered her appearance. The waitress said she seemed to have difficulty speaking, which might mean that her cheeks were padded with something to alter her face. Now, after Philomena’s murder, a prostitute in the Canongate seems to have been shoved out of the tenement window of her flat and then the place was set on fire. Maybe you could get photos of our four suspects and ask if anyone has seen one of them on the day she died.”

  Betty heard Elspeth reply, “I don’t know if I’ll have time to do anything, Hamish. It’s such a long shot. I have to get back first and secure my job. Leave it with me.”

  “What about that creature who put the tape recorder in the station?”

  “Don’t know. She’s been summoned back to Glasgow. I’ve got her a plane ticket from Inverness. I can’t bear the idea of her company on the road back. You’d better go,” said Elspeth. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

  Betty scuttled back along the corridor. She sat down in her room, engulfed with a sudden wave of hate for Elspeth. She would get over to Edinburgh as soon as she could and see if she alone could solve the murders.

  Hamish went over to Drim in the morning, stopping only once to let the dog and cat out to play in the heather.

  He then drove down into Drim and parked outside the shop. He sat for a moment looking at the gale whipping little whitecaps down the long black loch.

  A dingy-looking black-headed gull stood at the edge of the water and surveyed him with contempt, then flew away.

  Hamish climbed down from the Land Rover, opened the door of the shop, and went in. Jock Kennedy was behind the counter. “Where’s Ailsa?” asked Hamish.

  “Up at the hoose. What do you want to be bothering her for?”

  “Just a helpful gossip.”

  “Oh, well, you know the way.”

  Jock had knocked down an old fishing cottage at the back of the shop and replaced it with a rather awful pebble-dashed bungalow. The builders had not allowed for the fierce gales funnelled down the loch. The old cottage had stood side-on to them with very thick walls. The new building was on a little rise facing down the loch. Hamish clutched his cap and rang the bell.

  Ailsa answered it and said, “It’s yourself. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

  Hamish eased past her and walked into the kitchen. He noticed that despite the double-glazing on all the windows, little draughts were somehow escaping into the house. The kitchen was cold.

  “Tea?”

  “Aye, that would be grand,” said Hamish.

  He waited until Ailsa made a pot of tea and put it on the table with two mugs. “Now,
” she said. “What brings you?”

  Ailsa was still a good-looking woman, Hamish noticed, with her thick red hair and creamy skin.

  “Did you see that bit about Angela on the telly?” asked Hamish.

  “Aye. Poor soul.”

  “Well, it couldnae help but cross my mind that there might be other folk that the captain took money from.”

  Ailsa’s eyes became blank. “Now, I would not be knowing about that.”

  Hamish stared dreamily at the ceiling. “I think when she sells the house, Mrs. Davenport will be looking to pay back as much as she can. Now, if someone in Drim was feeling the pinch, and all because of that fraudster, wouldn’t it be chust grand if that person knew he or she might be getting their money back?”

  There was a long silence. The wind screeched around the house like a banshee.

  Ailsa suddenly rose to her feet. “I’m not saying anything, mind. But let’s drop in on Edie.”

  As they walked to Edie’s home, Hamish remembered that when a charming young Englishman had caused a flutter amongst the hearts of the women of Drim, Edie had set up an exercise class in the village hall as they all tried to lose weight.

  Edie answered the door to them. “This is nice,” she said. “Come ben.”

  She led the way into a shabby small living room. “Nobody else dead, I hope?” she said.

  “I wondered if you knew that Mrs. Davenport plans to refund as much of the money as she can that her husband tricked people out of?” said Hamish, reflecting that he’d better go and see Milly afterwards and tell her about it.

  “Go on,” said Ailsa softly. Edie was a thin, scrawny woman wearing a pink tracksuit. Hamish judged her to be somewhere in her sixties. She was heavily made up, from mascara on her sparse eyelashes to bright red lipstick on her small drooping mouth. No teeth, thought Hamish. Dentures. Women of her generation often got all their teeth pulled out at an early age “to get it over and done with,” sometimes after only about two extractions. They never thought how their faces would begin to droop and how the shape of the mouth would be spoiled.