Death of a Policeman Read online

  “Look,” said Dr. Brodie, “you stood in for me before. Could you escort her?”

  “Me? Why?”

  “If I go, I’ll spoil her evening by being rude to that popinjay, Davenport. I know I will.”

  “Where is it, again?”

  “Yon restaurant—Seven Steps.”

  “I’d be glad to,” said Hamish quickly. “But what will you tell her?”

  “I’ll pretend to be ill. On a Monday morning, my surgery is full of folk pretending to be ill. I can join the club.”

  Angela met Hamish on the waterfront as he strolled back to the police station. “Well?” she demanded.

  “Your man is jealous.”

  “What!”

  “You went off for a long, long lunch wi’ a gorgeous-​looking editor.”

  “Oh, the dear man!”

  “I think you’ll find he’s all right now.”

  Angela stood on tiptoe and kissed Hamish on the cheek. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Did you see that?” demanded Nessie Currie. “That Hamish Macbeth just can’t leave the women alone.”

  “Alone,” echoed her sister as the twins went off arm in arm to Patel’s shop to spread the gossip.

  Hamish went back to the police station to try to think what he could possibly do about Murdo Bentley. He daren’t approach the man for fear of Daviot hearing about it.

  Dick had left him a note on the kitchen table. “Gone up to Sandybeach to see if there might be anything we missed.”

  Wondering why the usually lazy Dick had decided to go and do some police work on his own initiative, Hamish thought it was time he took some action himself.

  He put the dog and cat in the Land Rover and set off on the Strathbane road.

  Dick was not going to Sandybeach but to the library in Braikie. He felt that if Shona would only smile at him, it would take the dreadful memory of that olds remark away. A good part of his mind told him he was behaving like a lovesick teenager, but the rest craved seeing her again.

  When he entered the library, he could hear Shona’s voice coming from the children’s section. He was just heading in that direction when a voice hailed him. “Mr. Fraser?”

  He swung round. Hetty stood there smiling at him. “Looking for me?”

  She had lipstick on her teeth.

  “Aye,” said Dick. He could just hear Shona saying, “And then they lived happily ever after,” and the chatter of children’s voices. “I wondered if you had remembered anything?” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “Did he ever talk about his ambitions? Was he always going to be a policeman?”

  Hetty looked at her watch. “I was just about to go for lunch. Why don’t we go together?”

  “Oh, all right,” said Dick, his heart plummeting down into his regulation boots.

  A wave of small children swept past, followed by Shona. “We were just about to go for lunch,” said Dick quickly. “Would you care to join us?”

  “Not possible,” said Hetty. “You’ve got that cataloguing to do. I’ll get my coat.”

  “It’ll need to be another time,” said Shona. She giggled. “Hetty wants you all to herself.”

  “I’m only interviewing her as part o’ my duties,” said Dick.

  Shona grinned. “I think our Hetty is sweet on you.”

  Hetty came hurrying back before Dick could reply. She hooked her arm around Dick’s arm and gave him what she considered her best winsome smile.

  Hetty chose the nearest pub, The Cameron, for lunch. It had been Scottishified by some brewery with plastic claymores on the wall and tartan carpet on the floor. Hetty ordered something called a Highland Slammer to drink. It came in a tall glass with two paper umbrellas. Dick had an orange juice and looked at the menu.

  Hetty ordered Rabbie Burns broth to start followed by Prince Charlie’s Angus steak and chips. Then she asked for the wine list and chose a bottle of Merlot.

  Dick ordered Granny’s Highland Haggis, the cheapest thing on the menu, and hoped he could get the price of the meal back on expenses.

  “So,” said Dick, “did Cyril say anything about his plans for the future? I mean, had he ambitions to be a detective?”

  “No, he didn’t like them at Strathbane. Said they were a bunch of sheep shaggers.” Hetty laughed uproariously and Dick winced. “He said he was going to be rich and travel.”

  “How did he plan to get the money to do that?”

  “He said something about a change of career, but that was all.”

  Hetty finished her Highland Slammer and started on the wine. “He did love me, you know,” she said, leaning across the table and looking into Dick’s eyes.

  “You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” said Dick.

  She scowled at him and scrubbed her teeth with her napkin.

  “Excuse me!” Dick got to his feet and hurried to the men’s room. He phoned Hamish.

  “Could you phone me back in five minutes and order me out on a job?” pleaded Dick.

  “Will do. What’s up?”

  “Tell you later.”

  Dick spent a few minutes washing his hands before returning to the table. Hetty was becoming tipsy. She waggled a finger at him. “I know what you’re after.”

  Dick’s phone rang. He answered it and said, “Right away, sir.”

  When he rang off, he said to Hetty, “Got a job. I’ll square this before I go.”

  He rushed up to the bar and paid the bill. Hetty’s voice followed him as he left the restaurant. “When will I see you again?”

  As Dick left he saw Shona leaving the library. He felt he had made enough of a fool of himself for one day and was about to get into his car when she hailed him. “Hullo, Dick. Where’s Hetty?”

  “She’s in the pub. I’ve been called out on a job.”

  “What a pity. You and Hetty seem to be getting on well.”

  “My only interest in Hetty,” said Dick, “is to see if she can remember anything important about Cyril. How can you stand the woman?”

  “Oh, Hetty’s all right. I’m a bit sorry for her. She’s lonely.”

  “I wonder why?” said Dick acidly.

  She gave him a startled look, and Dick blushed. “Sorry to sound so cross,” he said. “But Hetty was getting drunk and I got fed up. I would rather have had lunch with you.”

  “Maybe another time,” said Shona.

  Dick sadly watched her walk away.

  Hamish parked the Land Rover off the road under a stand of birch trees some distance from where Paolo Gonzales lived. He was out of uniform, dressed again in black trousers and a sweater with a black woollen hat pulled down over his red hair. He let the dog and cat run around the moorland for a bit before shutting them up in the Land Rover.

  The day had turned grey with a fine mist drifting across the landscape. Hamish did not know what he expected to see. Johnny Livia had been pulled in for questioning about the murder of Jessie McTavish, but Hamish was sure the man would simply repeat his cast-iron alibi. He felt he could not spend another day idle. Perhaps if he covertly watched Paolo’s cottage, he might learn something.

  He approached the cottage by a circuitous route. He noticed that although the day was quite chilly, there was no smoke rising from the chimney, nor was there any car outside. It was possible that the man was at the restaurant.

  There was no point in watching an empty house. Hamish had a sudden longing to get inside the cottage to see if he could find anything incriminating. He was risking his job if he went in there without a search warrant. He looked around at the empty landscape and felt in his pocket for his skeleton keys.

  He cautiously approached the door. He decided to try the handle before picking the lock. The handle turned and the door swung open. Hamish went inside. If caught, he could always say he had smelt gas.

  Not only was the living-room-cum-kitchen deserted, but there were signs of hasty packing. The television had gone along with the plates, pots, and pans.

  A large d
iscarded packing case with a split in its side lay on the floor.

  Hamish suddenly heard the sound of a vehicle arriving. He darted out of the unlocked back door. There was no garden, only heather and gorse. Hamish crouched down behind a gorse bush.

  He could hear sounds of activity from inside. He crept up and looked through the small window at the back. Two men he did not recognise were hard at work. One was washing the floor with bleach while the other was wiping all the surfaces.

  Hamish wriggled away as far as he could and then stood up and ran. When he thought he was a far enough distance away, he phoned Jimmy. He told him what he had seen. “They’re covering up some crime,” he said.

  “Sit tight,” said Jimmy. “I’ll be over right away.”

  Hamish returned to his post behind the gorse bush. He fretted that the men would be long gone before Jimmy arrived, but finally heaved a sigh of relief when he heard cars arriving.

  He hurried round to the front of the house in time to hear one of the men saying, “We were just cleaning up. This is a rented cottage. Paolo’s gone back to Spain.”

  “You pair stay outside,” barked Jimmy. “Names?”

  “I’m Andy Campbell and this is my brither, Davy.”

  Jimmy turned to Hamish. “Get a suit and follow me in.”

  Hamish borrowed a forensic suit from one of the policemen, covered his boots, and joined Jimmy inside the cottage.

  “Keep ower by the door, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “A forensic team’s on its road.”

  “I guess the bedroom’s upstairs,” said Hamish. “I wish we could take a look at it.”

  “Well, we can’t until forensics have done their work. We’ll get this pair down to headquarters for questioning.”

  It turned out to be a long day. The brothers did odd jobs for a company called Highland Rentals. Neither of them had a record. The initial forensic report said that strong bleach had been poured over the stone kitchen floor, and so far there was no sign of anything sinister. Paolo Gonzales had relatives in Malaga, and a check at Inverness airport showed he had taken a morning flight to Malaga the day before. The brothers were released.

  “Waste o’ time,” said Jimmy. “Go home, Hamish.”

  Hamish drove out on the road to Lochdubh and stopped to let Sonsie and Lugs out for a run in the heather. He stared up at the starry sky and thought hard. There were still, he felt sure, a whole lot of questions that hadn’t been asked. Who, for example, owned Highland Rentals? Their offices were in Strathbane. If he called on them in the morning, he would get a rocket from Strathbane for poaching on their territory.

  Then he would like to see the CCTV shots of who exactly got on the Malaga plane. He suddenly decided to risk the wrath of the Inverness police and call at the airport in the morning. He could ask Inverness police to do it but they didn’t know what Paolo looked like and he did. And it would mean waiting to try to find a photograph—and Hamish had a feeling that all photographs of the maître d’ might have disappeared.

  Jimmy phoned when he got back to the station. “Highland Rentals seems as clean as a whistle,” he said.

  “Who owns it?”

  “A woman called Beryl Shuttleworth. Actually she lives near your village. Got a place out past the Tommel Castle Hotel. Called The Firs.”

  “I know that. I thought old Mr. Anstruther lived there.”

  “You’re not checking on the folk on your beat. He died a month ago, and his daughter sold it to the Shuttleworth woman.”

  “I don’t remember any funeral,” said Hamish, who knew that local funerals were a big event.

  “He was originally from Somerset, and that’s where the daughter took him to be buried.”

  “I might call on her.”

  “Don’t! She’s a friend o’ Daviot’s missus.”

  “Is all investigation to be hampered because of Daviot’s friends?”

  “If you want to keep your station, you’ll go carefully.”

  “Did anyone think to check the CCTV cameras at Inverness airport to see if Gonzales really left?”

  “Wait a bit…Some report’s just coming in.”

  Hamish waited, hearing exclamations and questions and then Blair’s voice raging, “Get thon two back in here. Released? Which damn numpty let them oot?”

  At last Jimmy came on the phone. “Bad news, Hamish.”

  Hamish sighed. “It wasnae Gonzales who got on that plane with his passport?”

  “That’s it,” said Jimmy. “And the brothers, Andy and Davy Campbell, were released.”

  “So what does the substitute look like? Anyone you know?”

  “Same height, roughly the same features, but definitely not Gonzales.”

  “Don’t you see that all roads lead back to Murdo Bentley?”

  “Get off that phone!” howled Blair’s voice in the background, and Hamish was cut off.

  Hamish went into the living room. “Dick, did you know about a newcomer to the area, Beryl Shuttleworth?”

  “Oh, her. Aye. I called on her to say hullo about a month ago. Nice lady.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

  “Didn’t seem important. You turned over the job of calling on the locals to me. What’s the interest in her?”

  Hamish told him about the disappearance of Gonzales. “I’ll go and see her,” he said.

  “Want me to come?”

  “No. Are you absolutely sure that Hetty doesn’t know anything? Might be an idea to keep after her.”

  Dick repressed a shudder. Then he had an idea. “Instead of questioning Hetty again,” he said, “I could ask that other librarian, Shona, if Hetty said anything to her.”

  “Good idea.”

  Dick brightened. “Do you mind if I don’t take Sonsie and Lugs with me?”

  “No, it’s all right. They can come with me.”

  Followed by his pets, Hamish walked up to the manse. The minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington, was in her gloomy kitchen, taking a tray of scones out of the Raeburn cooker.

  “Come in,” she said. “What do you want? Oh, leave those terrifying beasts of yours outside.”

  Hamish walked out of the kitchen. “Stay!” he ordered.

  When he went back in, Mrs. Wellington boomed, “A few centuries ago they would have burnt you as a warlock. It’s unnatural for a cat to obey orders.”

  Every time he saw Mrs. Wellington, Hamish felt a stab of pity for the mild-mannered minister. His wife was so domineering, so tweedy, with her round figure and bulldog face.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “What sort of person is Beryl Shuttleworth?”

  “Mrs. Shuttleworth to you. I don’t hold with all this touchy-feely business of calling folk by their first names.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Shuttleworth.”

  “Nice lady. Comes to the kirk on Sunday which is more than you can say for a lot of the godless in this village.”

  “What does Mr. Shuttleworth do?”

  “She’s a widow. Why are you so interested?”

  “I like to call on newcomers to the area.”

  “She’s got an office in Strathbane.”

  Hamish inwardly cursed. He had forgotten that. And he should have realised that the Inverness police would check at the airport to see if Gonzales really got on the plane.

  He looked hopefully at the coffee percolator. Mrs. Wellington said, “No coffee for you. I do not encourage mooching.”

  Hamish walked down the brae from the manse with the dog and cat at his heels. Dark clouds were streaming in from the west. Choppy waves raced over the surface of the loch. He had not heard the weather forecast but he was sure Sutherland was about to release one of its monumental gales on the landscape.

  At the police station, he put his pets in the back of the Land Rover and drove off out of the village. He decided there might just be a chance of getting a break in the—now two—murder cases.

  The Firs was a Scottish Georgian villa, standing on a rise, with a view down to t
he loch. It was made of sandstone and covered in ivy. The iron gates stood open. Hamish could not remember them ever being closed. There was a short twisting drive bordered by rhododendron bushes opening out into a circular gravelled area in front of the house. To one side of the house was a shaggy lawn with two stands of pampas grass.

  Hamish got down from the Land Rover. He walked to one of the front windows and looked in. A woman was sitting reading a newspaper. He backed away hurriedly, went to the door, and rang the bell.

  He could hear the click of high heels, and then the door opened.

  “Mrs. Shuttleworth?” asked Hamish.

  “If it’s about Andy and Davy Campbell, I have already spoken to the police.”

  “Just a few more questions. I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.”

  “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  As he followed her trim figure, Hamish wondered what sort of woman wore a power suit to sit at the fire and read a newspaper.

  She sat down in an armchair by the fire and indicated that Hamish should sit in an armchair opposite. Hamish removed his cap and put it on his knees.

  Beryl Shuttleworth was a woman he guessed to be in her late forties. She had black hair worn in a French pleat. Her skin was good. She had a long thin nose and hooded eyes, giving her face a medieval look.

  Hamish looked around the room. Apart from the comfortable armchairs and the heavy brocaded curtains at the long windows, it looked as if it had been furnished by Ikea. There was a modern wooden desk by the window with an Apple computer on top. Wooden shelves held various greenhouse plants and ornaments. There was a long plain wooden coffee table. In one corner was a very large flat-screen television.

  “Are you going to sit there gawping?” demanded Beryl.

  “Sorry,” said Hamish. “About the Campbell brothers, how did you come to employ them?”

  “I advertised for a couple of odd-job men to do gardening work on my various properties as well as moving furniture and things like that.”

  “Did you check their references?”

  “I didn’t ask for any. These days it’s hard to get labour.”